I wasn’t going to go there. Really, I wasn’t. But this “Fifty Shades of Grey” business is out of control.

It’s bad enough the “mommy porn” trilogy has sold over 40 million copies. (After reading several chapters of Book One, I stopped and stashed the disgusting thing away. I know it’s not the point but, honestly, who talks like that?) Now there’s a movie in the works and licensing deals with three apparel companies for “Fifty Shades of Grey” hosiery, garters, sleepwear and more. God only knows what spin-offs will follow.

Far be it from me to begrudge someone’s success — especially a fellow writer — but, darn it, where’s mine? Why can’t I publish a blockbuster best-seller that spawns sequels, films and leather lingerie? I’ve had my eye on a little A-frame in the Swiss Alps. Those royalties would come in handy.

Rather than be shackled by envy, (dare I say, tied up in knots?) I’ve decided to take action.

I will go E.L. James one better: I’m going to tell my own juicy story of submission, passion and slavish addiction. And, this time, it won’t be fiction, for I have my own Christian Grey. And what makes the story even hotter — he’s not my husband!

Oh, yes! I have been under the control of my own master for more years than I can remember. His name is NEXRAD. But I call him Mr. Nex.

It started innocently, as affairs tend to do. Years ago, I’d see him only occasionally. He’d come into my living room in the evening, tempting me with the sensual motion of his live-action radar.

“Holy cow! Holy moly! Wow!” I’d cry, breathlessly.

I’ve always been a sucker for a good, slow-moving front.

My meetings with him were fleeting (and always chaperoned by a meteorologist) but, on occasion, when conditions warranted, Mr. Nex was all over the airwaves for hours at a time, pulsing his green, yellow and red patterns like Rastafarians at a Bob Marley concert.

Later, thanks to a cable hookup, I was seeing him daily “on the 8’s.” Oh, wow! It’s true. My complete surrender started with the Weather Channel.

Now, thanks to the Internet and my toy box of iGadgets, I am in full submission. NEXRAD’s prisoner of love. And it’s the most deliciously painful kind of love: The love for all things weather.

Holy wow, gosh darn! Mr. Nex can be so cruel, so cold! Punishing me with torturous dry spells. Teasing me with precipitation that never comes.

Still, I am his slave, his student, his (dare I utter the word?) submissive.

“Are you looking at that stupid radar again?” my husband will say, stepping in from the scorched earth that once was our lawn.

(Yes, he knows. My obsession was impossible to hide. One check of my browser history — Weather.com, WeatherUnderground, Intellicast — and the jig was up.)

“His name is NEXRAD and he’s NOT stupid!” I snapped, clicking “Animate Map” so Nex’s Doppler could taunt me with that tantalizing 30-minute loop.

“He’s going to leave you high and dry, you know,” my spouse said. “He always does.”

“I can’t help it! Those green and yellow bands are lashing so close I can almost feel it!! Holy moly, golly gee whiz bang!”

My husband seethes with jealousy. He knows Mr. Nex adds a spice to my life he cannot match. He can whip me into a wild frenzy with a good summer storm and make me moan in anticipation of a bad blizzard. But my spouse is right, and the truth hurts: More often than not, Nexrad leaves me wanting.

That’s the agony AND the ecstasy of this madness! I just can’t get enough. I keep going back, day and night, again and again and again, begging him, “Please! Please, give me what I… what my yard so desperately needs!”

Lately, as the drought intensified, my obsession has grown darker and darker. I have an unquenchable thirst for Nexrad’s fifty shades of green!

I will tell my story to the world and it will become a best-seller! There will be merchandising rights and a major motion picture, starring Scarlett Johansson as yours truly with Al Roker as himself. Holy atmospheric pressure! I will be released from Mr. Nex’s hold forever, as my true love and I live out our days in our mountain chalet in Switzerland.

In the meantime, I wonder where I hid Book One?