I walked from the bedroom to the bathroom where he was waiting. I still fumble at the sight of his naked body. Or it could have been that I was still half asleep. He was in the shower. Rivulets of water ran down his skin, across his chest, down over his stomach, finally pooling in the hair I had forgotten to clean out of the plug the night before.

He opened the shower door and invited me in, but I hesitated. He had a look about him that scared me.

''Look at this,'' he said, reaching out to grab my arm, his touch rough and wet. Water splashed out onto my naked body, chilling me, and shivers ran through me, making me pull back.

''Look at this,'' he said again, more urgently.

''It's grey, the grout is grey, it's 50 shades of grey.''

I haven't read E. L. James's book that has recently rocked the publishing world. Nor do I have any desire to. Maybe that's the overriding problem. Desire.

I did, however, read Nikki Gemmell's With My Body when it was published in 2011, and it made me blush enough for a lifetime. So here I'll defer to federal Opposition Leader Tony Abbott who admitted, as a reader of this steamy sub-genre, he much preferred the homegrown variety offered by Gemmell.

Talk about visuals to kill desire. Tony Abbott, steamy.

Still, I'm somewhat fascinated by the whole thing. Not Abbott. The phenomenon of erotic fiction. The rocketing sales of the 50 Shades series, the talk of a film, and just this week I heard on the radio that E. L. is considering releasing a line of merchandise, I guess you'd call it, lingerie and perfume and god knows what else in the S&M range that might make it to the shelves.

It makes me shiver and not in a good way.

And then an email arrived this week, from Penguin books, announcing the launch of Destiny Romance, a new line that ''will provide readers with a guilty pleasure that can be read in a discreet nature,'' two new e-books a month, less than $6 each, with themes that will cover contemporary romance, erotic fiction, paranormal romance, and romantic thriller/suspense.

I'd like to see a reality genre. There's a fun parody doing the rounds, 50 Shades of … Reality, where the couple involved have to deal with hairy legs, Lego, the children, socks and washing all over the bedroom floor.

The tiles were cold on my feet as I leaned back against the washing machine. The spin cycle was just about complete and the rhythmic rocking of the cold metal mesmerised me for a moment. It wasn't pleasant, but it was, and as the cycle finished and the machine gave a few last shudders so did I. ''Have a nice day!'' it said. I love it that the machine cares about me. Afterglow.

''Lean back further,'' he said. My husband, not the machine. ''I can't get through with the basket if you just stand near the door. You'll need to wash these shirts again.

''They're grey, the shirts are grey, they're 50 shades of grey.''

The reality is rarely as good as the fiction. But that can be said for books of many genres.

My daughter has wonderful dreams about living in a log cabin in the big woods, where we'd survive on pig fat and turnips. If Laura can do it and be so happy, why can't we Mum?

The same goes for Anastasia Steele I guess. If she can find some sort of pleasure in her relationship with Christian Grey, shouldn't we be entitled to the same chance?

But maybe that's what good books are meant to do (and let's face it not just books, but good films, music, and art), open our minds to other worlds we haven't considered.

My only worry is that we might become convinced this is how the world is meant to be. And here the conversation could steer off into a discussion about how the prevalence of pornography is changing the way we think about, and our expectations of, sex. But it won't.

I've never watched porn, well apart from the time I walked in on some uni friends who were watching something quite shocking. I've never even really had any exposure to it - if you don't count working in Fyshwick - so I feel thoroughly inadequate to make any real educated comments about the whole thing, other than it's not for me.

But given that I would like to try my hand at writing something that some woman might be tempted to read, discreetly, on her iPad on the bus on the way home. (And what happened to a quick game of Words with Friends, I ask.) Something that might make her blush, something that might ignite something inside her. Something that might take her mind off the washing, just for a moment.

But to be true to myself I couldn't write about a relationship that involves submission or domination. It would have to involve a committed relationship where people are kind to each other, make each other laugh, love each other deeply for all their faults; where they're accepting of each other's bodies, despite the ravages of age, the neglect, the laziness; where they're not together because of some contract, but because they're friends.

It had been one of those days where nothing had gone right. Work sucked, the kids didn't like dinner and there was too much homework to catch up on. Finally the kids were asleep, the kitchen bench wiped clean and last load of washing had gone on the line. It would rain tonight.

''Let's go to bed,'' he said. It was 9.30. That only meant one thing. He was toey. Or tired. She gave him 15 minutes to do the things men need to do before they go to bed. Fart, poo, check their nose hair and then she slinked her way to the bedroom. He was in bed already, reading a month-old edition of Men's Health. She was hoping he was reading the story about foreplay. He was reading the story about how to get a six-pack in a week. They both still had their dreams.

After doing what women need to do, fart, poo, pluck hairs out of their chin, she crawled in next to him. She reached over and rubbed his back, realising only then how dry her hands felt, but he didn't seem to mind so she moved closer. He turned to face her, he gently brushed her hair from her face.

''Grey, grey, your hair is 50 shades of grey,'' he whispered.

''And that's why I love you.''

Twitter: @karenhardyCT