Trout Nation Posts

Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and realized MY BOOK IS OUT!

I’m beyond excited, because I thought it wasn’t coming out until the 14th! And I guess that’s true, Amazon won’t release it until the 14th, but you can get it today (if you are so inclined) by going to Ellora’s Cave directly!

Plymouth, England, 1841Five days and nights of wicked pleasures and fulfilled fantasies, almost within Honoria’s grasp. All she needs now is the man she has chosen. 

Deaf from an illness in her infancy, Honoria knows that her life as a dormitory minder in a deaf school will be dull and lacking the opportunity to experience the kind of passion she has read about. With five days left until her ship sails from Plymouth to Calais, she has selected Esau Coal, a common dock worker, to be the man to introduce her to all the sensual delights she fears she’ll never have another chance to know. With the help of her tutor Jude, the man who has been her teacher, translator, friend and link to the hearing world, she arranges for Esau to spend five days and nights with her.

But five nights will not be enough—and neither will Esau, when Jude is also there to tempt her.

So, if you’re interested in some historical menage, you can find it HERE.

If you come to my blog only for the recaps (and that’s fine, I’m not going to force you to sign a sex contract wherein you’re obligated to read my blog) but I did post some pretty important info a few days ago, so please catch yourself up on it HERE.

A few links to get you going before the recap:

His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounge, and tosses it at me.

I wish he would have tossed the sun lounge at her.

“Put this on!” He hisses.

“Christian, no one is looking.”

Because we’re in Europe, and there are sexy European girls on the beach, and they’re all topless as well.

“Trust me. They’re looking. I’m sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!” he snarls.

Then hire better employees, dick. Seriously, how can he trust them to protect him if he thinks they’re going to be constantly trying to steal his girl? It would be so easy, considering the number of people who (justifiably) seem to want Christian Grey dead, for Taylor to just stand back and let it happen, then swoop in and console Ana. And she’s so easily manipulated, he’d have no trouble convincing her that she should stay with him, because Christian would have wanted her to be safe.

Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breast in panic, hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango’s sabotaged demise, we are constantly shadowed by damned security.

First of all, was it ever conclusively established in the previous book that Charlie Tango had been sabotaged, or that it wouldn’t be salvageable? And “sabotaged demise” sounds like the actual demise was sabotaged. The demise itself went according to plan, didn’t it? The helicopter did crash. I guess it didn’t work out the way Jack Handy or whoever the fuck that guy was had planned, because Christian didn’t die. But he did crash.

And hey, wait a minute… before the helicopter crash, they were “constantly shadowed by damned security.” Christian was having Taylor do sweeps of every place they went to, like he’s the goddamned president or something.

Christian tells Ana that “‘…some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too.'” which hammers home the reality to Ana that her bare breasts should never be bare in public, even under appropriate circumstances. Because they belong to Christian, obvs. Apparently, after their engagement was announced, she was “besieged” by paparazzi outside her work. Because she’s Princess Di.

Christian puts his cut-offs on over his swim trunks, because he confused the French Riviera with a Texas water park. He also puts on a gray t-shirt, and then this happens:

Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops. Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator sunglasses.

And God help me, the first thing I thought of was:

Every other woman on the beach is topless – it’s not that big a crime. In fact, I look odd with my top on.

I totally know the feeling, Ana. I went to the south of France when I was eighteen, and when I stepped out in Nice in my one-piece, full body covering suit, I felt like I was an alien emerging onto a space planet or something.

I thought Christian would see the funny side… sort of… Maybe if I’d stayed on my front, but his sense of humor has evaporated.

But then it wouldn’t have been funny! Christian was never going to see the “funny” side of things, because he has no sense of humor. The only things he finds funny are terribly unfunny, like saying “fair point, well made, Miss Steele,” about a billion times.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” I whisper, taking his book and BlackBerry from him and placing them in my backpack.

“Too late for that,” he says quietly – too quietly.

I had so missed the romantic, not at all skeevy and abusive-sounding banter between these two wacky kids.

Taking my hand, he signals to Taylor and his two sidekicks, the French security officers Philippe and Gaston. Weirdly, they are identical twins.

Why is that weird? It’s rare, but not weird. Besides, I doubt they’re identical. Look at them, they don’t even look remotely alike:

 And not to get too far off track here, but I just noticed something… doesn’t Belle:

Why do I keep forgetting about them? How? Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Shit, he’s mad at me, too. I’m still not used to seeing him so casually dressed, in shorts and a black polo shirt.

He’s probably not mad at you, Ana. He’s probably just unpleasant because he knows the punk little POS he works for is going to go full 1980’s Sean Penn on you and he’s going to be the cause of it. Remember, how Sean Penn used to beat up women before he got an Oscar and we all forgot about how he beat Madonna with a baseball bat?

Also, Ana, you forget about security being there because they aren’t Christian Grey. If Chedward’s security team was like, a clone army of other Chedwards, I bet you’d remember they were there. And I bet the real Chedward would be even more constantly jealous of them.

Christian and Ana head back to the marina, where they got on a jet ski. The security team will follow behind them in a boat, because everything E.L. James ever learned about water craft, she learned from chase scenes in James Bond movies. These two dingbats get on a jet ski fully dressed, shoes and all, and Taylor gives Ana a lifejacket.

“Here you go, Mrs. Grey.” Taylor passes me a life vest from the motorboat, and I dutifully put it on. Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket?

I propose Ana doesn’t wear a life jacket. All in favor?

Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with Taylor, too?

Yes, because Taylor looked at your perfect boobies, Ana, and therefore you committed some kind of  mental infidelity. Taylor looked upon you with lust in his heart, and according to Jimmy Carter in that Playboy interview, that’s just the same as shackin’ up.

But you know… I hesitate to point this out, but… okay, doesn’t Chedward kind of pay Taylor to look at Ana? Isn’t that the point? If Taylor saw some paparazzi, wouldn’t he probably spring into action and break the guy’s camera and/or neck? So, why is Christian all pissy about Taylor looking?

But if we reread those excerpts… maybe Taylor remembering the life jacket, then calling her Mrs. Grey, was a dig at Christian. Maybe it was his way of saying, “Yeah, you smug little prick, you may have money and jet skis, but I have a gun and I’ve killed men before. I could snap your spine with my little finger, because I’m Jason fucking Statham Taylor, and if I wanted your chick, she’d already be on my dick right now.”

Or something. Guys, these books are boring, I have to make my own fun.

“Hold on,” he orders, and I put my arms around him. This is my favorite part of travelling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose muzzling into his back, marveling that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me me touching him this way. He smells good… of Christian and the sea. Forgive me, Christian, please?

How depressing is this? They’re on their honeymoon. And she’s worried that he’ll never forgive her for taking her top off at a European beach.

I’ll be honest. I could sit here and point out how fucking awful this is, that his anger is stemming not from real concern for Ana, but from a feeling that she’s his property and she’s shown other people something that belongs to him, that he hasn’t given her permission to show, and like how in the context of a 24/7 D/s relationship that might be a very sexy situation but this is in the context of what is supposed to be a vanilla marriage, this shit isn’t okay, etc. But I’m too tired. Because I know that I’m going to have to give the exact same explanation in every chapter of this book, just like with every chapter of the two other books, and there are still going to be people trying to explain to me why it’s romantic and caring and sexy for Chedward to treat Ana like he owns her. So let’s just leave at: this guy. This fucking guy.

Anyway, this fucking guy takes them out on the jet ski fully dressed because they don’t understand how water works:

The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my face and flaying my ponytail crazily around me. This is so much fun. Maybe the thrill of this ride will dispel Christian’s bad mood. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s enjoying himself – carefree, acting his age for a change.

Well, thank god HE is having fun. Because that’s all that matters.

They head back to the Fair Lady. After the last recap, someone sent me a picture of a wooden toy boat and the words “The Queen of all the yachts in the harbor” on it, and I laughed uncontrollably for like two hours. I left the link open in my browser for daaaaays, thinking I would work it into this post. And then this morning I accidentally closed the window and now I can’t get it back. I’m so sad, I’m almost sick to my stomach.

Anyway, they’re back on the boat, and Christian asks Ana if she wants a drink. She asks if she needs one. I love that. “Hey, sweetie, do I need to start drinking so I can be partially anesthetized for whatever you’re going to do to me?” And no, I’m not reading into that, they actually have this conversation:

“You think I’m going to punish you?” Christian’s voice is silky.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

 “How?”

“I’ll think of something. Maybe when you’ve had your drink.” And it’s a sensual threat. I swallow, and my inner goddess squints from her sun lounge where she’s trying to catch rays with a silver reflector fanned out at her neck.

Ana’s inner goddess is now, officially, Miss Piggy in my mind:

“You want to be?”

How does he know? “Depends,” I mutter, flushing.

“On what?” He hides his smile.

“If you want to hurt me or not.”

His mouth presses into a hard line, humor forgotten. He leans forward and kisses my forehead.

“Anastasia, you’re my wife, not my sub. I don’t ever want to hurt you. You should know that by now. Just… just don’t take your clothes off in public. I don’t want you naked all over the tabloids. You don’t want that, and I’m sure your mom and Ray don’t want that, either.”

Bullet points are our friend:

• Wives can’t be subs.
• Even though he hurt her in the past and inspired this distrust, she should “know better,” without him having to earn back that trust.
• As an adult woman, she should be afraid of shaming her mother and father with her choices.

“Who owns this boat?” I ask.

“A British knight. Sir Somebody-orOther. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. His daughter’s married to one of the crown princes of Europe.”

Oh. “Super rich?”

No, Ana. He’s the kind of poor that owns a fucking yacht and gets knighted. WTF? The next time anyone calls Ana a smart heroine, I’m going to choke them with this page of the book. And how the hell do you borrow someone’s boat without knowing their name? I guess it’s conceivable that Christian has a boat guy who would like, broker the rental of a boat for him, but it seems somewhat unlikely that he wouldn’t have heard the boat’s entire pedigree as part of the selling point. Or that he wouldn’t have memorized it to impress everyone within earshot.

Ana asks Christian if Sir So-and-So is rich “‘Like you,'” and Christian says:

“And like you.” Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink rapidly… a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind… his eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding ceremony.

“All that is mine is now yours,” he says, his voice ringing out clearly, reciting his vows from memory.

All mine? “It’s odd. Going from nothing to – ” I wave my hand to indicate our opulent surroundings – “to everything.”

Wait. Wait a damn minute. Going from nothing? Readers, please remember that Ana admits to coming from a middle class family. She lived with her rich roommate all through college, and that rich roommate’s family paid for everything. Also, Ana had a job as an editor at a publishing house. Which isn’t rolling in lottery money, but it’s definitely more than “nothing,” especially when that income only has to provide for one person who doesn’t even pay rent. Maybe that’s “nothing” compared to what Christian has, but for many Americans, that’s more than “nothing.”

Which brings me to my next gripe:

“You’ll get used to it.”

No one should ever “get used” to being that super mega rich. They should be constantly aware of the tremendous privilege they have been afforded in life, and be thankful for it. The fact that Christian was able to go from being a drug-addict’s abused child to the richest, most powerful man in America and he can blithely “get used to it” means he’s an even bigger asshole than we previously suspected. I don’t care how much good he does or how much he gives to charity, when you’re sitting on a yacht in the south of France, chowing on olives a servant brought you and talking about how easy it is to “get used to” wealth like that, rather than saying, “You’re right, aren’t we lucky,” you’re an asshole.

Ana is just as bad, because she thinks:

I am rich… stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money… just married a rich man.

When she was living with Kate, did she ever think, “I have done nothing to earn this apartment… just moved in with a rich friend?” No, not that I can recall. She has pretty much always treated Kate’s family’s money as though she were entitled to it, even moving into another apartment paid for by Kate’s parents after college. But suddenly she’s all embarrassed to be a mooch? Come the fuck on, for real.

There’s a section break, and Ana drifts back in time – because again, this is a Pulp Fiction timeline – to when she was having breakfast at the Chevalier-Grey manse with the entire family, because remember, they’re all vampires who live together in a coven or something, and Mia read a gossip item saying that there must be a huge prenup.

As it turns out, Carrick had been pressuring his son to get Ana to sign a prenup, and Christian wanted no part of it.

“Christian,” I murmur. “I’ll sign anything you and Mr. Grey want.” Jeez, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s made me sign something.

You’re missing the point, Ana. A prenup isn’t always, “You leave with your stuff, I leave with mine.” A good prenup would also include provisions for what you get if the marriage dissolves based on the number of years you stay together, the circumstances of the separation (ie, if one parter cheats), how long you have to get your shit out of his house, or where you’re going to end up living. A good prenup can prevent a messy divorce and tons of wasted money in legal fees. Literally everyone should have one, and just thinking, “Oh, we don’t plan to get divorced because marriage is forever,” isn’t good enough, or realistic.

God, I hate this book more than the last two combined, and I’m only on page thirty-one.

“He has a point, Christian. You’re very wealthy, and I’m bringing nothing to our marriage but my student loans.”

Christian gazes at me, his eyes bleak. “Anastasia, if you leave me, you might as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels.

Holy fuck! “That was different,” I whisper, moved by his intensity. “But… you might want to leave me.” The thought makes me sick.

He snorts and shakes his head with mock disgust.

“Christian, you know I might do something exceptionally stupid – and you…” I glance down at my knotted hands, pain lancing through me, and I’m unable to finish my sentence.

So, the only way this marriage would fail would be if Ana did something stupid? I’m so glad that this book gives young women a heroine to look up to, so that they’ll later realize that every time a man fails them, it’s really their fault.

What is up with our culture’s notion that a prenup is somehow unromantic, or that getting a prenup means you’re setting your marriage up to fail? I would think it terribly romantic for my partner to go, “Okay, I don’t want this to end, but shit happens and if it does, I want to make sure that the person I love and respect comes away from this as smoothly as possible.” I mean, yes, there are prenups that are like, “Everything you own in the box to the left/in my closet, that’s my stuff/yes if I bought it, please don’t touch,” but that’s not every prenup.

This shit is unbearable, so allow me to skip forward, to the boat, where there still is no prenup, and Ana is complaining about being too rich:

I shudder as I recall the crazy shopping fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton – the personal shopper from Neiman Marcus – in preparation for this honeymoon. My bikini alone cost five hundred and forty dollars. I mean, it’s nice, but really – that’s a ridiculous amount of money for four triangular scraps of material.

Then why did you buy it, you daffy twat? Did Caroline Acton – the personal shopper from Neiman Marcus whom we’ve never met, but who for some reason needs a full fucking name – hold a gun to your head and demand you pay a ridiculous amount for a bikini? Just admit that you like being rich. Admit that you like having things, and that you don’t really care to work for them. Because all we’ve seen you do is mooch off Kate and then complain about working. There is nothing wrong with liking money. Everyone likes money. It’s when you reap the benefits of being super rich while bitching about how unfair it is to be super rich that you look like as big an asshole as Christian Grey.

Christian tells her to finish her drink, because they’re going to bed. And then…

“I’m going to make an example of you. Come. Don’t pee,” he whispers in my ear.

 I gasp. Don’t pee? How rude. My subconscious looks up from her book – The Complete Works of Charles Dickens, volume 1 – with alarm.

Fuck, now her subconscious has props, too? No wonder there’s no room in Ana’s head for like, thought.

“It’s not what you think,” Christian smirks, holding his hand out to me. “Trust me.”

No! I can’t trust you, Christian, because I have OCD and germ phobia. I wash my hands fifty thousand times a day. I cannot trust, after you yoinked her tampon out that one time, that you’re not going to do something with pee. And yes, I know that pee is sterile and everybody’s kind is okay, but OCD isn’t like, sensible. You can’t reason with it. It feels no pain.

Christian gets out two pairs of handcuffs and makes her pick a safeword. I wonder what happened to “love means never having to use safewords,” from the last book. He also gets out a blindfold, and then starts undressing Ana:

I turn, and he undoes my bikini top so that it falls to the floor.

 “Tomorrow, I will staple this to you,” he mutters and tugs on my hair tie, freeing my hair.

That’s not funny. Because he could probably do it, and she would probably be thinking the whole time about how much she deserves it. God, these two are perfect for each other.

Christian handcuffs her arms and legs together, right arm to right ankle, left arm to left ankle. I was about to call bullshit on handcuffs being big enough to go around an ankle, but then I remembered how very skinny Ana is. She’s like St. Agnes, the martyr who couldn’t be shackled because her wrists were too small.

This feels weird – being trussed up and helpless – on a boat.

DAMNIT WHY COULDN’T I HAVE SAVED THAT FUNNY BOAT PICTURE?

“Argh!” I cry.

I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming everything.

God, how I wish that were literal.

Then he uncuffs her, there’s a section break, and she wakes up having to pee really bad. So… that’s why he didn’t want her to pee? Because they needed her bladder for an alarm clock or something? Christian announces that they’re sailing to Cannes, and Ana goes into the bathroom:

I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.

Holy fuck! What has he done to me?

I don’t care! I just want to know why he didn’t want you to pee! And how you managed to not pee all over him while having a huge g-spot orgasm while bent in half!

But none of these mysteries are wrapped up, and the chapter ends.

First of all, let me apologize profusely for not getting another 50 Shades recap up in 2012. Sometimes I plan to do things, and then I remember have kids and a job and shit. And while this blog is a part of my job, sometimes other aspects of the job jump up and overwhelm me. Marketing, for example.

You see, starting today, January 1, 2013, I am hereby rebranding myself. I will no longer be publishing or promoting myself under the name “Jennifer Armintrout.” Henceforth, I will be Jenny Trout.

You may be wondering why, after I suddenly gained a whole new following, I would do something to potentially confuse new readers. The problem I’m finding is that new readers are already getting confused, due to the similarity between my name and the name of an other author. In order to distinguish myself and my “brand” (I hate talking about myself in marketing terms), I’m changing my name. That will save both of us some grief, and save some tweeters and emailers embarrassment. Because they’re usually MORTIFIED when they find they’ve contacted the wrong Jennifer.

Also, when I got interested in writing erotic romance, that was sort of… all I did. I let Jennifer Armintrout drop off the face of the planet. As such, Jennifer Armintrout hasn’t sold a book in three years, even though she had a book come out in 2011. Jennifer Armintrout is, for all intents and purposes, out of the game. I’m looking at 2013 as the year I re-enter the realm of horror and urban fantasy, and it will just be easier to start fresh, with a new name.

Plus, let’s take a look at the photographic evidence:

 

See how up close that picture was? That’s not zoomed in, I actually get that close to wildlife. I clearly can’t be trusted with a name as long as Jennifer Armintrout.

Another big plus for me is that well-meaning racists won’t ask me if my name is Native American in origin. Which happens embarrassingly often. And I won’t be sharing a phonetic pronunciation with a character on Breaking Bad. And I already answer to Jenny Trout in most cases, because childhood friends always shortened my name to either Jenny or Trout.

So, what’s going to change, and what’s going to stay the same?

Changing:

• This blog’s address. Starting February 1st, the url for this blog will change. There will be many reminders, so that you can update your bookmarks and links and stuff.
• My author website is no longer jenniferarmintrout.com, but JennyTrout.com. You should go check it out, and bookmark it. It will be updated more often than the old site.
• My facebook page. I’ll be creating an author page for Jenny Trout. I hate to do that, because I know what a pain in the ass it is to go like another page or whatever. But Facebook won’t let me change the name on my Jennifer Armintrout page because I have more than 200 followers.  You can find me on Facebook now at facebook.com/JennyTroutAuthor.

If you are just tuning in, or if you tuned in before but lost your short term memory due to an eggnog related mishap, I am currently writing a book called The Boss. It’s my own entry into the contemporary erotic romance subgenre spawned by 50 Shades of Grey and the Crossfire series. But I’m pretty much just doing it for fun and to goof off, and to see if I can write a book in that genre without falling into the traps of misogyny and abuse we’ve seen in the 50 Shades series. Which is why I’m giving away The Boss for free, as a serial. You can get the rest of the details in this post.

Well, we’re back.

I hope you enjoy vague, deconstructed dream sequences, readers, because that is what the prologue and chapter one are all about.

The prologue is written in pseudo-child head pov:

My tummy hurts. It is hungry. He isn’t here. I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink and I have a drink. The water splashes over my blue sweater. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy wake up! She lies still. She is cold.

Can anyone else see a really pretentious theatre major acting this out in a workshop? Like, maybe the one who has an obvious crush on the professor, who is happily married and not interested? I can see that. I can see that with a clarity like unto the states of spiritual consciousness obtained by mountaintop gurus of yore.

Do children actually think that literally? “My tummy hurts. It is hungry.” “I am thirsty.” I get that he’s going through a traumatizing experience here, but I also remember being a kid. I don’t remember consciously walking through my day to day like a running monologue in my head. I said all that shit out loud, in a constant verbal barrage I unthinkingly unloaded onto anyone, even people slightly out of normal conversation distance. Maybe that’s why this is throwing me. He’s not narrating all this to himself aloud.

Anyway, you know how this goes down, Chedward is having a bad dream and Ana wakes him:

“Hush, I’m here.” She curls around him, her limbs cocooning him, her warmth leeching into his body, forcing back the shadows, forcing back the fear. She is sunshine, she is light… she is his.

 Is this a vampire book?

It is revealed that Christian and Ana fought about putting “obey” in their wedding vows. Oh, I really hope we get to see the fight where Ana gives in because of course she’s obeying him because this book was written by Don Draper.

I stare up through gaps in the sea-grass parasol at the bluest of skies, summer blue, Mediterranean blue, with a contented sigh.

Oh, some other douche is there with her, too:

My husband – my hot, beautiful husband, shirtless and in cut-off jeans – is reading a book predicting the collapse of the Western banking system.

Yeah. He’s reading that on the beach on their honeymoon. How is that for some serious romance. “Oh baby, reading about how the world economy is in the shitter gets me so hot. Let’s go spit on poor people!”

Ana and Christian are hanging out on a hotel beach in Monte Carlo, but Ana is quick to point out that they aren’t staying in some plebeian hotel:

 I open my eyes and gaze out at the Fair Lady anchored in the harbor. We are staying, of course, on board a luxury motor yacht. Built in 1928, she floats majestically on the water, queen of all the yachts in the harbor. She looks like a child’s wind-up toy. Christian loves her – I suspect he’s tempted to buy her. Honestly, boys and their toys.

 Looks like she got over that “uncomfortable with money” thing pretty quick. “Of course we’re not staying at some chintzy beachside Monte Carlo hotel! What are we? Paupers?”

Also, let me point out that this is the beginning of a book that, while it is a sequel, should probably provide a little background story for someone who picked this one up first. A reader who begins this with no prior knowledge of the other books is going to, after a thoroughly confusing prologue about child neglect, know more about the yacht the characters are vacationing on than the characters themselves.

Sitting back, I listen to the Christian Grey mix on my new iPod and doze in the late afternoon sun, idly remembering his proposal. Oh, his dreamy proposal in the boathouse… I can almost smell the scent of the meadow flowers…

Which new iPod? The new one that your husband got you when you first started dating? Does everyone get what I’m saying there? Because I don’t know if I can be any more sarcastic without straining a muscle.

A section break sends us back in time, to when Ana and Christian have just finished having sex in his parent’s boathouse. Again. For the second time. As they lay entwined in a bliss more perfect than anything you’ll ever know, a love deeper than you will ever be capable of surrendering to, they talk about where they want to have the wedding. Christian suggests eloping to Vegas,  but Ana wants an actual wedding. Christian figures Carlisle and Esme will let them have it at their place.

Hey, serious request here, can anyone who has retained more knowledge of Breaking Dawn or Twilight in general compare page 6 of 50 Shades Freed to the wedding nonsense in Twilight? It’s that page in particular that felt strongly ripped off, but I can’t put my finger on specific instances. Can someone either confirm my suspicion or tell me I’m crazy?

Christian tells Ana that he’ll agree to a one month engagement. Let’s try to do the math here. They knew each other for… two weeks? Three? And then they broke up for five days. And now they’ve been together… another two weeks? At most, these people will have known each other for NINE WEEKS before their WEDDING.

I cannot stress enough how fucked up I find this. In a completely judgmental way. People are going to leave comments saying, “How dare you, I got married to my SOUL MATE after NINE HOURS and we live in ETERNAL PARADISE!” and I’m going to say, “Yeah, well you made a chump bet that actually paid off. Congratulations, your marriage is successful, but it was still STUPID.”

Unless you needed to get married for a green card. In which case, 1990’s Gerard Depardieu was hot.

Flash forward, because E.L. James got her book confused with the narrative timeline from Pulp Fiction, and Christian is smoothing sunscreen over Ana’s magnificent body:

“You’ll burn,” Christian whispers in my ear, startling me from my doze.

“Only for you.”

Oh god, is this the vacation version of “I’m hungry but not for food?” Because I’ll drown myself if it is.

Smiling, I roll over, and he undoes the back strap of my hideously expensive bikini.

Oh my god, stahp. We get it. I promise, we all get it. You married a rich guy. You have the most expensive everything and you won. You are the Highlander of women.

My inner goddess purs. Maybe tonight we could do some kind of floor show for his eyes only. She smirks knowingly, arching a brow. I grin at the thought and drift back into my afternoon siesta.

Siesta is always in the afternoon, moron. Also, in my copy of the book, “siesta” is crossed out and replaced with “hallucination.”

Ana wakes to Christian speaking “fluent French.” How does E.L. demonstrate this fluency? What fascinating subject could Christian be talking about now?

“Mam’selle? un Perrier pour moi, un Coca-Cola light pour ma femme, s’il vous plait. Et quelque chose a manger… laissez-moi voir la carte.”

Wait, he ordered a Perrier, a Diet Coke, and asked for a menu? That’s not fluency. Anyone could do that. You get a cd or something right before you go on your trip, and you can manage that. You want fluency? Fluency is what Ana will need after she gets that sunburn, and then has to go to the pharmacy, and then when she draws the woman at the counter a picture like this:

His shorts fall a little and hang… in that way so his swim trunks are visible beneath.

You know, this is the third book and just another in a line of countless hours I have spent trying to deal with this nonsense, and I still have no idea what pants look like when they hang “in that way.” I’m going to strive to be that vague in my writing, because apparently that’s where all the profit is.

Christian wants Ana to come swimming with him, but she’s still sleepy and doesn’t immediately spring up from her lounge to join him. Obviously, he has to throw her over his shoulder and march her into that fucking ocean, because that’s how you show a woman who’s boss.

Several sunbathers on the beach watch with that bemused disinterest so typical, I now realize, of the French, as Christian carries me to the sea, laughing, and wades in.

Ana is alleging that French people are typically confused, but they don’t really give a shit? Is that what I’m grasping from that description?

“I know your game,” he whispers and slowly sinks into the cool, clear water, taking me with him as his lips find mine once more. The chill of the Mediterranean is soon forgotten as I wrap myself around my husband.

You guys remember that you’re on a hotel beach, right? People can see you. Also, what’s up with the cool water in the chill Mediterranean? They met in May, judging from the fact that Ana graduated the same week. Even being totally cautious with my estimate and giving them a generous three months instead of nine weeks, that would still put them in Monte Carlo in August. The water temps in Monte Carlo and August of this year were between 22 and 27 degrees celsius. For my fahrenheit friends, that means it’s between 70 and 80 degrees.

Research! That took me two entire minutes of my life.

Christian asks Ana, “‘Shall I take you in the sea?'” and I laughed out loud, because 1. He already took her in the sea, when he carried her into the water, and 2. who the fuck talks like that? Christian doesn’t want to do her in front of all the bemused Frenchies, so they just swim. My theory is that E.L. couldn’t write the part where they have sex in the drink because that scene faded to black in Twilight, thus obscuring her rip-off roadmap.

Ana swims to shore and wonders how to get Christian to come pay attention to her:

I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. He’s such a tease… what can I do to get him back? While I swim to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the lounges our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Diet Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance.

I hope he gets decapitated by a passing jet ski.

Hmm… I lie down on my front and, fumbling with the straps, take my bikini top off and toss it casually onto Christian’s sun lounge. There… see how brazen I can be, Mr. Grey. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I shut my eyes and let the sun warm my skin… warm my bones, and I drift away under its heat, my thoughts turning to my wedding day.

And the award for most artless flashback transition goes to…

There is nothing worse in real life than going to the wedding of someone you actually care about. Weddings are terrible. They are the worst, but you suffer through hot churches in uncomfortable clothes and weird food you can’t take reasonable portions of because you’re super conscious of heaping more debt on the happy couple, because you recognize that this is the most important day of this couple’s life so far and they invited you because they wanted you to be a part of it and that means something. But I don’t have even a casual fondness for the jerks in this book, so why am I being forced to go to their stupid, boring wedding?

“You may kiss the bride,” Reverend Walsh announces.

I beam at my husband.

“Finally, you’re mine,” he whispers and pulls me into his arms and kisses me chastely on the lips.

I know this is going to come as a shock to you, after we read the last two books and saw their super positive view of equality within relationships, but in this one, a wedding ring = contract of ownership.

“You look beautiful, Ana,” he murmurs and smiles, his eyes glowing with love… and something darker, something hot. “Don’t let anyone take that dress off but me, understand?” His smile heats a hundred degrees as his fingertips trail down my cheek, igniting my blood.

He just said all of that literally at the altar. In front of all his friends and family, who probably don’t care to hear it.

Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery… My mom, Ray, Bob, and the Greys are all applauding – even Kate, my maid of honor, who looks stunning in pale pink as she stands beside Christian’s best man, his brother Elliot.

Every time the Greys throw a party (with the exception of the big, fancy fundraising ball), Ana is all, “There is a THRONG there, for real, y’all.” And then she describes maybe a dozen people. Also, check out the fact that Kate is wearing a pink dress and Ana isn’t complaining about it. Ana hated on Kate hardcore for wearing pink in the first book, but now it’s one of Ana’s wedding colors? What a pink-hating hypocrite.

I like pink. Hating pink doesn’t make you cool. Hating pink makes you a jerk, if those Pinkalicious books are accurate.

I hope Christian and I last longer. I don’t know what I’d do if he left me. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. The saying haunts me.

You don’t know what you’d do if he left you? Clean up in divorce court, for one thing. “He psychologically manipulated me into marrying him, your honor.”

“Ana, it’s obvious he adores you. I know you had an unconventional start to your relationship, but I can see how happy you’ve both been over the past month.” She grasps my hands, squeezing them. “Besides, it’s too late now,” she adds with a grin.

“I know you guys went really fast, but the good news is, you’re never going to get away from him now, even if you wanted to. Happy wedding!”

Christian comes over, probably because someone is talking to his property and he needs to shut that down. Ana observes that Christian is “still cool toward [Kate] even after six weeks.” Is anyone else getting the idea that time moves differently for E.L. James than it does for everyone else? Like, a day in E.L. Standard Time is a week in Earth time?

Christian tells Ana that he doesn’t want to share her with people anymore. Ana doesn’t want to leave, because “‘This is the first party I’ve been to where I don’t mind being the center of attention.'” I think she got “first” confused with “every,” because Ana has proven over and over that she thrives on attention. Even though she doesn’t want to go, she’s going to leave, because Christian told her to. But then his grandmother intercepts them and forces Christian to dance with her, leaving Ana time for the obligatory Jose moment of awkwardness.

“I won’t ask you for another dance. I think I monopolized too much of your time on the dance floor as it is… I’m happy to see you happy, but I’m serious, Ana. I’ll be here… if you need me.”

He gives me a lascivious grin. “But I’m not undressing you here. We wouldn’t leave until… I don’t know…”  He waves his long-fingered hand, leaving his sentence unfinished but his meaning quite clear.

Christian tells her to pack her going away clothes, and we learn that Christian won’t tell Ana where they’re going for their honeymoon. I’ll be straight up, I’ve known couples who have done this, and I thought it was super romantic. But coming from Chedward, it just seems like another creepy control bullshit thing. Also, she really shouldn’t go with him to a second location.

“I’m not changing.”

“What?” my mother says.

“Christian doesn’t want me to.” I shrug as if this should explain everything. Her brow furrows briefly.

“You didn’t promise to obey,” she reminds me tactfully. Kate tries to disguise her snort as a cough. I narrow my eyes at her. Neither she nor my mother have any idea of the fight Christian and I had about that. I don’t want to rehash that argument. Jeez, can my Fifty Shades sulk… and have nightmares. The memory is sobering.

We haven’t even read the “obey” fight, and I can tell you right now how it went down. Christian wants “obey” in the vows, Ana doesn’t, they fight, and Christian fakes a night terror to try and get his own way. But apparently he didn’t on this one.

It’s a good thing Ana has all these strong women around her to help her when she’s making bad choices, like just blindly doing whatever her husband tells her because he’s her husband and she thinks that’s the way it should be:

Carla gently tugs at a loose tendril of my hair and strokes my chin. “I am so proud of you, honey. You’re going to make Christian a very happy man.”

Oh. Well, I would have taken that in a different direction.

Ray comes in, and he and Carla have a big cry fest over their daughter. It’s a scene you’ve seen countless times in movies and books, so I won’t bore you with it, even though E.L. does. They do the traditional “run away from our guests” thing, Mia catches the bouquet, and Taylor whisks the couple away to an airfield, where a company jet is waiting. I love seeing happy couples mismanaging company funds for personal vacations.

Taylor halts the Audi at the foot of the steps leading up to the plane and leaps out to open Christian’s door. They have a brief discussion, then Christian opens my door – and rather than stepping back to give me room to climb out, he leans in and lifts me.

Whoa! “What are you doing?” I squeak.

“Carrying you over the threshold,” he says.

“Oh.” Isn’t that supposed to be at home?

He carries me effortlessly up the steps,

BULLSHIT! People can’t even walk effortlessly up those steps. If you’ve ever walked up a staircase to a plane, you know what I’m talking about. And it would have been hilarious if Christian was like, “This is home. Bad news. The company folded this morning. We’re paupers now. This plane is all we have left and we have to live in it.”

Because literally every character in this mess must have a name, no matter how small the role, we meet Stephan the pilot and First Officer Beighly, a homewrecker:

She blushes as Christian introduces her and blinks rapidly. I want to roll my eyes. Another female completely captivated by my too-handsome-for-his-own-good husband.

“Delighted to meet you,” gushes Beighly. I smile kindly at her. After all – he is mine.

Pack it up ladies, the game is over. Ana won the prize, we can all go home. At least she’ll deign to talk to us all from her lofty new position as supreme winner of all womanness.

Christian chats with the pilot, and Boston and Shannon both are mentioned, which makes Ana insane with curiosity. Since there is no other conflict in these books at all, the suspense gets dragged out a little longer while Ana gives us a description of the cabin:

The interior is all pale maple and pale cream leather. It’s lovely. Another young woman in uniform stands at the other end of the cabin – a very pretty brunette.

This is why I’m totally grossed out when people call this book a romance. Romance is a very specific genre, with very specific rules. No romance novel should ever allude to the heroine wondering if her new husband, the hero, has fucked this girl on the honeymoon getaway plane. Moments later, Christian glances at the pretty flight attendant and frowns, which is even more telling.

Taking my hand, he leads me to one of the sumptuous leather seats. There must be about twelve of them in total.

Have you guys noticed that in these books, the larger a number is, the more precise it is, but the smaller it is, the more often it’s estimated? Most adults could easily count that number of seats at a glance, so why does Ana have to guess at it?

Ana and Christian sip Bollinger champagne and reminisce about the time they drank it at Ana’s half-packed up apartment, oh so many, many, many days ago. Christian reveals that they’re going on a European honeymoon, since Ana has always wanted to go to there. They also get a wedding feast, courtesy of the ever present, constantly mentioned Natalia. Gosh, I wonder if Natalia will be a plot point later:

“Dessert, Mr. Grey?” she asks.

He shakes his head and runs his finger across his bottom lip as he looks questioningly at me, his expression dark and unreadable.

I can read it. He’s wondering if he can get a wedding night threesome out of his easily manipulated wife.

Ana finds out there’s a bedroom on the plane, because Christian wants dessert, just not food. It doesn’t actually say “Just not food” in there, but the sentiment was too close to pass it up.

“I thought we’d spend our wedding night at thirty-five thousand feet. It’s something I’ve never done before.”

Of course it isn’t. You’ve never been married before, nimrod.

On page twenty we start a sex scene that lasts five pages and in which Christian refers to his ownership of Ana ten times.

“I love you so much.” Trailing kisses from the nape of my neck to the edge of my shoulder. Between each kiss he murmurs, “I. Want. You. So. Much. I. Want. To. Be. Inside. You. You. Are. Mine.”

When people write dialogue like that, I always imagine a malfunctioning robot.

Gently he cups my breasts, toying with them, while his thumbs circle over my nipples so that they strain against the fabric of my corset.

“Mine,” he whispers.

And:

“Mine,” he breathes as his hands spread across my backside, the tips of his fingers brushing my sex.

And even more disturbingly given the time of year I’m presenting this to you:

“This is like unwrapping my Christmas presents.”

When the hero of a romance novel tells the heroine, “You are mine,” it’s often followed up by, “body and soul,” or some other declaration of how their souls are bonded together in passion for all eternity. While that kind of behavior would be creepily intense in real life, it tells the reader that this man is so consumed by his desire for every single facet of the heroine that he’s reverting to preschool possessiveness. He wants the heroine to love him, and only him, and he’s driven desperate with that need.

When Christian Grey does it, it’s like he’s cataloging all the stuff he just bought by getting married. “I own your bewbs. I own your hooey. Gee, this is fun, and literally, physically, owning a woman fulfills an emotional need in me.”

That’s gross. And did I mention it happens ten times in five pages?

The foreplay is so intense, Ana forgets a whole continent:

Oh my… I’d forgotten. Europe.

You know, I sometimes forget Europe, too. But not generally when I’m on a plane that’s actually going there.

The scene ends with Christian sinking into Ana and starting to move, so you know, basically copy/paste from every other sex scene in this series. Then there’s a section break, and we’re back in the present… or the future… or something. It’s like a fucking time travel story.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Christian shouts, waking me from my very pleasant dream. He’s standing all wet and beautiful at the end of my sun lounge and glaring down at me.

What have I done? Oh no… I’m lying on my back… Crap, crap, crap, and he’s mad. Shit. He’s really mad.

So… the honeymoon is over, then?

Expect recapping delays as Christmas barrels down upon us, but I’ll try to get another one in this year.

Twas the week before Christmas and the video was late.
For ’twas Jenny, personally, the entire world did hate.
They scheduled appointments, pageants, and things,
on top of the frenzy Christmas itself brings!

How could she edit, how could she cope,
when of finishing all the gifts she could have no hope?
And on top of that, a recap was due!
That meant she had two jobs… plus two!

One as an author, and one as a blogger!
One as a mom and professional kid schlogger.
(Kid schlogging is a type of a thing moms have to do for their broods,
such as schlogging kids to school and to go shopping for food.)

Besides all of that, she had crafting to do!
That made another job, two plus one, plus two!
So TV producer added too much to her plate,
which means she had to deliver the show… late.

Here’s the show, about the end of the world that wasn’t, and tune in tomorrow for the first chapter of Fifty Shades Freed.

This may go down in history as the geekiest of all the Christmas presents I am making this holiday season:

Yes, it’s the Weighted Companion Cube. That’s all it is. It’s not a box to conveniently store things, it’s not a stool or an ottoman, it’s just a Weighted Companion Cube my son can use when he’s pretending to be navigating the Aperture Science testing program. Which is always and constantly.

I’m not going to pass this off like “Oh, that was totally easy,” because it wasn’t. You’re looking at a 9 hour paint job. Did you know I scrunch up my face when I concentrate? I didn’t, until I got this burning pain in my forehead. And yes, the final product did end up costing more than just buying the stuffed version, because durable paint is expensive, but damnit, this one is better. Because it’s got LOVE.

I’ll be spending the rest of my day editing Roadhouse, working on presents, and writing up tomorrow’s 50 Shades Freed recap. I’ll also be going to my son’s school assembly, where he’ll be singing “Still Alive” (yes, the one from Portal) for the enjoyment of all of his peers.

But before I go, have this picture of the cutest little sleepy rat ratty rattigan face you’ve ever laid eyes on:

OMG LOOK AT HIS LITTLE NOSE!

I got tagged for a “The Next Big Thing” post, and I was supposed to do this yesterday, but I didn’t because I was busy sewing like a little Christmas bee. A bee that can sew and guzzle malt liquor like a goddamned champion. Now, I’m doing it today, with a massive hangover that feels like someone is inserting metal rods through the extremely dry husks where my eyeballs used to be. I have two “The Next Big Thing”s happening in January, and since I can still taste the Mike’s Hard Black Cherry Lemonade in my sinuses, I’m doing both and no one is going to say boo about it. Unless they say this boo very softly and without turning the lights on. Because both books are dear to my heart, and both of them are coming out within a day of each other.

What is the working title of your next book?

Silent Surrender and The Boss.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

The idea for The Boss came from a line I read in a review of Anything He Wants by Sarah Fawkes. The review was totally not complimentary, and referred to books like Anything He Wants and Fifty Shades of Grey as belonging to a genre of “poorly written, badly researched erotica.” I thought, “A genre, huh?” And I thought it would be fun to write a book that has the flavor of Fifty Shades of Grey, but not the non-existent conflict, the abuse masquerading as romance, or the heroine who dumps her entire life to be owned by some dude.

The idea for Silent Surrender came to me years ago, when I was studying American Sign Language. I realized that in all my reading, I’d never found a single Deaf heroine in a romance novel. I’m sure they’re out there, but I had never read one. Then I thought, “Wow, it would be shitty to be a woman in the past. Shittier than it is now,” and it all kind of fell together.

What genre does your book fall under?

Both are erotic romances, but The Boss is contemporary and Silent Surrender is historical erotic romance.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

For The Boss, I would have to say Amber Heard for Sophie, and Anthony Stewart Head for Neil:

My rage, loathing, and despair at the success of 50 Shades of Grey fueled The Boss.

Silent Surrender came from the myriad projects I had to research while learning ASL. One of my text books was called For Hearing People Only, which is an amazing, surprisingly fun book answering Hearing people’s questions about Deaf culture and life. I thought, “You know, there really aren’t any Deaf heroines I can think of in romance.” Over the years, my heroine, Honoria, sort of percolated in the back of my mind, and it blossomed into a story of what it would be like to be a woman in 1841, facing the reality that you don’t get a lot of say in your life, your life is kind of chosen for you by one man or another.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

The Boss is free, and Silent Surrender is romantic as fuck.

Look, I’m not tagging anyone for this, because I hate tagging. It’s obligating one group of people, and excluding a larger group of people. If you’re a writer, and you want to do this thing, just do it, and tell people I tagged you, if you want.

Armintrout out.

Geek is a genetically inherited trait. My husband has the recessed gene, and I’m chock full of geeky goodness, so our son is super, extra geeky. He can also obsess like nobody’s business, due to autism.  Unfortunately, his obsessions usually lead me off the beaten path when it comes to Christmas time, because although he grasps the fact that they don’t generally make toys for video games only adults play, it still bums him out.

For Christmas this year, he’ll be getting a mini Portal Gun, a Potatos “science” kit, and a mini battery operated turret, all from thinkgeek.com. But I wanted to give both the kids a handmade doll they could treasure for ever and ever. These two ideas fused and merged, and now I present to you Chell, heroine of Portal:

I would never put that on a doll for an older kid, but since this is for a ten-year-old who will more keep it than play with it, I think we’re safe.

Now I’m off to finish sewing a similar doll and a mermaid tail to go on it. Tune into twitter tonight, 8:30pm EST, to tweet at us while D-Rock and I are filming our end of the world/year end Roadhouse episode. Hit us up with the hashtag #YOAO. Because You Only Apocalypse Once.