Twilight fanfic writer turned New York Times best-selling author E.L. James is orgasming with her entire body weekly and it's not from reading her own book, that's for fucking sure. It's from reading her bank statement. As each week goes by, E.L. becomes a million dollars richer and she owes it all such beautiful poetry like this:
“Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that? His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly. “No, Anastasia it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard. Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.” My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so… hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified. “You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs, loudly. “No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come."
“Christian, you had me at the meadow.”
Celebrity Net Worth (via EW) says that thanks to those exquisite words and millions of horny housewives not knowing about something called free online porn have helped E.L. sell over 20 million copies worldwide. E.L. takes 7% of every $14 paperback sold and another 25% of every $10 ebook downloaded. So they crunched those numbers together and figured out that this September she'll get a $20 million check from her publisher.
Seriously, I should get beat for spending my money on that shit. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to open up my dusty Microsoft Word and write a trilogy about a society of spark vamps who have to beat the safe word out of each other in their capitol's annual Bondage Games.