Fifty Shades of Grey, the newly-minted international blockbuster, promises voyeuristic filmgoers exciting new sexual adventures. “Curious?” The advertising reads. Yes, I am curious—why people stay in the theater long enough to see the end credits. As someone who has experienced bondage first-hand (in a controlled setting with professionals), I felt the movie delivered far less than expected.

Aside from the complete and utter lack of chemistry between Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan, there was a glaringly obvious deficiency in the proposed dominant-submissive relationship. Dornan professes Christian Grey’s scripted dominance from line-to-line, and while working to portray a stereotypical control freak, his actions frequently illustrate how out-of-control he really is. On the other hand, Johnson’s inexperienced character, Anastasia Steele, seems to be the one who is really setting the limits here. Even so, her character is fickle—knowing what she wants one moment, and caving the next. The moral of this movie: Women want a man to boss them around, and even when they push away, keep at it because they’ll eventually submit.

Along with his list of hilariously specific demands, billionaire Grey only enters into relationships with women who sign non-disclosure agreements, and then, when he gets around to admitting his kinky side, asks for a signed contract of consent. His well-stocked red playroom teases a journey into BDSM, yet the movie never delves deeper than a little spanking and hand-tying. There’s no entrance into Grey’s BDSM world, no dazed sense of awe after an eye-opening experience. Now I’m no Anastasia Steele, but even my former career as an adult star hardly prepared me for the types of sexual exchanges that required safe words.

Naïve to BDSM culture, I entered easily enough—not dissimilar to the way Steele did—and yet in real life things quickly progress past loosely-bound wrists (that is, unless you’re a couple who thinks kink is sold at adult novelty stores in colorful little boxes with furry handcuffs). To become so vulnerable was more than a little scary; it required a blind trust that I offered up because I knew it was part of my job that day.

I vividly recall the chafing itch of fraying rope wound around my wrists, the tingling sensation in my hands, and then when the army of ants marching through my fingers became too much to bear, I was untied for a few minutes of relief—just enough so that I could be tied up yet again. It was a labor of love for the rope expert—his command of knots matched his intense passion—while for me it was more of a curiosity I was being paid to explore. I had a newbie’s disconnect; I was a blank slate anticipating a sexual awakening.

It was interesting. Not sexually exciting, and nothing I wanted to repeat, but it did lead to other, far more scarring experiences. I now know that in order to be whipped properly its best to warm up the body, get the blood flowing—and not just through foreplay but through sensual massage and light tapping. The process before the actual whipping began was like an amazing hour-long back massage with a variety of tools, from feathers to floggers; most of which I also spied in Grey’s red room (though I question his ability to master the instruments). The man who whipped me was a master of his craft. He’d not only practiced the art since his teens, but he also taught how-to classes. I couldn’t have been in better hands. Yet as the thick columns of muscle around my spine lit up with the shock of being whipped, I could feel tears welling in the corners of my eyes and the tell-tale quiver of my bottom lip. Because no matter how nice he was, getting hit still hurt. It wasn’t for me.

I saw none of this in Fifty Shades of Grey. No greater contemplations about the exchange of power, the true meaning of a person’s limits, or the deeper exploration all of the movie posters have promised. Any real message about BDSM culture is absent from this movie. There is no discovery of curiosities and worse, by the movie’s third act it makes the point that bondage comes from a place of abuse and dysfunction, or as Christian Grey so eloquently put it, “I’m fifty shades of fucked up.”

For erotic thrills, it may be best to look elsewhere. With its predictable, yawn-inducing, and repetitive story, Fifty Shades of Grey offers a one-dimensional peek at kink, but delves no deeper than an inexperienced 15-year-old girl’s imagination. And despite its litany of bad reviews, the movie’s ended up being a smash hit at the box office, which really only proves one thing: sex sells. Just like it always has. So, ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for the ensuing flood of mainstream softcore porn on the big screen, because Hollywood loves to regurgitate what sells until it’s beaten to death.

As porn legend Ruby said, “Hollywood needs to leave the porn to the professionals.”