Special Security Details Needed To Protect Charlie Hunnam From Crazed <i>50 Shades of Grey</i> Fans

The Hollywood Reporter recently, well, reported that extra security surrounded Charlie Hunnam at the premiere for this season’s Sons of Anarchy. Those buff new bodyguards came thanks to his casting as Christian Grey in the forthcoming 50 Shades of Grey flick — and over at The Atlantic, it’s being speculated the reason for the hired muscle is not just to keep Hunnam a safe distance from giddy admirers wanting to nuzzle his sexy beard growth.

Apparently, he also needs protection from fervent fans of the erotic novels who aren’t happy with his forthcoming portrayal.

They aren’t happy at all. Online petitions to replace him with someone more suited for the books’ racy S&M action have exceeded 80,000 signatures.

A sampling of the petitions’ haters: “Charlie Hunnam looks dirty and very unappealing,” –Corinne from Carmi, IL.

“My first choice is Ian Somerhalder but Matt Boomer [sic] would also be a very good choice. Much better than Charlie whatever.” –Emily from Yonkers, NY

“BECAUSE THAT CHARLIE HUNNAM IS A FUCKING FAILURE I KNOW IT I JUST KNOW IT”—Rae from Quezon City, Philippines

I mean, jeez, don’t hold back Rae. Incidentally, this is my favorite signee: “[signing] to keep my wife happy” –Michael from Harleysville, PA And in conclusion, Hunnam needs all the protection he can get.

Photo Credit: Getty Images

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Special Delivery

The first thing I did when I got to work the next morning was rush right over to Kate’s desk.

“Kate,” I whispered, crouching down so that I was practically sitting on the floor, looking up at her in her chair.

“Hi!” she chirped. “Where did you run off to last night I was”—

“Richard is not gay!” I hissed.

“What?”

I told her the whole story, watching her eyes grow wider and wider as I got to the punch line. By the time I finished, her hand was covering her mouth.

“Why did you think that?” I asked.

“Because I ran into him outside of the office once and he was with this flamboyantly gay guy. I just assumed it was his boyfriend or date or something.”

“You guys talking about me?” Kate and I jumped. Richard’s smiling face appeared above the wall to Kate’s cubicle.

“Jesus, Richard.” Kate put her hand on her chest. “You scared me.”

Richard came around the side of Kate’s cubicle so he was standing in front of us. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Sooo, Josie. Last night was special.”

“Ugh.” I covered my face with my hands. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Richard, we’re really sorry,” Kate said. “I hope you’re not offended.”

“You thought I was gay, not a serial murderer. Or a fan of Taylor Swift’s music, which would be just as damning as killing people. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Well, thank god you’re so comfortable with your sexuality,” I said.

“That’s what all the ladies say.” Richard puffed out his chest. “By the way, Josie, that boyfriend or, maybe ex-boyfriend of yours? Good riddance.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what’s going to happen there.”

“What do you mean you don't know what’s going to happen there? He called you a slut. Huge red flag.”

“He called you a slut?” Kate repeated. I’d left out that part when I’d told her the story.

“Only because he thought I was about to hook up with another guy.” I blushed when I said that, because now I’m wondering if Richard thought that’s what I wanted when I asked him to come up to my apartment, before I realized he was straight. And if he did think I wanted to hook up with him, did that also mean he wanted something to happen? Or was he just trying to be a good co-worker/friend and make sure I got home okay/wasn’t raped on the street corner/didn’t slit my wrists in a bathtub? There was this whole unspoken awkwardness about the night that I didn’t even know how to bring up. Beyond that, what did this mean for our Hamptons share? Clearly, this wasn’t going to be the gayority house—which Kate and I had taken to calling it thinking we were oh so clever—I’d thought it was going to be.

“I’m telling you,” Richard said. “People reveal their true colors in the heat of the moment. ‘Slut’ is a word no good guy uses, no matter how angry he is.”

I looked at Kate and she nodded.

I sighed. “I have to get to my desk,” I said. “And also figure out a way to get my phone from Nina.”

I got a hold of Nina on Gchat and we agreed to meet on our lunch break. When we finally met up, she explained why I couldn’t find her—turns out she had been in a downstairs bathroom when I’d gone looking for her the night before. I didn’t even realize there was a lower level of the bar, and I’d only checked the bathrooms on the first floor. Apparently, there was also a photo booth down there, which was the real reason Nina had been MIA for so long. She showed me a strip of black and white photos. In one picture, she was making out with some random guy.

“No idea who that is,” Nina said.

I cocked my head and looked at the picture. “He’s got a good profile, at least.”

“He used too much tongue.” Nina made a gagging noise and handed me my phone.

I looked at the screen. There was a missed call from Ashley, one from my mom, a text from my mom wondering if I’d been adducted, and a follow up text from my mom saying she’d spoken to Nina but don’t ever give her a fright like that again. Nothing from Justin (not that I’d expected there to be).

“I want to call him,” I said to Nina. “But is it condoning what he said to me last night if I’m the one to go to him?”

“Neither of you are perfect right now and you need to talk,” Nina said. “Don’t worry about who initiates it.”

“You’re right.” I found Justin’s number and hit call. It rang a few times before going to voicemail. I left him a message asking him to call me back and saying I really hoped we could sit down and talk now that we’d both cooled off.

“Ball’s in his court now,” Nina said.

I said goodbye to Nina and headed back to work. It ended up being a really productive day—I just wanted to distract myself from the whole Justin situation, so I plowed through a bunch of busy work that had been building up in one corner of my desk. Kate, Richard, and I went out for coffee later and discussed the Hamptons house. Apparently, the guy Kate had seen Richard with is one of his best friends from college. “Just a friend, kids,” Richard reinforced. The two other guys Richard had brought in on the share were not gay, which threw the whole sleeping situation off and we needed to re-arrange a few of the bedrooms. I was nervous about how this was going to look to Justin regardless of whether or not we stayed together—if we worked it out, it was going to be weird to take part in a house with three other single guys. If we broke up, I didn’t want Justin going around telling everyone that I was sluttin’ it up with the guy I cheated on him with.

At the end of the day, I was so bone tired all I wanted to do was change into sweats, take a bottle of wine to the face, and watch a marathon of Real Housewives. Any franchise would do—even that god-awful DC season! I was climbing the stairs to my apartment, thinking about what I should order for dinner, when I saw that there was a medium-ish box outside my door.

I examined the outside of the box thoroughly. Once I’d determined it wasn’t a bomb, I opened it up. Inside, I found t-shirts, boxer shorts, shampoo and conditioner, and a toothbrush. All the things I’d left at Justin’s apartment. I couldn’t believe it—he must have come by during the day and dropped it off. Was he really just never going to speak to me again? I know I avoided his calls for one night, but it was only after two attempts to get together with him and talk about what had happened over Mother’s Day weekend. This seemed like a clear, concise message: We’re over, and I never want to speak to you again.

Want more from Josie? Follow her on Twitter @BedroomBlog

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Disclaimers From Dudes: A Very Special Kind of Dating Hell

When I was in college, a male friend of mine told me a story: A guy he knew was about to hook up with a girl in his dorm room. The moment she took her shirt off, like some kind of Tourette's, he blurted out: “IDON’TWANTANYTHINGSERIOUS!”

At the time, the story was a riot. Now it feels more like a cautionary tale.

Dating is, by nature, immensely unnatural. Especially in New York, we're trained to be self-sufficient and aggressively unaware of other people to the point of sociopathy. We blithely step over puddles of puke on Sunday mornings. We ignore drunk girls teetering on platform heels and crying into their cell phones outside of bars. We barely notice when a guy’s taking a crap in the corner of the F train. Needless to say, to actually sit face-to-face with some relative stranger who asked for your number at a party last week and make idle conversation about the book you just read, with a minimum one-hour requirement to spend with them even if they turn out to be horrible, is hell for some of us. (Okay, me. For me.)

Which brings me to my point. If you’re single and have the wherewithal to put on pants, leave your house and go on a first date (harder than it sounds – congratulations!), The Early-Onset Disclaimer has probably happened to you more than once. At first, you probably think it’s a coincidence. You’ve just barely just gotten your tapas, are nowhere near as drunk on Pinot as you need to be to feel less horribly awkward and self-conscious, and before you even talk about your siblings or where you went to school, the guy you’re out on the date with is telling you he wants to break up. That is, not quite. But sort of.

“Just so you know, I’m not looking for anything serious.”

"Just so you know, I’m really busy at work." (Or, God forbid: "Just so you know, I’m really busy at my internship.")

“Just so you know, I just got out of a relationship.”

“Just so you know, I’m going to Malawi to build a school for orphaned one-legged children. Like, eventually.”

“Just so you know, I’m a ghost.”

And then he floats away. Just kidding! Sort of.

Hey girl, he is trying to say. I will have sex with you, if you’re desperate for it and do all of the seduction work, he is implying, but don’t expect rapidly-returned text messages or any sense of responsibility from my end whatsoever. Oh, and don’t refer to these as “dates.” We’re just “hanging out.” Even when your mouth is on my penis. That’s still just hanging out. You have been warned. It’s as if he assumes that you have visions of a white picket fence, a shared bank account and your shared gross, nose-picking kid in your head already. Instead of, oh, I don’t know, a second date, then a third, then maybe sex, then if the sex is good, take it from there. That is to say, normal human expectations.

You watch yourself nod, but here's what you're thinking: This sucks a bag of dicks. I actually put on pants for this? Barefoot Contessa is probably on RIGHT NOW. You continue to carry on a normal conversation as if this didn’t just knock you sideways. But take heart in the fact that you’re not alone. What you’ve just experienced is the newest accepted phenomenon in modern twenty-something dating: The disclaimer.

The disclaimer is hardly new; I suspect it’s existed for centuries. (Perhaps there’s an undiscovered piece of parchment buried somewhere in Straford-Upon-Avon upon which Romeo warns Juliet during the Capulet Ball in Act I that he “hath goodly work at a start-up.”) However, it’s only in recent years that the disclaimer has become par for the course, and acceptable—expected, even—to throw at a potential romantic partner as early as possible, regardless of whether or not the recipient of the disclaimer has actually said whether or not she’s even looking for something serious.

As if dating isn’t difficult enough for women, these days, for whatever reason – maybe it’s TV? – guys have become hyper-aware of leading someone on, and the douchebaggy implications thereof. In order to avoid that, they throw a roadblock on the table (I mean, literally, it lands on the table with a wet thud, like a dead fish) way, way too early.

And when you get a disclaimer, is that code for "I’m not interested?" Or should we take it at face value and simply proceed with caution? Or – gulp – might he change his mind and decide he has the so-called "time?"

I asked my friend Jack, a serial dater who just moved to Los Angeles, what generally goes through #ManBrain when he throws out a disclaimer.

“When I do it, I typically mean it. That's not to say that I haven't done it to spare a girl's feelings, but for the most part I say things like that when it's true. And I have changed my mind about it in the past. Where I've said I'm not looking for a relationship, only to find, "Holy shit. I don't care what I said, I want a relationship with you!" Though I wouldn't say that that's likely.”

So the verdict: If you’re unfortunate enough to be handed one of these irritating disclaimers, take it at face value. If you like spending time with him, or at least definitely want to have sex with him, carry on! But if you’re looking for something more than a hang, you might want to look elsewhere. Or just come over to my house and watch Barefoot Contessa. That’s cool too.

Follow Anna on Twitter: @annabreslaw

Photo via iStockPhoto

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