Fifty Shades of New York

Are you there, readers? It's me, Mrs. Tittle-Tattle. Okay, I know that the erotic bestseller Fifty Shades of Grey has been written about to death. But I don't think anyone has explored what sadomasochism means to the upscale Manhattan crowd. And I'm not talking about a relationship, since we could easily transport the characters Christian and Ana from Seattle to the Upper East Side. But if you think about it, just living in New York is kind of like choosing an S&M lifestyle-Fifty Shades of New York, if you will:
    It's a rainy morning, and my doormen are helping several other residents into chauffeured cars. "Could someone please get me a cab?" I call out. The doorman smirks with undisguised amusement, cocking a brow at me. "It's going to be hard to get a cab today," he admonishes, which I know really means, "Too bad you don't have a driver." His eyes smolder with the promise of more insinuating remarks designed to put me in my place, when he sees how submissively I wait for him to hail a cab. My blood boils as I think about Mrs. Rubinson, in Apt. 12B, who verbally abused him 10 years ago when he forgot to ask if she needed help with her Bergdorf's shopping bags, and how that made him the screwed-up man he is today. Oh, my Fifty Shades Doorman! What am I going to do with you?

     I finally arrive at the PTA meeting, held in the "Pink Room of Pain," specifically reserved for parental S&M. The mothers look polished and confident. I'm in my workout clothes. "You didn't get your daughter an internship for the summer yet?" one super-toned mom screeches at me, keratin-hair strands swinging like whips. Holy cow. She likes to inflict pain. Then she adds, "Do you want to have lunch sometime?" Jeez! She likes me, but she wants to hurt me. I start to get a warm feeling "down there." I'm seduced by her brittle beauty, competitiveness, insecurity, and arrogance. It's a heady combination. Oh, my Fifty Shades Friend! Flay me with your cutting remarks and I will be yours!.

     Later I zip down to Louis Vuitton because I'm coveting a new bag. At the counter, an imperious saleswoman ignores me and talks only to tourists. "I'd like to see that bag," I say, pointing to the Neverfull tote. She grabs the bag, plunks it down, then scoots away to help a Chanel-clad customer. I gaze longingly at the saleswoman, the embodiment of Manhattan superiority. My inner goddess purrs, as shame washes over me in hot waves. My Fifty Shades Saleswoman, why does your dominant New York attitude make me melt? Maybe I need therapy.

    Back at home, I try to make a dinner reservation for the following week. I call some of the better restaurants. Every one of them says, "5:30 or 9:30." "Don't you have anything around 7?" I implore. The reservationists laugh derisively, and this, combined with my visions of plush banquettes, fabulous people, and pancetta ravioli, sends a frisson of pleasure "down there." They say they'd love to accommodate me in three weeks at 5:45, at a table wedged between the kitchen and the men's room. Oh, they do love me, even though they treat me like dirt! My Fifty Shades Restaurant Reservationists, how I adore you! My subconscious rolls her eyes, but my inner goddess rejoices. Did I mention that I might need therapy?

     I dash off to Pilates class where everyone has that New York sculpted body and hauteur that's such a turn-on. Eduardo, the instructor, orders me to follow his moves. He is so bossy! And so hot! "That stretch is beautiful!" he croons, but he's clearly turned on by watching me contort painfully. They say this cruelty stems from the fact that the gym owner, Mrs. Robertson, used to make him kneel in a Gucci dog collar while she whipped him with her Hermès belts. They say he loved every minute of it. He appraises my sweaty body, and his eyes gleam with passion. Wait-is he looking at me or my new Louis Vuitton bag? Oh, my Fifty Shades Pilates Instructor! I don't deserve you!

     I'm lying in bed next to my sleeping husband. He's attractive and charming, but he doesn't make me feel naughty (except when I forget to submit our medical bills). As I drift off to sleep, I suddenly hear the squeaky, clattering sounds of a sanitation truck, loading debris from the neighboring townhouse construction. My nerves stand on end and I get that familiar feeling "down there." The noise lacerates me, but it's so hot because I know my neighbor is dominating me with that truck, and his $20 million brownstone which is going to be breathtakingly gorgeous. Holy f***! That is some kinky truckery!

     And now I know: No simple human relationship can make me feel this way. This ecstatic combination of pleasure and pain can only emanate from the city itself and all its Fifty Shades. Living here is an alternative lifestyle, but it's one I embrace. New York, you whip me and spank me until the tears cascade down my cheeks, but oh I love you so!