Fifty-ShadesFreed-handcuffs-fifty-shades-trilogy-31484556-500-375 (1)

In the middle of praying that no amount of technology could track the number of times I’d viewed the Fifty Shades of Grey trailer online, I got to thinking that 1) Universal Studios hadn’t received my audition tape for the role of Anastasia and 2) there are more than a few ways an autism mom can “get off,” and they have nothing to do with a grey tie.

I will admit one thing: after finishing the 50 Shades trilogy I fell into a mini-depression, the symptoms of which only Nestle Toll House cookies could ease. I should have learned my lesson years ago when I realized that a three-hundred-year-old teenager wasn’t going to come to my window and offer me a spin in his Audi. That debacle earned me five pounds.  Call me a masochist, but reality can truly bite.

So what possessed an autism mom like me to risk turning fifty shades of red as I scanned erotica in my son’s therapy waiting room?  Was it the fantasy of having a beautiful, yet tortured man want to do FANTASticly tortuous things to me behind closed doors? Nope. I won’t brag, but my (certainly tortured) husband is not too shabby and would JUMP at the chance to create a room of pain for just he and I (as long as it isn’t a gym, because there are some places even I won’t go).  Riveting plot aside (ha!), what is it that is so engaging about mommy porn when you take out the porn? I think I know.

1) The male protagonist is rich and powerful and his singular goal is to make the female character sickeningly happy. 

Why Anastasia Steele got her panties in a knot over Christian Grey taking care of just about every detail of her life is beyond me! Christian honey, how about you ditch that ungrateful brunette and arrange to take my ten-year old autistic son to the dentist. He’s too big for me to hold down, and he lacks cognitive skills to be reasoned with.  Christian, your “fifty shades of fucked up” (your words) pale in comparison to our fifty shades of delay.  Now jet over to my place and dominate already.

P.S. I am blonde and am fully aware that I am not your type. I don’t care. Just get on the horn and do what you do best. Threaten to fire some people. You can start with every doctor that told me I was nuts for letting Jenny McCarthy in my head. Finish off your day by purchasing every insurance company that told me they’d cover twenty-five speech therapy sessions in one year when my son required thirty in one month. Then run each one of the companies into the ground. Oh and if it’s not too much, be a dear and lend me your bodyguard for just one evening. I’d like him to visit the homes of those individuals accused of abusing defenseless kiddos like mine. Let him put your handcuffs (and other choice accessories) to good use. Oh yeah, I can already feel my pulse racing baby. I want your power so badly right now.

2) The male protagonist is relentless in his pursuit of the abovementioned goal. 

Pardon the pun Christian, but where were you as countless professionals pussyfooted around and refused to diagnose my barely verbal thirty-five month old? I could have used your honesty and directness back in those days. It would have saved me the need to turn to “shady” novels. And shadier doctors.

Christian, I noticed you like a challenge and would go as far to say that you dig a good chase. Great. Couldn’t you just fly Charlie Tango over to pow-wow with the “great” minds in this country who aren’t as blessed with your gift for fixation? Remind them that autism is an epidemic. Ask them what they plan to do with the millions and millions of people that will be living with autism right around the time I will be needing someone to take care of ME. Don’t organize an autism walk. Don’t fund a bullshit study. Don’t light up a thing (unless it’s a fire under someone’s ass). And. Don’t. Stop. The thought of one person becoming laser focused on cutting to the autism chase is the biggest turn on I can imagine. I may need to find an elevator before I get to my third point. Going down, Christian?

3) The male protagonist takes the female protagonist to places where time stops. 

No exotic locale (nor local red room) is required for a mom like me to feel like she is on an escape. Come to think of it Christian you do give a girl a comforting bath, but I digress. Christian, bring over a few toys and sit with the kids for a bit. Wait; save the toys for me. Just provide a place I can decompress, even for an hour, and before you can say Laters! I will return a better mom (and hopefully with a pedicure). Did you know I spend more time tied up (get your mind out of the gutter) planning how to break it to my son that a vegetable doesn’t qualify as a friend than most moms spend planning a birthday party? For that matter, I spend most of my time wondering where time itself has gone.  What happens when my son graduates from high school in a few short years? What happens when MY time is up?

Moms like me need an escape, even if it is from our own thoughts. Is it possible that we autism moms are drawn to fantasy because our reality is a bit more “real” than that of other moms? Maybe. Now that I am all hot and bothered, let me ask this final question: ultimately, do we moms require a Christian Grey in our lives to help us feel “rich,” empowered, or “timeless”? Nah; if you recall, it was 50 Shades’ female lead who had those balls of steel.