She had always told me that if you read junk, your brain would turn into junk. What’s more, I agreed with her. So how to explain this year’s disturbing trend in my reading? I totally blame my girlfriend Ana, a graduate of Columbia and NYU Law school, a partner in a renowned Denver law firm and a hustler of time travel novels. I’d like to call this a middle age thing—tired of the rolling eyes and attitudinal asides of my teenagers— I seek solace in time travel that promises romantic fantasy, handsome heroes who can wield a sword, have no money problems and who are excellent in the rack.. Ana read all the Twilight books several times and she was hilarious about it. When a woman in her office said I think I married Edward. Ana replied “Honey, we ALL married Edward.” I thought Twilight was fun but the cold sex didn’t exactly grab me.

With that, Ana and her twin Sister Barb suggested I move on to some other choices. I could only justify the dive into this type of guilty pleasure until after I’d read a book like Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (which when you think about it could be a great middle age porn title), but it’s not and it’s brilliant and sad and broke my heart a few thousand times. So after that I needed an escape and suddenly, BOOM, a pattern was formed: holocaust book/ clit lit/ 9/11 book/clit lit/ a New Yorker essay about Israel/clit lit/Sebastian Junger’s War/clit lit. I’m becoming a literary ho, or at least, a part time one.

I read about a witch falling in love with a vampire. They go traipsing through time and history, lusting and entering into a forbidden connection–vampires and witches are not supposed to screw. Who knew? There were a number of novels that took place on the Scottish coast with guys who smuggled stuff and had cool cave hideouts. They were tremendous in battle and adored their women—so much so, in fact, that they would even kill for them. It’s big time escape, but escape with moisture. And like I’ve always told my brothers, men like pictures, women like stories. Give me a story with some adventure and romance and a guy who’s ripped—and oooh baby, it’s like a 400-page vibrator.

So now, the piece de resistance…. my girlfriend, Beth, who I have known since she was ten and like a little sister to me at Camp Tapawingo, calls from Baltimore to say, “Katie you’ve got to check out these books. I know you read real books but this is really fun,” and she tells me I need to download Fifty Shades of Grey. Great! I’m in a week where I have three story deadlines, my ex is away so I’m also a single mom, driving to hip hop troupe, soccer practice, SAT tutoring, volleyball, physical therapy and somehow I manage to read all three of these not short books in four days. I kid you not. Four days.

I am currently so horny it’s scary. I call Beth to reprimand her for turning me in to a complete clit lit junkie and she’s laughing and says, “I forgot to tell you that you should read these when you’re husband is in town.” Well, way to bury the fucking lead because my husband is out of town and this is killing me. I read a piece in the London Times about the trilogy that quoted one woman telling another that she should read it because it will make her want to sleep with her husband. Oh honey, this trilogy will make you want to sleep with the bedpost. I have called my husband several times to mention that when I pick him up at the airport this Friday, I will be the one with a mattress tied to my back.

I have interviewed Nora Roberts and Danielle Steele and I have always felt like these ladies don’t get their due–they write a good story with lust-a go-go.  E.L. James takes that lust to another planet. She is like the Michael Jordan in the fourth quarter of lust. And even though I’m kind of laughing at certain phrases repeated over and over, the semantic repetition does nothing to dampen the arousal. (The words “release” and “fisting” immediately come to mind).

Why does this work? Well as a reader, you like the characters. The beautiful, innocent- yet-feisty, hard-working girl (forget that she’s a virgin…really E.L.? A virgin who has never masturbated? Really?) and can handle herself and shoot a gun, and then there’s the powerful, gorgeous guy (forget that his name his Christian. I did, because I’m a Jew. Actually maybe because I am a Jew it may have turned me on a bit) with a brilliant mind, Bill Gates money, private planes and extra homes in New York and Aspen. Did I mention he’s very adoring and territorial about his woman and that he’s a walking hard on with grey eyes?

Sorry, ladies, but it’s pathetic how simple our fantasies are. I swear the stronger we are, the more we love the fantasy of being taken care of on every level. Never mind how tedious this would be in real life or how boring it would be to be quite so adored and how the unhappiest women I know are the richest. None of it matters–we’re the independent girls who innocently score the lottery-winning guy and he fucks us like a maniac. He wants us all the time, so much so that we cant’ keep our La Perla panties dry. (And I have never even SEEN a pair of La Perla panties, but man they sound good.) It’s like an “Adult” Disney princess with riding crops, twist ties for grown ups, handcuffs, and these little balls that I am thinking about non-stop. Think Cinderella in Christian Louboutin stilettos. This is upscale, ladies porn and it’s working on all burners.

I can’t believe that sex shop sales and Victoria’s Secret sales have not been hugely affected by this book. Did I mention that I, the woman who sleeps in 20-year-old t-shirts and my late mom’s flannel nightgown, went to the expensive lingerie store in Boulder and spent $96 on a sexy nightie? Did I mention I’m having trouble paying my tax bill?

I’m fairly certain that any man could look at me for say, three seconds, and know what a needy wench I am at this moment. It’s distracting and mortifying and I left a message on my husband’s voice mail saying that he might want to pick up some Cialis before boarding. I’m embarrassed that I am this simple. I really do, swear to G-O-D, I read literature constantly. I get the New Yorker. I listen to NPR. Because of that, I am mortified, and ashamed and I promise you, I could not stop turning the page.

At this point my biggest fear is the Kindle reveal. And by that I mean, that someone, actually anyone I respect, will get a hold of my Kindle and see what’s on it.

Please, go read these books when you need a break from whatever and don’t tell anyone I told you so.