It was 2015 or something and Fifty Shades of Grey was flying off of shelves. It had already been pretty popular for a while, but the most peculiar part of the phenomenon came about when the first movie went to theatres. It was a steamy, but otherwise unremarkable bit of smut, that somehow became intriguing, deliciously taboo and incendiary all at once. Amongst the young hip people, it was a disappointing bit of poor writing but they still obsessed and talked about it. How could you not? Beyonce had a sexy rendition of Crazy in Love recorded just for the film, and when it came out on Valentines day, I knew I would turn up, despite months of turning my nose at the literature that I never bothered to read. It was a cultural event and I needed to know what the madness was about. So I went to the theatre, boyfriend-at-the-time in tow (he was covered in a large winter parka that he refused to take off "in case someone recognizes me"). The movie was rather beige, nothing peculiar or earth shattering, especially for a student who spent most days studying vintage erotic cinema and feminist film theory. But there you have it. 

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Months passed and I finally went home for the break. I saw my mother, who discretely kept the Fifty Shades books on her nightstand. The collection had apparently come from some lady at work, who recommended it, and all these ladies who worked at the daycare were passing along this modern rendition of Lady Chatterley's Lover with the same kind of excitement and enthusiasm as though it were 1960's England. Anyways, after some thought I had come to the completely genius and unique thought that these books were probably never meant for the likes of me and my cohort. We were too hard to please, kids of the internet. But the women who came before -- women like my mother who never had the access to look too hard at sexuality, female pleasure, and the delights of BDSM (all while leaving an impending theocracy like Iran in the 70's) were being granted access and permission to find this interesting, and to carry it right in their own handbags. It was kind of genius. A harlequin novel in disguise as something else, something more pop and more youthful but ultimately the perfect point of access for the out-of-touch mother, the grandmothers and ladies at the bridge club; that sort of alienated breed and the oft neglected audiences. 

I regretted ever criticizing the books, realizing that my needs were the needs of another whiny and picky generation, and perhaps there needed to be acceptance and space for these kinds of books and movies, these kinds of perfectly remarkable and unremarkable things. 

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So this brings me back to the spot. We wrote it with this story in mind. It was about sisters finding the smut as inspiration, passing the knowledge from one sister to another like some ancient texts of Mesopotamia. And it's about the ways we can be playful and unabashed with literature as our springboard. It's silly, but that's the whole idea.