We all remember that one movie series that shaped our lives. That moment you realized this will make on impact my life; this will follow me. That series you think of when you’re driving or just staring into space. This is not that series. This is the Fifty Shades saga and the impact this left us is a vague sense of feeling itchy. It’s finally done though. The butt plugs were used. We can all go about our lives again, without worry of awkward movie dates to what is barely a hair away from softcore porn, except the actors in this are stiff as boards. . . in all the wrong places.

Let me begin by acknowledging, yes, I watched all three movies, and yes maybe I did enjoy parts of them a bit. Come on, the guy’s a billionaire! You’re literally watching life to the max. No limits! There can be something oddly comforting about watching beautiful people in beautiful places doing beautiful things. Putting the lavish world of Grey aside, with his insane presents and ludicrous dates for Anastasia, I had to watch all three. While Fifty Shades is widely considered complete dog shit in the world of cinema, they are also unnaturally popular, make insane money and, and have carried their fan-fiction origins to the realm of global phenomenon.

These angry sex flicks made it into theatres worldwide. Never before has something as vulgar and gratuitous made it to theaters, while grinding its way into our public psyche. . . maybe Showgirls. But this made bank at the same time! Be honest with yourselves, if you’re reading this you most likely watched one, if not all of them. For the few uninitiated, Fifty Shades follows Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey (yes, those are their names), as they embark on their rollercoaster love story of excessive wealth, abuse, control, and what a sad housewife fantasizes BDSM to be.

Now get this; he’s an older man, a billionare business man, and she is a naïve, innocent, virgin university student who meets him due to chance. Her roommate Kate is so sick with itty bitty baby coughs, that she blows off her chance to meet the richest, and most handsome man in the state, and hands it off to her amateur friend. Fast forward an hour of some wooden actors spouting awful dialogue, some get-to-know-you sex, and BAM! Chains! Vibrators! Butt plugs! Whips! Handcuffs! THE RED ROOM! It goes on like this. If you thought this would take a backseat to the love, romance, and oh-so-sweet control stalking, you’re in for a real electrode to the nuts.

Now, I’m not a mathematician but, all three movies have approximately 30% love story in each. This includes the romance, the dates, the engagement, the wedding, the baby, yada yada yada. But as you would all know “if” you watched these movies, which you totally did, the rest of the time we are dealing with constant, emotionless, dead-eyed sex scenes! And if they aren’t currently banging. They’re talking about it, teasing about it, and leading up to it. Oh, yes baby. Porn. Lite. At least in regular porn the mailman looks interested. You really believe this horny housewife is the highlight of his day. Dornan and Johnson literally have no charism or sexual tension. In all fairness, they do apparently hate each other, but it shows on screen. Bad. Casting.

Of course, what’s a great fan-fiction without a third act twist? E.L James was kind enough to throw in some drama! You’ve got Jack, Anastasia’s boss/ex-boss turned stalking, murdering rapist. We’ve got old submissives trying to kill Ana. And we can’t forget Elena, the “Mrs. Robinson” to Christian’s spunky Dustin Hoffman, who sexually abused Christian when he was just sixteen. If you weren’t uncomfortable enough already. E. L James wanted characters to fuel Ana and Christian’s dead love, and she sure delievered. In every movie James introdiuces these “villains” whose sole purpose is to make Ana scared, and fuck her day up. Thank God Christian is there to save her, right? He’ll carry her to bed again and everything will be fine. That’s not creepy at all, James. Totally normal relationship goals. . . right?

Maybe some of you agree with the point I’m trying to make, and maybe you don’t. That’s why I had to watch these flicks. Fifty Shades created a social phenomenon, bringing people of all ages to the theatre to watch socially accepted and cable TV promoted porn on weeknights and Sunday matinees. This film had viewers from all different generations, sexual orientations, religious backgrounds, all coming together to watch two dry white people bang for two hours straight. . . over three different movies, that’s six hours! Fifty Shades made headlines, magazine covers, had full new coverage; it was talked about in the office, at home, at your family dinners! Does that make them art? Can art be scraped up from the crap at the bottom of a fan-fiction site for other cinematic crap?

It’s certainly been a weird journey. From trashy teen novels, to trashy housewife fan-fiction, to damn near billion dollar fetish franchise. But at least it’s over, and we can finally relegate our weird sex quota back to HBO, Showtime, and to a lesser extent Starz. Call me old-fashioned, I like art that depicts love as safe, relationships as equal, and maybe my sex life a bit less focused on contractual obligations. But to each to their own. We all do “it,” just maybe not in a place like this: