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The Week of Nothing Serious

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It’s difficult to know how to approach life after a tragedy. With my entire country reeling from grief, there’s a lot of finger pointing, a lot of anger, and a hugely politicized gun control argument. We’ve got people saying this is because we’ve moved into a secular society and removed God from schools. We’ve got other nutjobs saying that Connecticut deserved this because they offer marriage equality to their residents. We have people passionately calling for a ban on guns, with others passionately calling for armed teachers. At the end of the day, every single one of those reactions are coming from people trying to make sense out of the fact that twenty children are dead at the hands of a deeply disturbed individual.

I started a blog post with the intent to look at some aspects of the media coverage that make me uncomfortable. The rush to blame mental illness, the rush to divert gun control into a discussion about violence in videogames. The way that everyone gets up in arms about the tragedy of a school in a “safe” setting being targeted, but collectively we couldn’t care less about the gun violence deaths of children of color in our cities.

The more I wrote, the more mired down in depression, until I couldn’t do anything but stare numb at the tv and watch episode after episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer in my increasingly odorous clothes I hadn’t changed and, yes, had slept in. I recognized this as the beginning of a depression spiral that I can’t afford, and I know it’s having the same effect on a lot of you out there, because some of you have shared your struggles with mental illness.

So, with that in mind, for the next week, this blog will be all fluff. There may be pictures of baby animals (my husband says he can tell how depressed I am based on how many videos of cute baby animals are in my youtube history). There may be mindless chatter about stupid shit. But I won’t be mentioning the shooting, and I’m not going to air any big political opinions.

That might sound callous, but I assure you, it’s coming from a good place. There is no amount of analyzing we can do that will bring those kids back to life. No amount of cultural reflection will mend the families whose lives were irrevocably torn apart. But at times like these, when every channel is airing photos of the smiling faces of the deceased, when every facebook status update is lauding the heroes who laid down their lives, it’s very easy for people made vulnerable by mental illness to get overwhelmed. So, I just want to explain why it’s going to seem like I’m carrying on without a care in the world while the rest of the nation falls apart.

It’s not because I don’t care or I’m ignoring the tragedy. I hope you all understand.

I’m so mad at Anne Hathaway’s vulva right now.

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As you may have heard (and how could you not hear about it?), adorable gamine Anne Hathaway accidentally flashed her vulva getting out of a car, and someone got a picture of it.

The female-celebrity-getting-out-of-a-car-pantyless photo is nothing new. Britney has done it. Paris has done it. In the world of celebrity, you’re nobody until somebody has taken a photo of your labia.

For the most part, Hathaway’s slip might have gone uncommented on. And then Matt Lauer commented on it. Like, on tv. He was basically all, “So, saw your vag, tell us about your new movie.” People were, understandably, outraged. Anne Hathaway is an Oscar nominated actress. Her work is lauded and respected by millions. She seems super nice and her smile is like sunshine (that’s not sarcasm). She has way more teeth than a person should reasonably have, but they’re so straight and blindingly white that it’s like looking into a virgin’s soul (some of that was sarcasm). She’s the closest thing we have to an official “America’s Sweetheart.” Some MAN can’t acknowledge that the whole country has seen her bare crotch. TO THE INTERNET OUTRAGE MACHINE!

Here’s the thing that I can’t quite get my head around. Accidental nudity photos have been an issue for years. There’s a scene in Spice World where Richard E. Grant blocks a paparazzo’s camera and admonishes him for trying to get an upskirt of the Spice Girls. Spice World.

I fear many of my readers won’t have any concept of who these women are, due to my old age.

The point is, this has been happening for a while. And yet, the collective anger only reared its head on a large scale when it happened to Anne Hathaway.
Look, I’m sure many people were as disgusted at the publication of LiLo’s beaver pics as they are at Anne Hathaway’s. That’s not the point. The point is that, collectively, we decide who is deserving of our ardent defense and who is not based on the same misogynistic bullshit that creates the marketplace for those pictures in the first place.
We live in a culture where we feel we have the right to see an actor, musician, or model’s naked body on display for our own gratification. Your first urge there might have been to correct me: “No, we live in a culture where we feel entitled to see women’s bodies.” That’s just not true. If that were true, True Blood wouldn’t have half the ratings it’s getting.
You are not watching this show for his incredible acting. Come on.

So, why are we so up in arms about the exploitation of Anne Hathaway, when we tolerate and even pay to see other celebrities being exploited?
Because Hathaway is a “good girl,” and as such she deserves our moral outrage. She’s never been involved in any scandals (at least, not any of her own making). She doesn’t openly use drugs and doesn’t get kicked out of nightclubs for being too drunk. But most importantly, she doesn’t trade sex as a commodity. Any time she’s done nudity for a film, it’s been “artistic” nudity that’s necessary for the role. When you compare her to Britney or Paris, she’s practically a nun.
Some have argued that since Britney and Paris have made their careers out of flashing flesh, they deserve what they get. That’s just stupid. If you break into a grocery store after closing time, you aren’t going to get very far with the defense, “Well, it was open this morning, I figured I could just go in at any time.” It’s like these people are saying, “My mom gave me twenty bucks for my birthday, so I emptied out her bank account. What? There’s nothing wrong with that, she was asking for it.” A woman dressing and behaving in a sexually provocative manner doesn’t mean we all have this all-access pass to see parts of her body that aren’t meant to be displayed.
Others have said that since Britney and Paris and Lindsey have made it a routine to go out and get plastered and fall all over the place with their skirts up, that’s the key difference. Hathaway doesn’t act like that, so we don’t feel she deserves the ridicule. This is also a completely fucked up and illogical way of thinking, and it’s akin to arguing that women who get drunk at parties should expect to be raped and don’t deserve sympathy. Intoxication is viewed as a moral failing, and it is extra, extra immoral when women are the ones who are intoxicated. But even though society now grudgingly admits that raping drunk girls is wrong, it still seems pretty comfortable saying that if you get drunk and flash your panties (or lack thereof), it’s perfectly reasonable to expect that someone will take a picture. Oh, and it’s all your fault.
What’s worse is, the women whose snatches are being mercilessly hunted are women that are culturally understood to be, well. Not very intelligent. Whether Paris is truly a dumb blonde, I have no idea, but that’s the image the media projects: “Here’s Paris Hilton. She’s a stupid whore.” Britney Spears is/was? under a court ordered conservatorship because mentally she was not sound enough to care for herself as an adult. Doesn’t it seem like these women, if they’re really, truly of a lower intelligence or functional capability, are more vulnerable than Hathaway? And therefore more deserving of our indignation? Aren’t they victims of the very culture that encouraged them to market their sexuality in the first place?
Look, I’m not saying we shouldn’t be angry about people with unscrupulous morals benefitting from poor Anne’s wardrobe malfunction, because we absolutely should. I’m just saying, maybe we should examine why we care, as a culture, more when it’s a “good girl” and not a “slut” or “trainwreck” being exploited.
Speaking of wardrobe malfunction… why did everyone blame her? It was Timberlake who exposed her titty, FFS.

Maybe you’re not guilty of any of these things, and you’re thinking, “But Jen, I always defended Britney!” Good, I’m glad you did. I didn’t, because I hadn’t wised up at that point. If this is you, then good, I’m happy for you. But the fact is, a lot of people don’t defend the Britneys and Parisii of the world and choose instead to defend a woman who is clearly more than capable of defending herself. And that’s fucking sick.

Guest Post: Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever

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When my tweep ‘Ro Mania from Ramblin’ Ro’s tweeted about a book called Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever, of course I immediately needed to get the scoop on it. Here’s the review, and it’s about 100% more professional than anything else you’ll ever see on this blog. Much thanks to ‘Ro for making it through what sounds like a thoroughly frustrating book.

Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever
(A Parody – The Ghetto Girl Romance Quadrilogy)
L.V. Lewis
Jungle Fever Press 2012
I’m sure by now everyone has been, in some way or other, exposed to the literary phenomenon that is Fifty Shades of Grey (FSoG). For those three of you who haven’t, I will give a brief synopsis.
Brief synopsis: FSoGis a fanfic of Twilight wherein Bella Swan and Edward Cullen have been…reimagined…as Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey: a virginal college grad and the multi-millionaire BDSM dominant who wants her as a submissive. From what I understand the story is just as awful as the source material.
(By the way I haveread Twilight, but I’ve only read part of FSoG so most of what I know about it comes from numerous in-depth critiques and reviews).  
So, now that we know where we’ve come from, let’s see where we’re going, eh? I recently stumbled across Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever (FSoJF) in one of my ‘free-kindle-book” e-mails. As soon as I saw the title, I had to click on the link and ‘buy’ it. How could I possibly resist the potentially massive sh*tshow this book could turn out to be? Please recall the subtitle – “A Parody – The Ghetto Girl Romance Quadrilogy”! (So there’s more coming…)
I actually saw the ‘ghetto girl’ part first (and was excited) and then I saw the ‘parody’ and was a little saddened. I was really looking forward to reading an attempted ‘urbanization’ of FSoG and I felt that a parody would be too self-aware to be funny; I find the best parodies to be the fully unintentional ones – the possibilities for humor are much higher.
And of course, for the culturally un-hip amongst you, ‘jungle fever’ refers to the time-honored act of ‘miscegenation’ – or, for those of you born after 1852,  ‘interracial relationships’.
I decided, however, to take a chance and read the book anyway. And now that I have…I’m not too sure how I feel about it…
Let me back up and start with the characters. Instead of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey, we have Keisha Beale and Tristan White. She’s a well-educated singer/songwriter from “the ‘hood” who’s trying to start a recording studio/music business with her best friend. He’s the multi-millionaire venture capitalist she goes to with a business proposal hoping he’ll become an investor. He ultimately agrees on the condition that she become his submissive.
On its face it’s an interesting enough premise and – standing on its own – it could have made a decent story. Actually, it could have been a really intriguing story: a smart, professional black woman, not only entering into a D/s relationship as a submissive to a wealthy white man, but doing so willingly and then learning how much she enjoys her submission. In the hands of a skilled writer, that would have been fascinating.
Unfortunately L.V. Lewis is not that writer (not yet anyway), and, as a parody this story mostly falls flat. The major situations that the author parodies are done poorly and the minor ones are seemingly chosen at random.
Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever has many of the same trappings of FSoG: the ‘dungeon’ sex room, the non-disclosure agreement, the bestowing of ostentatious gifts, etc. But everything is, of course, done with an “urban” twist.
For example, in FSoGAnastasia has her subconscious and her Inner Goddess, her angel-/devil-on-the-shoulder…except that her subconscious seems reallyjudgmental and her Inner Goddess is overly-dramatic, doing somersaults and dancing about. Keisha has her own versions of these:
There are two entities that war inside me, but I’m the only one who sees them manifested physically. […] On my right shoulder is my Ghetto Good Girl or Triple-G for short. She keeps me out of trouble and generally roots for me to do what’s right. The mischief maker, my Fairy Hoochie Mama aka the bad girl, resides on my left shoulder. She generally wants the exact opposite of what my Triple-G finds to be prudent. Yeah, I have an angel on one shoulder, and a devil on the other, as good and evil has been depicted over the centuries, but who doesn’t?
Now, while there are a fewamusing moments with these two (especially when her Fairy Hoochie Mama does a little song-and-dance to Salt-n-Pepa’s “Push It” as Keisha and Tristan dry-hump in his office) they show up way too often, and they’re normally not funny. And, while their frequent appearances are in keeping with the source material, other parallels are not. For example, the ‘gay’ issue. 
During Keisha’s initial meeting with Tristan she questions his sexuality, much like Ana did with Christian. Unlike Ana, who was mindlessly reading interview questions written by her roommate, Keisha has no reason to do so. Her sole intent is to unnerve him because she’s annoyed with him; not the smartest move to make when trying to woo an investor. And, in the greater context of the story, it makes little sense.
This, unfortunately, is a recurring theme throughout the book. The plot will start to get interesting, and then Keisha will do something that Anastasia did, only because Anastasia did it; there’s no logical reason behind it. And that is really a shame, because it really detracts from what could have been an interesting story.
Another example of the odd things the author chooses to parody is the way the main character expresses herself. In Twilight, Bella Swan was constantly referencing Wuthering Heights; in FSoG, Anastasia had Tess of theD’Urbervilles. Keisha’s corollary? Ebonics! Seriously.
While Bella and Anastasia are meant to be literary-minded and upper-ish middle-class, Keisha is more the “educated urbanite” who’s had to master the art of code-switching as she navigates between the “hood” and the business world. And she tells us this over and over. It becomes rather tedious, actually.
At one point, she runs into her ex-boyfriend on the dance floor of the hip-hop nightclub, Wicked. Unsure how their meeting will go, she greets him and then says of the greeting, “I speak ebonically to put him at ease…” And, even after she learns that Tristan happens to be the owner of Wicked, she still feels, “…compelled to use my sometimes dormant, proper English vocabulary I learned in high school and college [when speaking] with Tristan.”
In addition, the author uses the lazy habit of name-dropping to circumvent the need for actual description. How does Keisha describe her arms? “…my petite biceps, which I am proud to say are more toned than Michelle Obama’s”. And, as for Tristan’s facial expressions: “He raises one eyebrow, like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is famous for doing, but he doesn’t look comical”.
And later, the reader is offered this:
“Ms. Beale, fancy seeing you here,” [Tristan] says, his tongue caressing my surname in a succinct purr, like a lion. His smooth baritone does weird things to my nether regions. My Fairy Hoochie Mama jumps up off her chaise and does an African dance, shaking everything her mama gave her.
 “Yeah, fancy that”, I say flippantly, like Maggie Gyllenhaal said to Christian Bale, in The Dark Knight.
I honestly have no idea what that refers to, and I’ve seen TheDark Knight several times. I’m not even going to touch the “African dance”…
The story is peppered with current pop culture references – movies, tv shows, celebrity names, and famous products – in a way that, while it is clearly meant to “connect” with the reader, only serves to cheapen the reading experience. If I wanted commercials and celebrity sightings, I’d watch tv; I read to avoid such things.
We later learn that Keisha is apparently a *big* movie buff. The movie references she makes throughout the story, however, are often either poorly chosen, obscure, or both.
Of course, numerous references to popular music/musicians fit the framework of the story as Keisha is a singer/songwriter, Tristan owns a nightclub (among many, many other things) and their plan is to open a music store/ recording studio.
Despite these shortcomings, the characters are actually rather believable and likeable. There are some definite differences between Bellastasia and Keisha, not the least of which are age and sexual maturity. Keisha is clearly an adult who is making informed decisions – and she actually makes the decisions herself, she is not coerced. And we learn that she has a solid support base in the form of her best friend/roommate Jade who ends up in a similar situation with Tristan’s twin brother.
And Tristan, though he is controlling and demanding, does not exhibit the level of stalker/abuser creepiness that so completely defines Chedward.
As far as the sex scenes: they were pretty good. Not worth slogging through the rest of this mess to get there, especially when there’s so much more BDSM erotica and porn out there that’s better written and more engaging, but they were ok.
Overall, I’d say this was a decent effort. As a parody it fails, mostly because it makes the same blunders as the source materials, which could all really be boiled down to one thing: lazy writing. As a story on its own, however, with a good re-write and some heavy editing, it could definitely be worth purchasing. If you’re bored and you can find it for free on Amazon, it’s worth a look.

My pick for best book of 2012

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It’s been a year packed with blockbuster novels, from 50 Shades of Grey to The Casual Vacancy, and Gone Girl, but I think that so often the commercial success of a great (or gallingly mediocre) novel can sometimes bury the true artist, and their masterworks can be woefully ignored.

This year, no book was so tragically left by the wayside as Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine by Catherine Devore.

I know what you’re thinking. “This is a cheap money grab on the part of the author to cash in on the success of properties like Spielberg’s Lincoln and that really shitty movie that blamed vampires for slavery.”

How could you, Rufus Sewell? I thought we were imaginary lovers. How could you betray me like that?

Well, you’re wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. This book has a better plot than both of those movies combined, because fuck American history, that’s why.
The story opens with honest Abe waking up with morning wood, and right off the bat he addresses the reader as “dear reader.” You know how much I love that, dear reader. So, page three, I’m already sold.
We learn that Mary Todd Lincoln is grumpy in the mornings, so rather than trouble her with her marital obligation, the sixteenth president of this great country gets oral from Martha, the maid who brings him breakfast:

“Do you know why they call me Baberaham Lincoln?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Well, you’re about to find out.” With those words, I unbuttoned my pants and produced my throbbing, erect cock.

File under: Things that have never happened at Disney’s Hall of Presidents.

At this point, my husband came into my office and asked me, “Is his dick tall, too?” Well, dear reader, let me assure you, that point is laid to rest on page six:

I have always been a tall man, and I take no false pride in saying that my prick stands tall as well. It is fully nine inches long and as thick and hard as a birch rod.

Subtle period details are always a necessity when writing historical fiction.

Abe and Martha the serving girl proceed to engage in behavior that got a later president impeached, with Martha performing oral sex on Abe while he enjoys his breakfast. No, seriously, he just casually eats breakfast while she sucks him off and fingers herself. I guess when you’re the most powerful man in the country, shit like that happens all the time, and you just have to work it into your schedule. Because being the commander-in-chief is a busy job, evidenced by the fact that the servant just barely has time to lick her fingers clean before William Seward and Charles Sumner come in.

Shown here, ruining your erotica with their weird 1800’s noses.

Seward is Lincoln’s secretary of state, and he is thoroughly vexed over Japan’s “Order to Expel Barbarians.” Abe is 100% against interfering, since the United States is currently torn apart by civil war. Then Sumner fills him in on the rest of the plot: Emperor Komei has created a doomsday device that will blow up the moon, thus disrupting the tides and sea travel and preventing any foreign invaders from landing on his shores. Presumably because his shores would be entirely underwater? I don’t know if I buy the emperor of an island nation wanting to fuck with the sea, but I did buy this book knowing it was titled Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine, so in for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.
The Shogunate, who not only oppose the expulsion of non-Japanese, but who also are definitely against blowing up the moon, have sent a ninja warrior, Matsukata Takayoshi, to help Lincoln unlock a cosmic power he wasn’t even aware he had. This power unlocks, of course, with mystical handjobs.

Rather than responding to my plight or alleviating my pain, Takayoshi dropped to the floor and covered his head. If I had been in my right mind, I might have wondered at this strange behavior, but it was at that moment that my body was wracked with a final shock and my true power manifested. I bellowed mightily as I ejaculated with the force of a thunderclap. The spunk I released was no ordinary spunk. It burst forth from my prick like a jet of hot magma and seared a hole through the exterior wall. I stared out the window in amazement as my sperm burned across the sky like a falling star, before finally disappearing over the horizon. Many men claim they saw a comet that day; few, if any, would believe the truth of the matter. 

The only way to celebrate finding out that you have super cosmic cum is, of course, to engage in anal sex with a stranger. In front of the secretary of state and the leader of Massachusetts’s anti-slavery movement:

He was just removing his pants when Seward and Sumner strode back in. “Excuse the intrusion, Mr. President. We were just… wondering… how… the negotiations…”

When Seward surveyed the illicit tableau before him, he slowed down like a train pulling into the station. Sumner’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

Rather than risk embarrassment, I chose to brush off their incredulity and continue where I left off. I said: “Now that you two are here, you can learn why they call me Gaybraham Lincoln.

If there’s one major complaint I have with this book, it’s that two of its most prominent jokes are straight up ripped off. “Baberaham Lincoln,” is the title Garth gives to Cassandra in Wayne’s World, and “Gaybraham Lincoln” is a recurring sketch on TGS, the fictional comedy show on 30 Rock.

I assume everyone reading this has seen a porno before, and therefore understands the unspoken rule of sex scenes: if someone comes in during, they at least have to jack off while watching, or join in. In this scene, Sumner inhabits the role of the voyeur at first, then performs fellatio on Takayoshi, while Seward climbs on Abe’s desk to get a bj with some finger action while the president buggers the ninja envoy.

Here’s the point in the book when I realized something was wrong. The page counter on my Nook app said there were only thirty-four pages, and I was on page thirty. I thought maybe the download was incomplete or something, but no. The story ends super abruptly:

And so began the first of several weeks of intense training. For hours at a time, Takayoshi would teach me exercises to control the power of my cock. Eventually, I could flex my muscles and shoot a stream of hot spunk with the accuracy of a bullet through a bulls-eye.

One day he came to me after a particularly intense lesson with a gleam in his eye. “You are ready,” he said.

And then that’s it. After that, it’s just a plug for the sequel, Abraham Lincoln: Ninja Fuck Master.

Okay, listen. This book is thirty-four pages long, and I paid three dollars for it. That’s like… ninety cents a page. You’d think I would be furious that the story wasn’t wrapped up entirely. And I see this for what it is. This is crack dealer shenanigans right here. Giving me a little, but high is over all too soon, and I’m right back at B&N.com, scratching and panting and begging to waste three more dollars. That kind of thing should make a principled person like me absolutely furious.

But it doesn’t. Because as ridiculous as the overall plot is, as simplistic and sometimes blatantly unsexy as the writing is, this thing is fucking clever. The historical details, like Komei’s disagreement with the Shogunate and America’s wary surveillance of a foreign situation they couldn’t expend the resources to even attempt to control, are all surprisingly accurate and only serve to highlight the absurdity of a plot that involves one of our most revered Americans shooting lava jizz into the brisk April morning. And that’s worth more than money, friends. That’s worth the glittering golden tears of a weeping bald eagle.

Maybe it doesn’t surprise you to learn that I will be buying and reading the hell out of the forthcoming Abraham Lincoln: Ninja Fuck Master. I mean, I really, really hope it’s forthcoming. Otherwise, how will I know if he manages to stop the emperor from blowing up the moon? And yes, I’m aware that I’m falling for the afore labelled “crack dealer shenanigans,” but I’m actually a bit jealous that I didn’t think up this scheme myself. That alone is worth the admission price.

I think you’re doing yourself a great disservice by not picking up Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine. Do it for America. Abe certainly is.

Oh, and I just wanted to add, thank you to Katiebabs for bringing this book to my attention, though I’m sure she thoroughly regrets it now.

Roadhouse Episode 10, “Episode 420”

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Roadhouse, Episode 10, “Episode 420”

Since YouTube is a ball of flaming wreckage right now, we’ve moved the show to Dailymotion. I would complain about the upload speeds there, but considering it just took me two days to not upload a video at YouTube, I think Dailymotion wins this round.

This week’s episode is a serious look at marijuana prohibition in the United States, and we’re totally serious the whole time. I promise that won’t happen again. Also, you can see one of my dogs!

My 50 Shades Movie Picks, volume 1.

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By now everyone knows that a 50 Shades movie is something humanity is powerless to stop. Everyone is talking about who should be Christian, who should be Ana. If you are a young actor or actress in Hollywood, people have probably asked you if you would want a part in the movie. Hell, even if you’re way too old to play Christian Grey or Ana Steele (Michael Fassbender, as a for instance), people are still lobbying hard on your behalf for your casting.

But you know who hasn’t been asked for casting advice? A certain author/blogger who is, by all accounts, an expert in 50 Shadesology and who could easily teach an entire college course on the subject. Just as no one in Hollywood ever asked me before canceling The Adventures of Brisco County Jr., no has yet asked me to cast this damn movie. Well, I’m not going to wait to be asked, damnit. Here are my picks for the cast of 50 Shades of Grey the movie. Today, I’m going to concentrate on the characters who are, arguably, the most important:


Christian Grey
Obviously, when casting Christian Grey, you have to find someone who can convincingly convey the complex mental and emotional problems of a sadistic billionaire, while also being creepy as hell toward women at every available opportunity. He also has to be so devastatingly attractive that women have juicy, gushing orgasms every time they look upon his magnificent form. Which rules out about 97% of the Earth’s population, and leaves us with these guys:
Henry Cavill.
If playing Superman doesn’t utterly destroy his life (as playing Superman in any form of media often does), Henry Cavill would be my top pick for Christian Grey. Why? Because I realistically accept the fact that I will have to go see this fucking movie, and I would like to at least have something handsome to look at while I’m bored by the non-existent plot and what will undoubtedly be many cut-away scenes with grainy, artistic shots of languidly moving body parts. Also, Henry already perfected the “totally shitty guy who for some reason still seems attractive to me” role when he was on The Tudors. It seems like he would have this one in the bag.
Honorable mention:
Simon Woods.

After watching him as the sexually sadistic Octavian Caesar on HBO’s Rome, I could totally buy him smacking a woman around in bed. But his performance in Pride and Prejudice was utterly charming, so maybe he could bring humanity to Christian Grey, something the character lacks in the books.
The dark horse:

Norman Reedus.
Hear me out on this one. Yeah, he’s in his forties, but he can easily play much younger. Sure, he’s not known for his romantic leads, but anyone who watched even one episode of The Walking Dead last season knows that this suave motherfucker can bring depth and heart to literally any role, including racist backwoods hick Daryl Dixon. If he can make me like a man who speaks gruffly about his brother’s STDs in a survival situation, he can make me like Christian Grey. Also, did you see the way he carried Carol out of danger? So hot.
Anastasia Rose Steele

Heavy is the head that will bear her stupid, stupid name. Also, rail thin must be the body exposed by the actress, because if there is one takeaway from these books, it’s that skinny is a big, big deal. Will movie audiences accept a childlike waif with wide-eyed innocence in the same way readers have? I doubt it. The biggest mistake this movie could possibly make would be casting a heroine who’s more spunky cuteness than sexual awareness, no matter how naive she’s supposed to be. That’s why my pick is:
Amber Heard.
Amber is the only actress I can think of who could play both clumsy, shy Ana, and sexually adventurous, newly awakened Ana. “If I were casting only the white swan,” I say in a faux-French-Canadian accent, “Selena Gomez would be perfect.” But audiences need someone who’s like Kristen Stewart, to remind them of Bella, but who, unlike Kristen Stewart, has the ability to mimic human facial expressions. Amber Heard was awesome in the criminally unwatched The Playboy Club and she was the only reason to watch the messy adaptation of The Rum Diaries. She could play Ana with a straight face without making us all roll our eyes.
Honorable Mention:

Alexis Vega.
With roles in Repo! The Genetic Opera and the upcoming Machete Kills, she’s shed her child actress image. She’s youthful, which is a huge part of Ana’s characterization, and again, she has more facial expressions than KStew, so that puts her high in the running right there.

The Dark Horse:

Jennifer Lawrence.

She’s a mature, self-assured woman who brought Katniss off the page with quiet strength and vulnerability. Doing the same with Anastasia Rose Steele would probably be a cakewalk for her. But I don’t see her simultaneously cast in a series aimed at teen audiences and a series known for allegedly graphic sex. She doesn’t have a chance, and that’s too bad, because she could rock it. Imagine her falling into Christian’s office. Is it not the most adorable imaging you’ve ever imagined?

I’ll be back next week with my pics for Kate and Mrs. Robinson, although you all probably know exactly who I want to play Mrs. Robinson.

A thought about 50 Shades of Grey

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A moment ago, I had a horrible epiphany.

The titular character of the 50 Shades of Grey series is a billionaire obsessed with ending world hunger.
In the time it’s going to take you to read this sentence, someone will probably have died from starvation.
50 Shades has sold 40,000,000 copies, by the most recent estimation I’ve been able to find. The paperbacks are like $15 bucks a piece, so doesn’t that make it something like $600,000,000.00 that we’ve spent on these books?
This is not a condemnation by the way, I’m not some raving socialist or someone who’se like, “I do nothing, yet I think you should do x,” Do whatever you want with your money and for fuck’s sake don’t quit buying books. I’m just saying…
Our fellow human beings are starving to death, we’re completely aware of this fact, and we’ve chosen, collectively (hell, I even bought them), to spend $600,000,000.00 on books about a  guy who is fictionally curing hunger.
If someone wrote a book about that? No one would ever buy it, it would be too unbelievable. How bleak and funny and tragically human is that?

50 Shades Darker recap Chapter 22, or, “Every episode of Dynasty, ever.”

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Well, here we are, friends, at the end of another 50 Shades book. I would feel relieved, if I wasn’t aware that there was another book right around the corner, waiting for me with fresh horrors. God help me if she finishes Midnight Sun or whatever before I finish recapping the third book.

Someone sent me this link via twitter, and I’m a fool and didn’t write down who sent it. But hopefully you’re seeing this, because thank you, this is just about the most awesome thing to have come out of all this mess: Canadian 50 Shades of Abuse flyer.

Let’s get right into this recap. As you may recall, the last chapter ended with Kate finding out about the sex contract, and confronting Christian. With a juicy set up like that, there’s bound to be a huge pay-off, right? Let’s watch.

All the color drains from my face as my blood turns to ice and fear lances through my body. Instinctively I step between her and Christian.

All through the book, color has drained from Ana’s face, her blood has turned to ice, fear has lanced through her, but I think this is the first time we’ve seen it happen all at once. So, you know she’s super afraid for Christian’s… safety? From Kate? What reason would she have to believe she needs to bodily protect Christian from her friend?

“Kate! This has nothing to do with you.” I glare venomously at her, anger replacing my fear. How dare she do this? Not now, not today. Not on Christian’s birthday.

Thanksgiving, fine. Christmas day, go to town, Kate, I’m not stopping you. But you ruin what is, by my count, the fourth celebration of his birthday in two days, and that’s it. Ana is not having it.

Kate admits to having found the email in the pocket of a jacket in Ana’s room. Look, remember what I said earlier, about how I hate when people start to infer things about an author based on something she’s written? I take it back, because now I’m operating under a personal certainty of about 94.8% that E.L. James is one of those people who thinks it’s acceptable and productive to print out emails.

She’s a beacon of hostility in a slinky, bright red dress. She looks magnificent. But why the hell is she going through my clothes? Usually it’s the other way around.

Ana borrowed Kate’s clothes, sometimes without asking, all through the first book and the beginning of this one, but how dare that bitch borrow the jacket Ana left in her room she hasn’t been back to for like, weeks.

Christian sets fire to the email and drops it in the fireplace, while Kate assures the two of them that she hasn’t told anyone the scandalous contents. She just wants to know that Ana is okay, and that Christian hasn’t done anything weird to her.

So, obviously this is going to be the underlying plot of the entire next novel, and it’s being set up in this last chapter. I must say, I’m looking forward to the struggle between Kate and Ana, and how Kate’s disapproval of Christian affects their friendship:

“Ana has consented to be my wife, Katherine,” he says quietly.

“Wife!” Kate squeaks, her eyes widening in disbelief.

“We’re getting married. We’re going to announce our engagement this evening,” he says.

“Oh!” Kate gapes at me. She’s stunned. “I leave you alone for sixteen days, and this happens? It’s very sudden. So yesterday, when I said – ” She gazes at me, lost. “Where does that email fit into all this?”

“It doesn’t, Kate. Forget it – please. I love him and he loves me. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin his party and our night,” I whisper. She blinks and unexpectedly her eyes are shining with tears.

“No, of course I won’t. You’re okay?” She wants reassurance.

“I’ve never been happier,” I whisper. She reaches forward and grabs my hand regardless of Christian’s arm wrapped around me.

“You really are okay?” she asks hopefully.

“Yes.” I grin at her, my joy returning. She’s back onside.

Oh. So… you mean that entire dramatic set up led to nothing, and now it’s over? You know, if I had expected more from this book, I would be really disappointed right now.

Kate asks Ana to explain what happened, and Ana says she will, just not, you know, right now in his parent’s house with a party going on and stuff.

“Good. I won’t tell anyone. I love you so much, Ana, like my own sister. I just thought… I didn’t know what to think. I’m sorry. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” She looks directly at Christian and repeats her apology. He nods at her, his eyes glacial, and his expression does not change. Oh shit, he’s still mad.

One thing this book does really well is encapsulate all of its terribleness into convenient chunks, like that one right there. In one paragraph, we have nonsensical writing (she repeats her apology? So she tells Christian she loves him like a sister?), abusive dickhole behavior (he’s mad because his girlfriend’s friends care about her too much?), and battered woman syndrome (she takes responsibility for him being mad about Kate’s actions?). That just about puts the button on our read, doesn’t it? And here we were thinking E.L. wouldn’t tie anything up.

Grace comes in to remind the three of them that, hey, there’s a party going on in the other room and maybe since Christian is the guest of honor he might want to make an appearance. But she does it with less sarcasm than I just did, because she’s classy. Christian tells Ana that he already told his mother about their engagement:

“Oh.” And to think our evening could have been derailed by the tenacious Miss Kavanagh. I shudder at the thought – the rammifications of Christian’s lifestyle revealed to all.

I love how Ana is so sure everyone would be scandalized to find out that a rich young dude was into kinky sex with women he didn’t have romantic feelings for. Like that has never, ever happened before. But then again, I’m forgetting that in the framework of this universe, the BDSM Christian is into is super hardcore, what with the butt plugs and nipple clamps. I truly hope Ana never becomes technologically savvy enough to find out what real hardcore BDSM fetishists are getting up to.

They go out to the party, which is actually kind of a sad gathering, when you take into account that these people are the only friends Christian has in the entire world, and if they’re not directly related to him, they work for him:

I scan the room quickly; all the Greys, Ethan with Mia, Dr. Flynn and his wife, I assume. There’s Mac from the boat, a tall, handsome African American – I remember seeing him in Christian’s office the first time I met Christian – Mia’s bitchy friend Lily, two women I don’t recognize at all, and… oh no. My heart sinks. That woman… Mrs. Robinson.

Leaving aside the fact that this is the least surprising surprise in the history of fiction, this party reminds me a lot of the Republican National Convention. Gay people and black people don’t get representation. BAM.

See, I say that because the two women who aren’t named are Ros and her partner, and… oh, fuck it, never mind.

Ana is momentarily distracted from her hatred of Mrs. Robinson by the appearance of Gretchen, the other obligatory evil!blonde in the story:

Gretchen materializes with a tray of champagne. She’s wearing a low-cut black dress, hair in an updo instead of pigtails, flushing and fluttering her eyelashes at Christian.

No one gets to flush in this book except Ana, damnit! Learn your place.

This party reads kind of like a curtain call, what with even minor characters no one cared about, like Mac and the nameless black guy from Christian’s office, standing in the background. They actually applauded when Christian and Ana entered the room… which kind of reminds me of…

 I really hope this means Ana and Christian are fucking dead.

Elena makes an out and out territory grab, going up to Christian and hugging and kissing his cheeks while Ana is still standing there holding his hand. She wants to know why he didn’t call her, and asks if he’s gotten her messages. Which is, you know. Awwwwkwaaard.

Christian shifts uncomfortably and pulls me closer, putting his arm around me. His face remains impassive as he regards Elena. She can no longer ignore me, so she nods politely in my direction.

“Ana,” she purrs. “You look lovely, dear.”

“Elena,” I purr back. “Thank you.”

Now and forever.

Actually, I was torn between that, and a Thundercats joke, but dancers pretending to lick their groins enthusiastically set to music will always take the gold in the laff-a-lympics of my heart.
Christian blows Elena off to make his big announcement. He starts off by reminding everyone in the room that he almost died, and introduces Ros, who is there with her partner. See, that RNC joke makes more sense now, doesn’t it?

“So I’m especially glad to be here today to share with all of you my very good news. This beautiful woman” – he glances down at me – “Miss Anastasia Rose Steele, has consented to be my wife, and I’d like you all to be the first to know.”

That’s twice now that he’s said she “consented.” That would mean something, if he ever actually appeared to care about her consent in anything.

There are general gasps of astonishment, the odd cheer, and then a round of applause! Jeez – this is really happening. I think I am the color of Kate’s dress.

Damn, she even has to borrow Kate’s dress color.

Now, in case you were worried that we weren’t going to get to see the jealous reactions of all the women in the room, worry no longer. It’s almost the first thing Ana notices:

Lily, who is standing beside Mia, looks crestfallen; Gretchen looks like she’s eaten something nasty and bitter. As I glance anxiously around at the assembled crowd, I catch sight of Elena. Her mouth is open. She’s stunned – horrified even, and I can’t help a small but intense feeling of satisfaction to see her dumbstruck.

Uh-oh, ladies. You know what this means? If Ana is going to marry Christian Grey, then she wins. She wins at being a woman, because she got the very best man. We might as well all sew our vaginas up, because the game is over.

You just lost the game.

Mia asks to see the ring, and of course, it’s a big drama:

“Um…” A ring! Jeez. I hadn’t even thought about a ring. I glance up at Christian.

“We’re going to choose one together,” Christian glowers at her.

They’re going to choose one together, in exactly the same way Ana has chosen her wardrobe, her computer, her car, any meal at any restaurant in the entire time she’s known him, whether or not she’ll associate with certain friends…

Then Mia asks when the wedding will be and if they’ve set the date:

He shakes his head, his exasperation palpable. “No idea, and no we haven’t. Ana and I need to discuss all that,” he says irritably.

You probably should have discussed all that before announcing your engagement, since this is basic shit most people ask about when you say, “Hey, I’m getting married.”

“I hope you have a big wedding – here,” she beams enthusiastically, ignoring his caustic tone.

Maybe we can invite the local werewolves in a gesture of unity and harmony, too.

The response from the room is overwhelming, and it’s a few minutes before I find myself back beside Christian with Dr. Flynn. Elena seems to have disappeared, and Gretchen is sullenly refilling champagne glasses.

Beside Dr. Flynn is a striking young woman with long, dark, almost black hair, impressive cleavage, and lovely hazel eyes.

“Christian,” says Flynn, holding out his hand. Christian shakes it gladly.

“John. Rhian.” He kisses the dark-haired woman on her cheek.

Does she instantly climax?

“Glad you’re still with us, Christian. My life would be most dull – and penurious – without you.”

You have to be kidding me. “Penurious” in dialogue? In a contemporary erotic romance? And I’m supposed to take this shit seriously? Pfff.

“That was one googly you bowled there, Christian,” Dr. Flynn shakes his head in amused disbelief. Christian frowns at him.

“John – you and your cricket metaphors.” Rhian rolls her eyes.

Well, I think that solves the mystery of whether or not E.L. James writes stilted dialogue because she doesn’t understand the way Americans talk. She just doesn’t understand the way humans talk. We finally have our answer!

YES!
Rhian starts talking to Ana, but Ana openly and admittedly does not listen to her, nodding politely while trying to overhear Christian’s conversation with Dr. Flynn re: Leila. But she doesn’t get much out of it, and eventually they move on to talk with Ros and her partner, Gwen, who is also blonde and who we will probably never see again, so why not confuse us all by giving her a similar name to the blonde housekeeper, Gretchen?
Grace announces that dinner is served, buffet style in the kitchen. Which is convenient, because Mia needs to pull Ana into the dining room for the second of what is sure to be many confrontations tonight.

“Ana, I need some advice. And I can’t ask Lily – she’s so judgmental about everything.” Mia rolls her eyes then grins at me. “She is so jealous of you. I think she was hoping one day that she and Christian might get together.” Mia bursts out laughing at the absurdity, and I quail inside.

No female in this story can respect or even like their female friends. Either that, or Mia is going to get tired of Lily and go for Ana, who is far more superior and desirable when compared to every other woman on the planet.

This is something I will have to contend with for a long time – other women wanting my man.

But that number will drop drastically once they read these books.

Mia wants Ana’s advice on how to deal with Ethan. He doesn’t want to date her, since her brother is dating his sister. Which I get, because that happened in my family and then some other stuff happened and when the dust cleared, someone’s brother was his father-in-law and someone else was his own uncle. Shit can get weird when siblings date another set of siblings, is all I’m saying.

Anyway, Ana has some sage advice:

What can I say? “Can you agree to be friends and give it some time? I mean you’ve only just met him.”

“I mean you’ve only just met him.”

“I mean you’ve only just met him.”

“I mean you’ve only just met him.”

“I mean you’ve only just met him.”

Luckily, Mia ain’t having that shit:

She cocks her eyebrow.

“Look, I know I’ve only really just met Christian but…” I frown, not sure what I want to say.

The good news is, she doesn’t go on to lecture Mia about her love for Christian being pure and true and the most important thing in the world, whereas Mia’s attraction to Ethan means nothing to her because it has nothing to do with Christian. She advises they try friendship, and suggests Mia talk to Kate.

Mia leaves the dining room, and must bump asses with Elena on the way out, because suddenly she’s got Ana cornered.

I summon all my self-possession, slightly fuzzy from two glasses of champagne and the lethal cocktail I hold in my hand. I think the blood has drained from my face, but I marshal both my subconscious and my inner goddess in order to appear as calm and as unflappable as I can.

By their powers combined, they become… I don’t know, some kind of Voltron of emotional instability and pathological insecurity?

 The left leg alone is made up of her unexpressed anger toward her mother.

Why are two cocktails and a glass of champagne suddenly a problem for our resident heavyweight, by the way? She’s drinking constantly throughout the entire book. I’m actually looking forward to her pregnancy because then she won’t be drinking and I won’t have to hear about it. I feel like I’m getting drunk reading these damn books. Usually because I am getting drunk reading these damn books.
Elena tells Ana that she won’t congratulate her, and Ana tells Elena that she doesn’t want her congratulations and doesn’t know why she’s even at the party in the first place:

She arches an eyebrow. I think she’s impressed.

“I wouldn’t have thought of you as a worthy adversary, Anastasia. But you surprise me at every turn.”

Even the fucking villains are always complimenting Ana. Have you noticed that? It’s like she’s so amazing, even the people who hate her are forced to admit that she’s perfect. And what do we call that, boys and girls? Say it with me now:

“He has needs – needs you cannot possibly begin to satisfy,” she gloats.

“What do you know of his needs?” I snarl. My sense of indignation flares brightly, burning inside me as adrenaline surges through my body. How dare this fucking bitch preach to me? “You’re nothing but a sick child molester, and if it were up to me, I’d toss you into the seventh circle of hell and walk way smiling. Now get out of my way – or do I have to make you?”

I’m pretty sure at this point, they’re both wearing bejeweled scrunchies and fucking enormous shoulder pads.

“You’re making a big mistake here, lady.” She shakes a long, skinny, finely manicured finger at me. “How dare you judge our lifestyle? You know nothing, and you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. And if you think he’s going to be happy with a mousy little gold digger like you…”

That’s it! I throw the rest of my lemon martini in her face, drenching her.

 BOOM BITCHES!
I really am enjoying the dialogue in this portion of the book. It’s like what a melodramatic thirteen-year-old thinks adults argue like.
Christian comes in and intervenes before it can become a full-on, 1980’s prime-time soap opera throw down, which is disappointing. 

“She’s not right for you, Christian,” she whispers.

“What?” He shouts, startling both of us. I can’t see his face but his whole body has tensed, and he radiates animosity.

“How the fuck do you know what’s right for me?”

“You have needs, Christian,” she says her voice softer.

That missing comma? Not a typo. And how does her voice get softer than a whisper? I’m assuming the copy editor was found hanging from a light fixture in his or her office before they got to this page.

“I’ve told you before – this is none of your fucking business,” he roars. Oh crap – Very Angry Christian has reared his not-so-ugly head. People are going to hear.

Oooh, he’s gonna make a sceeeeeene!

Christian and Elena continue to fight in overwrought dialogue that no one on the planet would actually speak out loud. Check out this gem:

“I was the best thing that ever happened to you,” she hisses arrogantly at him. “Look at you now. One of the richest, most successful entrepreneurs in the United States – controlled, driven – you need nothing. You are master of your universe.”

And:

“You taught me how to fuck, Elena. But it’s empty, like you. No wonder Linc left.”

And then, from out of left field, what is possibly the most intriguing, most promising line, plot-wise, in the entire book:

“You never once held me,” Christian whispers. “you never once said you loved me.”

Now, this is some deep shit that we need to explore, right? Like maybe from the beginning of this book? I would read an entire book of Christian Grey working out that Elena took advantage of him, and him becoming a whole man through that healing process. But no, instead I got to read a whole book of Christian Grey’s emotionally immature girlfriend running all over town going, “tee hee, everyone wants my boyfriend, tee hee, I’m so skinny!”

“Get out of my house.” Grace’s implacable, furious voice startles us. Three heads swing rapidly to where Grace stands on the threshold of the room. She is glaring at Elena, who pales beneath her Saint-Tropez tan.

That tan detail makes me think this scene recycled a confrontation with Kate, since she just got back from vacation, but that it was rewritten as an Elena scene when the author realized she could get a lot of mileage out of Ana hating her maid of honor.

Elena’s eyes widen in alarm, and Grace slaps her hard across the face, the sound of the impact resounding off the walls of the dining room.

 Gosh, I’m glad I had two of these Dynasty .gifs.

This is apparently the first Grace is hearing about her son’s affair with her friend, and she’s not taking it well. I mean, would you? Really?

“Take your filthy paws off my son, you whore, and get out of my house – now!” she hisses through gritted teeth.

Elena leaves, and Grace asks Ana for a moment alone with her son. Which Ana obviously respects and gives them space for:

In the hallway I am momentarily lost. My heart pounds and my blood races through my veins… I feel panicked and out of my depth. Holy fuck, that was heavy and now Grace knows. I can’t think what she’s going to say to Christian, and I know it’s wrong, but I lean against the door trying to list.

It’s okay, guys. She knows it’s wrong, and besides, she got all sorts of confused in the hallway, so she has an excuse. Hallways are hard.

Ana listens, but only hears Grace asking how old Christian was when the affair started before Ros catches her eavesdropping on her way to have a cigarette. The club can’t even handle this right now, so Ana goes upstairs to Christian’s bedroom so she can correctly prioritize the trauma:

That has to be, without doubt, one of the most excruciating confrontations I’ve ever had to endure, and now I feel numb. My fiance and his ex-lover – no would-be bride should have to see that. Having said that, part of me is glad she’s revealed her true self, and that I was there to bear witness.

My thoughts turn to Grace. Poor Grace, to hear all that.

So, the order of importance here is:

  1. Victimize self for role as mere bystander in future husband’s past psychological trauma.
  2. Congratulate self for victory over evil other woman.
  3. Oh yeah, and his mom is probably tore up about it or something.

What am I doing? Perhaps the evil witch had a point.

No, I refuse to believe that. She’s so cold and cruel. I shake my head. She’s wrong. I am right for Christian. I am what he needs. And in a moment of stunning clarity, I don’t question how he’s lived his life until recently, but why. His reasons for doing what he’s done to countless girls – I don’t even want to know how many.  The how isn’t wrong. They were all adults. They were all – how did Flynn put it? – in safe, sane, consensual relationships. It’s the why. The why  was wrong. The why was from his place of darkness.

See, it doesn’t matter how he treated those other girls, who were all supposedly in safe, sane, consensual relationships despite the fact that we’ve seen total evidence to the contrary and one of the subs actually became unhinged to the point that she tried to kill him. But all of that doesn’t matter, because Mrs. Robinson was “cold and cruel” and that automatically invalidates anything she might have to say.

Now, I’m not saying Christian should spend his life doing what Elena wants him to, and clearly Elena has unresolved issues of her own, but cheesy dialogue aside, I’m having a hard time painting her as this huge villain when she’s basically arguing the same point that I am. Christian isn’t miraculously healed. He’s only been with Ana a month, tops. No one goes from “I have to whip women who look like my mom who died in front of me when I was four,” to, “I’m totally normal and well adjusted now, thanks,” in a few weeks. Granted, Elena is arguing that Christian will NEVER be cured and rise above that need, so he shouldn’t even try, and I’m clearly not agreeing with her there.

But now he’s moved on, left it behind, and we are both in the light. I’m dazzled by him, and he by me.

 Dazzle!
Ana goes on to realize that she has to confront the ghosts of his past if she wants a happy future with him. Or something. That’s not in the book, all it really says is that Ana wants to “lay this ghost to rest” and then she gets up and goes to his bulletin board.

The photos of young Christian are all still there – more poignant than ever, as I think of the spectacle I’ve just witnessed between him and Mrs. Robinson. And there in the corner is the small black-and-white photo – his mother, the crack whore.

I can’t even. Again with this. Ugh.

 Ana looks at the picture and realizes that she doesn’t look very much like his mom at all, and his mom’s hair was lighter than Ana’s. Okay, then! Problem obviously solved!

 My subconscious tuts at me, arms crossed, glaring over her half-moon glasses. Why are you torturing yourself? You’ve said yes. You’ve made your bed. I purse my lips at her. Yes I have, gladly so. I want to lie in that bed with Christian for the rest of my life. My inner goddess, sitting in the lotus position, smiles serenely. Yes, I’ve made the right decision.

Don’t listen to that daffy bitch! Listen to your subconscious! We’re always saying – perhaps unfairly – that men make all their decisions with their “little brain?” This is the female equivalent of that.

Christian comes into the room and hugs her, and she smells his body wash and thinks about how good he smells, and I’m thinking that if he ever changes brands, Ana is going to have some olfactory meltdown or something.

“I’m sorry you had to endure all that.”

“It’s not your fault, Christian. Why was she here?” He gazes down at me, and his mouth curls apologetically.

“She’s a family friend.”

I try not to react. “Not anymore. How’s your mom?”

“Mom is pretty fucking mad at me right now. I’m really glad you’re here, and that we’re in the middle of a party. Otherwise I might be breathing my last.”

“That bad, huh?”

He nods, his eyes serious, and I sense his bewilderment at her reaction.

“Can you blame her?” My voice is quiet, cajoling.

Yeah, I can blame her, Ana. Can you sense MY bewilderment? Let me tell you something, if one of my friends, one who was close enough to be deemed family, slept with my teenaged son, I would not be mad at him. He’s not the one who breached the trust. He’s a kid, with no possible idea of what kind of trouble this is all going to cause. The adult friend? Should fucking well know better. There would be blood and hair all over the place, I don’t care if there’s a party going on. It would end like… well…

These are so handy!

Christian tells Ana that having the thing with Elena out in the open makes him feel liberated.

“Really?” I beam back. Wow, I’d crawl over broken glass for that smile.

Healthy!

He also tells Ana that his business relationship with Elena is over. He’s going to cut the salons loose and gift them to her. Then Ana and Christian talk about getting drunk, and he tells her she has to eat:

“No arguing, Anastasia. If you’re going to drink – and toss alcohol on my exes – you need to eat. It’s rule number one. I believe we’ve already had that discussion after our first night together.”

Oh yes. The Heathman.

Back in the hallway, he pauses to caress my face, his fingers skimming my jaw.

“I lay awake for hours and watched you sleep,” he murmurs. “I might have loved you even then.”

Remember that time when Ana got blackout drunk and he took her back to his hotel room without her permission, but it was okay with her because he was a gentleman enough to not rape her? That’s the time he’s talking about. At that point, she’d interviewed him, gone to a photo shoot with him, and then gotten coffee. They weren’t even dating. They barely knew each other. And he not only abducted her, but he lay awake that night just staring at her while she was passed out drunk. That’s so fucking romantic, it’s practically the spaghetti date scene from Lady and The Tramp.

Here’s the thing. A lot of people have been saying, “It’s just fiction, you’re assuming this book was intended as a how-to book or that people are going to decide that every woman wants this kind of relationship because of this book, and that’s not true.” Well, look what I found in my fucking December 2012 copy of Maxim:


Yes, I have a subscription to Maxim. I don’t want it. I didn’t ask for it, and I’ve never paid for it. It just randomly shows up in my mailbox and has for the past three years. But that’s not the point. The point is, while all the defenders of this book are saying over and over again, “This is not a how-to book, and it was never intended to be, you’re acting like the author/publisher is blatantly telling people to live their lives according to this book,” blah blah, right there is an advertisement blatantly suggesting that men should buy the book and “share the experience,” because it’s “what every woman wants.” Considering that this ad is running in a men’s magazine that routinely tells guys how to get women into bed without resorting to date rape (but they never entirely rule it out), well… what the fuck do you think that ad is trying to say? A reader sent me a picture they took of a similar ad on a subway train. And it’s not like these ads weren’t taken out by the publisher, or their hands are somehow clean in this. There is no shadow council of advertisers running ads that companies don’t approve of in order to discredit their products. This is an ad paid for by the publisher – although I’m not sure why they think the best selling book of all time (I’m sorry, I just gagged on some bile, give me a second) needs advertising. But it’s clear that they’re marketing this as a sex/relationship game changer. So this book is absolutely being touted as containing relationship secrets that will please women.

I just want to suggest that perhaps the way to a modern woman’s heart is not to abduct her while she’s drunk and later confess to watching her sleep. That is some creepy, creepy shit.

Cut to the end of the night, and Grace is super drunk, singing karaoke with Kate and Mia. Look, I’m not going to judge her grieving process. If I found out one of my friends slept with my son, I’d probably grab the Gin and do a mean rendition of Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Know” just to amp me up before I head over to set her house on fire.

“It’s been quite a day.”

“Christian, recently, every day with you has been quite a day.” My voice is sardonic.

 He shakes his head. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Come – I want to show you something.”

Every time he says, “Come,” when he should be saying “Come on,” I just imagine her having this loud, uncontrollable orgasm in front of everyone. And that is more arousing to me than anything E.L. has written in these fucking books so far.

As we make our way up the steps to the lawn, I take off my shoes. The half moon shines brightly over the bay. It’s brilliant, casting everything in myriad shades of gray as the lights of Seattle twinkle in the distance.

 She referenced the title of her own book for a change! OMG NEW FAVORITE AUTHOR!

“Christian, I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“I prayed you’d come back alive and you did. It’s the least I could do.”

No, technically the least you could do was pray. I’ve never liked Ana, so I’m not entirely surprised to see that she’s one of those Christians, who goes to church like she’s applying for a cosmic mortgage. Either believe or don’t, but for fuck’s sake, commit. There is no Christian religion I can think of that asks you to come to church only if God is doing stuff for you.

Christian tells Ana he bought that house they looked at, and he’s not going to knock it down. Then he takes her to the boathouse.

My mouth drops to the floor. The attic is unrecognizable. The room is filled with flowers… there are flowers everywhere. Someone has created a magical bower of beautiful wild meadow flowers mixed with glowing Christmas lights and miniature lanterns that glow soft and pale all around the room.

Clearing my throat nonchalantly.

 Tugging my hand, he pulls me into the room, and before I know it, he’s sinking to one knee in front of me. Holy hell… I did not expect this. I stop breathing.

Do me a favor and don’t start again.

 From inside his jacket pocket he produces a ring and gazes up at me, his eyes bright gray and raw, full of emotion.

Told you she wouldn’t get to pick her own ring.

“Anastasia Steele. I love you. I want to love, cherish, and protect you for the rest of my life. Be mine. Always. Share my life with me. Marry me.”

Didn’t he already ask her to marry him? Is there a gas leak in my office?

I blink down at him as my tears fall. My Fifty, my man. I love him so, and all I can say as the tidal wave of emotion hits me is, “Yes.”

He grins, relieved, and slowly slides the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful, an oval diamond in a platinum ring. Whoa – it’s big…  Big, yet simple and stunning in its simplicity.

So much is wrong here. Just… a lot. A lot of this doesn’t make sense. Why is he relieved? She already said yes. Also, is her finger an oval diamond? And I thought Christian was all about caring about people in developing nations… so why is he buying diamonds? Doesn’t that support the colonial oppression of the underpaid gem miners working in dangerous conditions? Aren’t diamonds like, one step above heroin on the scale of shit you shouldn’t buy because you’re pouring money into an industry that literally destroys lives and rapes the Earth? Maybe he should give her a big spool of copper wire for Christmas, damn.

I know deep down I will always be his, and he will always be mine. We’ve come so far together, we have so far to go, but we are made for each other. We are meant to be.

You’d think the book ends there, or even the series, but oh no. No, no, no. We have, for no reason I can fathom besides, “I want to milk another book out of this because I’m too personally invested in the characters and I can’t let them go,” a third-person present-tense pov scene tacked on, in which a shadowy figure drinks cheap booze and smokes cigarettes as he conveniently thinks in blatant exposition about how he sabotaged Christian Grey’s helicopter. I think it’s supposed to be a mystery or something, but surprise, it’s Jack Hyde:

It had been the same all his life. People constantly underestimating him – just a man who reads books. Fuck that! A man with a photographic memory who reads books. Oh, the things he’s learned, the things he knows. He snorts again. Yeah, about you, Grey. The things I know about you.

What books has he read? Because I know he’s supposed to be a villain, but if he’s read these books and is burdened with a photographic memory, I feel really bad for him.

Not bad for a kid from the gutter end of Detroit.

I hate that Detroit has become lazy author shorthand for “this person had a rough upbringing.” Not every part of Detroit is 8 Mile in an Eminem song, you fuckers.

We also find out that Jack Hyde went to Princeton on scholarship, he blames Ana for him sexually assaulting his way through the publishing industry, and he’s out for revenge. As in, literally out, because he’s sitting in front of the Chevalier-Grey manse as we speak. Also, we get our last Taylor of the book:

He chuckles mirthlessly, then winces. Fuck, his ribs. Still sore from the swift kicking Grey’s henchman delivered.

He replays the scene in his mind. “You fucking touch Miss Steele again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU TAYLOR IS IN LOVE WITH ANA!

And with that, we’ve reached the end.

I’m going to take a minute off from recaps, because there are other things I’d like to talk about, 50 Shades and otherwise, so let’s say if the world doesn’t really end, you’ll get a new recap December 22nd when I start recapping 50 Shades Freed. That way, I don’t spend what could be the last days of humanity with E.L. James and her misogynistic fantasies.