Texas, Washington, France – Fifty Shades of Grey in Photographs

‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ – I wish I had thought of that title for my blog. Can you imagine how many visitors I’d get every day? Disappointed visitors, of course, when they discovered that fifty shades of grey described my hair colour and not my review of a hugely successful erotic novel – which I haven’t read.

No, to me fifty shades of grey describes the colour of the headstones in  an old cemetery. (This one is in Rodemack, France.)

Headstone inscriptions don’t usually refer to the deceased person’s steamy sex life, but this one in Moultrie, Georgia did (assuming it is true):

Here lies the father of 29.
He would have had more
But he didn’t have time.

Fifty shades of grey also describes the rocks and sand on a beach. (This one is at Deception Pass in Washington.)

Beaches are thought to be very romantic places, though spring break in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida isn’t so much about romance as ‘Sex on the Beach’.

An early morning fog at Lake Conroe, Texas. A comfy Tete`-a-tete´ chair waits for the couple to sit and enjoy their morning coffee. The air is warm, the fog creates an intimate envelope of fifty shades of grey.

I have many more photos that are fifty shades of grey and I suppose human intimacy could have taken place at one time or another in many of them. But I really don’t want to know about it, any more than I want to read erotic mommy porn. So, look somewhere else for a review of “Fifty Shades of Grey!”

Gray hairs seem to my fancy like the soft light of the moon, silvering over the evening of life.
– Jean Paul Richter

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Scott Feschuk, a sometimes very funny writer for Canada’s MACLEAN’S magazine, wrote a single chapter of a book he called Fifty Shades of Eh. Here is an excerpt:

I gaze upon him with my intrepid eyes. My mouth, which is also intrepid, curls into a sly smile. ”
Did you remember the clamps?” I ask.

“Canadian Tire was closed. But I found a bunch of clothespins in the garage.”

I swoon. My breathing quickens. My heart beats a frantic tattoo as I surrender myself to the anticipation of languid erotic pleasures and several hours of splinter removal.
– Scott Feschuk –