Remember FIFTY SHADES OF GREY? The billionaire sex god with helicopters, a dungeon and a six-pack you could iron a shirt on. Want to know how it would read if Anastasia Steele was replaced with a perimenopausal or menopausal Woman.?
Well-read on….
CHAPTER 1- THE FIRST KISS
I walk into Christian Grey’s office, already sweating like a guilty Labrador in a police kennel. It’s not nerves, it’s my goddamn hot flushes. My blouse is clinging to me like a desperate ex, and my mascara has migrated south.
If this man is expecting wide-eyed innocence, he’s about to get menopausal ferocity wrapped in a sheen of HRT patch glue.
Christian Grey looks up from his desk, all smoulder and brooding intensity.
“Miss Steele?” he asks.
“Miss Steel Ovaries,” I correct him, fanning my face with the contract. “And before you even think about tying me up, understand this: my oestrogen left the building three years ago, my patience is thinner than rice paper, and if you so much as touch the thermostat, I will burn this building down.”
He arches an eyebrow. He thinks I’m joking. Poor sod.
Later, by the elevator, his eyes smoulder again.
“This is wrong,” he whispers.
“You bet your arse it’s wrong,” I mutter, yanking at my blouse for air. “You’ve got abs, helicopters, and emotional issues. I’ve got heartburn, chin hair, and a Boots Advantage Card. This is not romance, Christian. This is a hostage situation.”
Then he kisses me on the lips then on my shoulder, I’m hoping he can’t taste HRT glue from last week’s patch.
He’s got fireworks.
I’m thinking “shit, is this heartburn or a stroke?”
He moans with lust.
I moan because my left hip just cracked.
When he finally pulls back, breathless, he says:
“You’re intoxicating.”
“Darling,” I pant, “that’s just the garlic bread from lunch. Now step back before I melt straight through this marble floor.”
CHATPER 2 – THE CONTRACT
Back in his office, Christian slides the contract across the table, deadly serious.
“These,” he mutters, “are the terms of our arrangement.”
I glance at it, unimpressed.
“Unless this includes a clause about menopausal snacks, air conditioning, and you not talking during Great British Bake-Off, we’re already at an impasse.”
He smirks. “You’ll find I’m very… controlling.”
“Oh, honey,” I laugh darkly.
“You’ve never met a woman with night sweats. I wake up at 3 a.m., strip the sheets, whilst eating a Jaffa Cake in the dark, Googling herbal remedies for loss of libido. I’m the one in control here.”
He tries his infamous dominant stare.
I lean in too, pulling a fan from my handbag like a menopausal ninja.
“Try me, Grey. I dare you.”
CHAPTER 3 – THE RED ROOM
(aka The Red Room of Night Sweats)
Christian’s eyes gleam as he leads me down a corridor. He pauses before a mysterious door.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“For bed?” I reply hopefully. “It’s 9:30, and I’m usually tucked up with a weighted blanket and chamomile tea by now.”
He opens the door dramatically.
Inside: leather whips, chains, racks, restraints—every kinky contraption imaginable.
I blink.
“Is this… Ann Summers on steroids?”
Christian smirks. “This is my playroom.”
I squint. “Playroom? Looks like IKEA’s rejected dungeon range.”
He steps closer, waiting for me to gasp in awe. Instead, I tug at one of the whips, testing its quality.
“This isn’t intimidating, love. You know what real pain is?
Ripping out an ingrown chin hair with tweezers under dodgy bathroom lighting, trying to shove yourself into skinny jeans in July with no talcum powder. And trying to have sex without half a tub of industrial-grade lube!
Christian’s there with his riding crop, all smouldering seriously, I’m like “Put that thing down and bring me a bloody Dyson Fan”
He blinks, thrown off his billionaire-God routine.
“What… what do you mean?”
I smile sweetly. “Christian Grey, if you want pain, try hormonal rage so fierce it scares double-glazing salesmen off the doorstep, mood swings so bad, even I need a safe word – and brain fog so bad, I open the fridge and forget if I’m hungry, horny or just hot!”
Your Red Room is a bloody day spa compared to menopause.” For the first time, Christian Grey looks truly humbled.
I said “Christian, I’m menopausal. I AM the dominant. You want control? Try controlling your bladder when you sneeze or fart. You want submission? Try surviving a hot flush, mid-dress try-on in a Primark changing room with zero aircon!”
I’m stood there, in unflattering beige knickers, HRT patch peeling off my arse, waving his contract in one hand and a fan in the other, screaming:
“Forget your helicopters and dungeons darling. If you can handle my night sweats, mood swings and loss of libido – then we’ll talk FIFTY SHADES!”
BUT… Fifty Shades of Beige…well now that’s just a Menopause reality!
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