Trout Nation Posts

Here’s my crazy Doctor Who fan theory: Oswin is actually Amy. Here’s why:

• At the beginning of “Asylum of The Daleks” he tells Amy “Make them remember you.”
• At the end of “Asylum of The Daleks” Oswin says “Remember me.”
• Amy had a Time Lady baby, River Song.
• How did that happen if she wasn’t a Time Lady?
• In “Dinosaurs on A Spaceship” Amy is really, really good with technology.
• Remember who else was really good with technology?
• That’s right, Donna Fucking Noble after the metacrisis.
• Oh, yeah, and Oswin.

EDIT ALERT!

After I first posted this recap, I found this infographic via Twitter, and it’s worth taking a look at. My favorite part is where they point out that Ana drinks 365% more alcohol per day than the recommended intake.

EDIT ALERT OVER! RETURN TO YOUR LIVES!

Good morning (or whenever the hell it is that I post this recap. I always shoot for morning and fall desperately short of the mark because the internet is full of distractions and pictures of cute animals)! I want to just say thank you for being so awesomely patient while I slowly punch through these recaps. I promise that once this book I’m working on is finished, I’ll get more recaps per week on the page.

“As much as I’d like to lie here with you all afternoon, he’ll need a hand with the dinghy.”

I know it’s a legit nautical term, but every time I hear the word “dinghy,” all I can think of is Tommy Boy.

I watch him move about the cabin as he dresses. This man who has just made such sweet love to me again. I can hardly believe my good fortune. I can’t quite believe that he’s mine.

Every. Fucking. Time. Seriously, how often do we have to hear about how Ana can’t believe she’s with Chedward?

“You are the master of my heart, Mr. Grey.” And my body… and my soul.

So, that’s healthy.

If you’ve noticed that they haven’t had an alcoholic drink since they got on the boat, and you were getting antsy wondering if they were going to go a full two hours without booze in their hands, Chedward has that covered:

“I’ll be on deck. There’s a shower in the bathroom if you want one. Do you need anything? A drink?” he asks solicitously, and all I can do is grin at him. Is this the same man? Is this the same Fifty?

Since he’s been feeding her alcohol for this entire book and the last one, I don’t know why she thinks this is such a huge change in his personality. Unless she’s a robot powered by alcohol and her programming is severely limited once alcohol levels take a critical dive.

 Ana asks Chedward what happened to the real Christian, and Christian tells her:

“He’s not very far away, baby,” he says softly, and there’s a touch of melancholy in his voice that makes me instantly regret asking the question. But he shakes it off. “You’ll see him soon enough” – he smirks at me – “especially if you don’t get up.” Reaching over, he smacks me hard on my behind so I yelp and laugh at the same time.

Wait, does Christian have fully integrated dissociative identity disorder?

Under Christian’s careful, patient instruction, I have now stowed a mainsail, a headsail, and a spinnaker, as well as learned to tie a reef knot, clove hitch, and sheepshank.

So, she learns about the boat stuff after the chapter where she describes all the boat stuff, and again, this book is written in present tense. Ah, craft. Who needs it, am I right?

Ana warns Christian that she might use her newfound knowledge to tie him up, and he says she’d have to catch him first.

His words bring to mind him chasing me around the apartment, the thrill, and then the hideous aftermath. I frown and shudder. After that, I left him.

No shit, really? Because this entire book so far hasn’t been centered on the fact that you guys had a fight and broke up for five whole days. Which were, of course, the longest and most painful five days any human has ever suffered through. Forget POW camps, forget the Holocaust and the Armenian genocide, no, Anastasia Rose Steele suffered through the most painful human experience possible, a five day breakup from a boyfriend of two weeks. A break up so horrible and painful, we’re describing it as “leaving” someone, because that’s how close they were. It was like they were practically married, guys. They are soul mates.

Would I leave him now that he’s admitted he loves me? I gaze up into his clear gray eyes. Could I ever leave him again – no matter what he did to me? Could I betray him like that? No. I don’t think I could.

NO MATTER WHAT HE DID TO HER. In other words, she feels like she betrayed him when she left him because she wanted a boyfriend and he wanted to just beat the holy fuck out of her all the time even though she didn’t like it. That’s the betrayal she’s talking about. And if he did the exact same thing again, she couldn’t leave him. She’s completely roped into the role of patient victim now, to the point that she’s really enjoying her martyrdom.

Ana thinks about how Christian took her on a tour of the boat and had sex with her. Because if she’s not talking directly to Christian, she should be thinking about him, and especially about sex.

He is an exceptional lover, I’m sure – though, of course, I have no comparison. But Kate would have raved more if it was always like this; it’s not like her to hold back on details.

Note the subtle dig: the sex Ana is having is better than the sex Kate is having. Since we’ve read the first book, we already know that Ana is better than Kate in every way, or at least she must reassure herself that she is, because otherwise, how can she be happy?

But how long will this be enough for him? I just don’t know, and the thought is unnerving.

And repetitive.

And then, oh dear, dear readers. And then I read a line that makes my heart almost explode into millions upon millions of little black, bat-shaped pieces of despair confetti at its inclusion in this book:

 “There is poetry of sailing as old as the world,” he murmurs in my ear.

NO. No, no, no. Fuck you, E.L., no. First of all, the quote is: “There is a poetry of sailing as old as the world,” and no. You are not going to use Le Petit Prince as any kind of metaphor for Christian Grey. I will not stand for it.

“Thank you,” I murmur shyly. “That was a perfect afternoon.”

Enough with the shy murmurs. They’ve fucked a billion times. In his parent’s boat house. In his parent’s house. In his house. In her house. On a boat. Because there was nothing good on tv. Because a butterfly flapped its wings in Singapore. They’ve played sex games. They’ve escaped… I don’t know, some kind of danger, I guess. You can say thank you without being shy about it. Shyness doesn’t make you more desirable.

Christian suggests that Ana take sailing lessons, so they can take the boat out more often:

“I’d love that. We can christen the bedroom again and again.”

That’s not what “christen” means, Ana. Surely you, a bright, bright, brighty-bright-bright English major knows that.

Christian tells Ana that the apartment is safe, so they can go back there (that’s a familiar song). He tells her that Taylor already got their stuff from the hotel, after he did a security check on the boat:

“Does that poor man ever sleep?”

“He sleeps.” Christian quirks an eyebrow at me, puzzled. “He’s just doing his job, Anastasia, which he’s very good at. Jason is a real find.”

“Jason?”

“Jason Taylor.”

I thought Taylor was his first name. Jason. It suits him – solid, reliable. For some reason it makes me smile.

It makes me smile, too, Ana. Because now I have the completed mental picture of Jason Taylor, and it’s this guy:

“I’m not attracted to him, if that’s why you’re frowning. Stop.”

Christian is almost pouting – sulky.

Jeez, he’s such a child sometimes.

I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.

Because Christian has probably done it with all his subs. Yeah, he said you were the first, but how many things has he given to you or done with you that you’ve later found out is par for the course with all his exes? And we have a new drinking game rule. Drink every time Ana does something “shyly.”

Ana asks Christian if Mac is one of his friends. Because apparently Ana believes Christian’s friends would call him “sir” and “Mr. Grey” and that would be totally okay. Christian says he doesn’t have any friends:

He frowns. “Not really. Doing what I do… I don’t cultivate friendships. There’s only-” He stops, his frown deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs. Robinson.

I know that when he says, “doing what I do,” he’s talking about his job, but I’m going to think that “doing what I do,” means, “my freaky, controlling behavior.” Oh, but at least he has one friend. You know. His molester.

Ana and Christian discuss the friendship issue at a restaurant called Bee’s, which is described as being located right next to SP’s. So… is this a code? Is there a coded message running through these books? A subliminal signal to make otherwise intelligent people really, really enjoy these books?

Obviously, they can’t just have dinner. They have to have dinner with a side of angst:

“Anastasia, what’s wrong? Tell me.”

I glance up into his concerned face.

“Tell me,” he says more forcefully, and his concern evolves into what? Fear? Anger?

I take a deep breath. “I’m just worried that this isn’t enough for you. You know, to let off steam.”

His jaw tenses and his eyes harden. “Have I given you any indication that this isn’t enough?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think that?”

Because there is no conflict in this relationship at all, so every scene must be fraught with manufactured drama.

The thing that really frustrates me about this book is, there could be conflict. If Ana had a spine or a brain, there could be conflict. After all, she’s just gotten into a relationship with a guy who she is drawn to on some deep level, but who lives a lifestyle that is putting her in danger. The recipe for conflict is there. I mean, it’s actually there, in the background, waiting to be addressed, and it never is. Instead of thinking, “Gosh, I wish I could be Christian’s everything, and I’m falling so pathetically short,” Ana could be thinking, “I love this man, but being around him puts me in danger, can I really do this to myself?” It would be a whole different (and better) book.

Of course, they resolve their difficulty in a few paragraphs, because that’s how life works. Everything gets wrapped up in neat little packages. Oh, except:

“So, you don’t want to take me into your playroom?”

He swallows and pales, all trace of humor gone. “No, I don’t.”

“Why not?” I whisper. This is not the answer I expected.

And yes, there it is – that little pinch of disappointment. My inner goddess stomps off pouting, her arms crossed like an angry toddler’s.

I have had a mind-blowing day: Dr. Greene; our shower; Christian’s admission; making love at the hotel and on the boat; buying the car.

“You are not allowed out of here alone. You understand?” he snaps.

So, she’s a prisoner. Looks like you get your wish, Ana! Chedward is the literary hero of your dreams! It’s just that he’s Mr. Rochester, and you’re the crazy wife in the attic, so… good luck with that!

After being told that she’s basically his prisoner, this is Ana’s totally rational response:

“Okay.” Jeez – keep your hair on. But his attitude makes me smile. I want to hug myself – this man, all domineering and short with me, I know. I marvel that I would have found it so threatening only a week or so ago when he spoke to me this way. But now I understand him so much better. This is his coping mechanism. He’s stressed about Leila, he loves me, and he wants to protect me.

But not enough that he would call the police or do anything that would actually protect you.

Ana tells Christian that his pouting has the same effect on her that her biting her lip has on him.

He pouts again and leans down to give me a swift chaste kiss.

I raise my lips to meet his, and in the nanosecond when our lips touch, the nature of the kiss changes – wildfire spreading through my veins from this intimate point of contact, driving me to him.

So… it wasn’t really a chaste kiss then, was it? It was just the regular kind.

“What you do to me, Ana.”

How many fucking times is he going to say this? Seriously? Is he a robot or something, just repeating the last phrase he was programmed to say in this situation?

“I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday.” I grin at Taylor, who flushes.

“That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele,” Taylor says matter-of-factly.

“I thought so, too.”

Christian tightens his hold on my hand, scowling. “If you two have quite finished, I’d like a debriefing.” He glares at Taylor, who now looks uncomfortable, and I cringe inwardly. I have overstepped the mark.

Someone, please write a fanfic where Ana ends up with Taylor. And also, she ends up a real, actualized human being, because it’s not going to happen in canon. I mean, really. I agonize over these recaps, and I ask for so little in return. I just want you to write every single plot bunny I’m throwing out there, so that I can read them. I’m the Jareth of fanfic. Fear me, love me, write whatever I say, and I will be your slave.

Christian tells Ana point blank to not be “friendly” with the staff. He feels like she was flirting with Taylor, and he’s super threatened.

“You know how jealous I am,” he whispers.

“You have no reason to be jealous, Christian. You own me body and soul.”

I have to point out here that Christian’s jealousy does make a lot of sense. After all, there is literally nothing that holds this romance together, apart from the sex. But I’m sure that’s not what E.L. is trying to highlight here.

Why on earth would he be jealous of Taylor? I shake my head in disbelief.

Because apparently owning another human being “body and soul” isn’t enough for him.

Ana goes upstairs to her room and finds that all the clothes that she said she didn’t want anymore are missing:

Why did he take me at my word? My mother’s advice comes back to haunt me: “Men are so literal, darling.“

Yeah, stupid men, being all literal and shit, and doing what you tell them you want them to do. How could he have not known that when you said you didn’t want those clothes, you meant the exact opposite. Men are so, so dumb, and women who play coy games are clearly superior. FEMINISM YAY!

Her iPad and her laptop are also missing, so she assumes Leila snuck in and stole them, until she goes to Christian’s bedroom and finds all of her stuff in there, including the clothes she wants/doesn’t want. Because of the threat of Leila, Christian has had all of Ana’s things moved to his room.

“Taylor thinks Leila was getting in through the emergency stairwell. She must have had a key. All the locks have been changed now. Taylor’s team has done a sweep of every room in the apartment. She’s not here.” He stops and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I knew where she was. She’s evading all our attempts to find her when she needs help.”

What attempts? The sailing? Did you think she was in the ocean? It’s not like you’ve been working tirelessly to find her, despite your insistance that you want to help her. And it’s not like Taylor has been trying to find her. He’s been toting Ana’s belongings from the hotel to the apartment, and checking the boat – which none of the other subs have been on, or so claims Christian- to make sure it was safe. The rest of the team appears to have been moving Ana’s belongings literally from one room to the next, because it’s too dangerous for her to go to her own damn room to get them, apparently. So what, exactly, have you been doing to look for her, Mr. Grey? All what attempts? When you looked around suspiciously as you drove up to the apartment building? You must be fucking exhausted from all the looking around you’ve been doing. Hey, off the top of my head, I was thinking, you know who can sometimes be good at finding people? The police you should have called the moment Leila tried to kill herself in your apartment. Hey, come to think of it, that would have been a great time to change the locks, too, Mr. “I’m so careful about my safety and privacy” Grey. Or hell, maybe you could take the extra, extra cautious step of not giving your girlfriends keys to your apartment, or changing the locks after you’ve broken up with them. This is all just crazy talk, though, because clearly this plot is just filler to make it seem like there is something interesting in this book when it’s really just a lot of shitty writing and allegedly graphic sex.

Christian tells Ana he wants her to sleep in his room, because he doesn’t have nightmares if she’s with him. Except, didn’t he have a nightmare when she was sleeping with him before, in the last book? I honestly can’t remember, because I have a very finite capability for remembering stupid bullshit that glorifies abuse. Ana tells Christian that she has to get her clothes ready for work tomorrow, and then THIS happens:

“Work!” Christian exclaims as if it’s a dirty word, and he releases me, glaring.

“Yes, work,” I reply, confused by his reaction.

He stares at me with complete incomprehension. “But Leila – she’s out there,” he pauses. “I don’t want you to go to work.”

What? “That’s ridiculous, Christian. I have to go to work.” 

“No, you don’t,” he repeats, emphatically.

“Do you think I’m going to stay here twiddling my thumbs while you’re off being Master of the Universe?”

I love it when they work the title of the fanfiction that the book used to be into the actual book.

Christian tells Ana that she doesn’t have to work for a living – basically, that to fulfill his own pathological need to be safe, she should quit her job. He petulantly agrees that she can go to work, as long as she brings one of his guards with her. Not Taylor, though. Sawyer. The one she hasn’t allegedly flirted with.

“Either he comes with you, or I will be really irrational and keep you here.”

He wouldn’t, would he? “How, exactly?”

“Oh, I’d find a way, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”

Seriously, he has an entire room devoted to tying, shackling, and zip-typing women up, plus a staff of beefy security guards with guns. He’s also a sociopath, so kidnapping you would seem ethically cool, so long as it benefited him.

Like, the second their argument is settled, Christian says:

“Shall I give you a tour?”

A tour? Are you kidding me?

Yeah, are you kidding me? He’s given you a tour of his apartment before. There’s really no need for another one, especially since the next time E.L. wants to add another room, Chedward will just say that it’s a big place and Ana hasn’t seen it all yet.

He gives me a tour of the apartment, showing me the various rooms. Along with the playroom and three spare bedrooms upstairs, I’m intrigued to find that Taylor and Mrs. Jones have a wing to themselves – a kitchen, spacious living area, and a bedroom each.

So, wait, are you saying there are two kitchens and two living areas? Or that each person has their own bedroom? I’m beginning to think that the lack of editing on this book smacks of blatant exploitation of a poor writer who has never learned the ropes, and will now never learn them because she’s being spoon fed the lie that the amount of money you make is a testament to how good a writer you are. That is going to be a monumentally hard fall, and I actually feel bad for E.L. at this point.

But let’s explore the idea that Taylor and Mrs. Jones live together. Speaking of which, is she Ms. or Mrs.? Because if she’s Mrs., where the fuck is her husband and why does she live at work?

He also shows her a room with a huge tv and game consoles, thus solving the case of the twenty-something millionaire who doesn’t have an Xbox.

During some random chit-chat, Christian lets it drop that he doesn’t have a middle name. Ana thought “Trevelyan” was his middle name, and he’s like, no, that’s my last name, “Trevelyan-Grey,” which he doesn’t use because:

“It’s too long. […]”

If there is any word that could describe a man who names his company Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc., it’s “succinct”.

Christian also takes Ana to Taylor’s office, which surprises me, since I figured he wouldn’t want her to know where it was in case she accidentally showed up there and fucked him. By the way, Taylor has a conference table and CCTV in his office, so you could work those into your fic. I eagerly await a link. There is also a wine “cellar” in the apartment, which makes absolutely no fucking sense. How do you have a “cellar” in an apartment on an upper floor? You can definitely have a climate controlled room for wine storage, but not a “cellar”.

The tour ends in the billiards room, where Ana challenges Christian to a game.

“You’re that confident, Miss Steele?” He smirks, amused and incredulous at once. “What would you like to wager?”

“If I win, you’ll take me back into the playroom.”

Oh, that’s probably a great idea, Ana. Since you broke up with him because you couldn’t handle the BDSM aspect of your relationship, you should definitely reintroduce that element so we can hear all about how you can’t love him the way he needs you to. This is going to be super. Especially since Ana turns out to be a pretty good pool player.

She also understands the time honored tradition of playing pool as a way to let a man ogle you. Remember that article about pedophilia hiding in this book? Here’s another argument I make against it:

I stalk around the table, bending low at every available opportunity – giving Christian an eyeful of my behind and my cleavage whenever I can.

and later:

I tilt my head coquettishly to one side, gently fondling my cue, running my hand up and down it slowly. “Oh. I am just deciding where to take my next shot,” I murmur distractedly.

So, clearly, this is not a case of a child-like heroine who has no idea what sexual power she possesses.

It’s down to the eight ball, and Christian still hasn’t chosen what he gets if he wins. Ana misses her shot, and then this happens:

“If I win…”

Oh yes?

“I am going to spank you, then fuck you over this billiard table.”

It’s like E.L. James has a list of all the lines from my James May sex fantasies, damnit. *mumbles incoherently, stalks off*

Holy shit. Every single muscle south of my navel clenches hard.

Just for fun, when I read that, I clenched every single muscle south of my navel. And you know what I found? It would be really hard to make a shot playing pool if that kind of debilitating spasm was happening to you.

Then the chapter ends on a cliffhanger, as Christian bends down to make his shot.

Friends.

Friends.

Friends.

E.L. James’s lawyers warned someone off for copyright infringement of 50 Shades.

From the article:

EL James’ agent Valerie Hoskins said the legal letter was not personal, adding: “You can’t just hijack something someone else owns.”

Today, I got my cover for my first ever release from Ellora’s Cave. And it is epic:

If you follow me on twitter, you know that my twitter stream looks something like this:

So, you’d think that the establishment of a Whovian hashtag, one that encourages, nay, begs, Whovians to share their first experience with The Doctor, you’d think I would be all over that.

Sidetrack: How the fuck is Chris Hardwick getting all these jobs talking about my favorite shows? More importantly, why aren’t they hiring me? I have two things going for me that he does not: I do not make every sentence drip with false urgency, and I never hosted a really sleazy dating show. That any copies still exist of.

Back on topic, the hashtag #newtoWHO. How can one ask a true, dyed-in-the-horizontal-striped-wool Who fan to share their memories of their first Doctor in 144 characters? It’s criminal. So, I’m sharing my #newtoWHO story right here. Lucky you.

My first Doctor, MY Doctor, is the Eighth Doctor, Paul McGann.

Eight has the dubious distinction of being the Doctor with the shortest television run, but his epic adventures span a number of novels and Big Finish audio plays. It is truly criminal that we didn’t get more time with Eight, because he was the perfect bridge between the classic series and the new series, in which The Doctor became more “human” and showed self-doubt in a way the previous Doctors didn’t.

In 1996, after being off the air for seven years, Doctor Who made an attempt to resurface in the United States. If you watch the television movie, you get a glimpse of what the American reboot would have been like, and it’s not entirely removed from the Russel T. Davies series. A quick summary: The Doctor is transporting the mortal remains of The Master, who has been executed by The Daleks, from Skaro to the Time Lord home planet, Gallifrey, in accordance with The Master’s final wishes. As the TARDIS travels through space, the Seventh Doctor kicks back and relaxes in his bad ass, totally Steampunk TARDIS, reading H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine and eating jelly babies. But The Master’s plan all along was to funnel his essence into The Doctor to secure more regenerations. This goes awry when The Doctor makes an emergency landing in San Francisco, 1999, and gets shot in the crossfire of a gang turf war (no, really). He ends up in the hospital, where a brilliant, sexy cardiologist, Dr. Grace Holloway, assumes he’s human, performs a heart procedure, and kills him. Because he was anesthetized at the time of his death, his regeneration is delayed, and when he regenerates, he has no memory of being a Time Lord. He has to recover his memories in time to stop The Master, and to stop the universe from being destroyed at 12AM on January 1st, 2000.

Definitely helped that he was a hot ginger. No wonder Ten was so disappointed to turn out as David Tennant.

At the time the tv movie aired, I was fifteen or sixteen, and possibly the biggest nerd on the planet. I was still deeply grieving the cancellation of Covington Cross, a very short-lived 1992 dramedy that ABC pulled because they hate me and everything good. Since I had been so terribly burned by that cancellation, I had taken to videotaping literally everything I watched on television, in case it got cancelled. I had an entire closet full of VHS (this strategy also paid off for My So-Called Life). When I heard there was going to be “some time travel show thing” on Fox (my mother continued to refer to Doctor Who as “some time travel show thing” for the rest of my years at home), I thought it might be kind of cool to check out.

My reaction was somewhere between “holy shit” and “where has this been all my life?” Keep in mind, I had no idea that the show existed before 1996. I thought it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen, and whoever had come up with this startlingly brilliant new idea should be immediately handed heaps of money and the keys to the Vatican. I was in L-O-V-E. 

It should have come as no surprise to me that since I loved the show, it never got picked up for an American series. But I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a series, so I was perfectly happy to watch the story of The Doctor and Grace over and over again. I learned about amnesia as an exposition device. I learned about atomic clocks. And I was torn between pride that Grace was an independent enough woman that she wouldn’t forsake her own life to ride off into the time sunset with The Doctor, and furious that he didn’t pick me instead, because I would totally have gone with him. Also, jealous because she got to kiss him.

A few months after the movie aired, I was flipping through the pathetic five channels that I could get at my grandparents’ house, and I landed on PBS. Immediately, I was struck at how bizarrely similar to my Doctor Who this weird show with a funny looking, curly haired guy and his assistant, Sarah Jane, was. And she called him The Doctor… and they were in… the… TARDIS… and they…

I swear to you, I get teary-eyed remembering the feeling I had upon learning that The Doctor had other adventures. I didn’t know about regeneration yet. I just figured that in Great Britain, people were very high-brow and could overlook the fact that The Doctor’s appearance changed wildly. But as time marched on, and my love of The Doctor grew, I learned more about the show. I wrote fanfic. I tried to knit the scarf. I failed, but damnit, I tried. I routinely drew question marks all over my body in sharpie in loving homage to Seven.

But then it became time to put away childish things. I went out into the real world. I got a job, and a guy to live with, and a kid. So, when I learned The Doctor was returning, I didn’t pay much attention. I wasn’t that nerdy little girl anymore, I had very important things to do. Plus, The Doctor was wearing a leather jacket. I was so terrified that they were trying to “update” my beloved Doctor, to make him into something sleek and polished for a jaded modern audience, the way they’d tried and failed to do in 1996. I didn’t want Doctor Who without cardboard walls and papier mache monsters. So I put off watching the new series… until 2008.

When I started watching it again, friends, it was all over. I had regaled my husband with stories of my childhood nerdiness, and he watched with amusement as I geeked out all over again. And he started watching it, too. And my son made a Doctor Who puppet show, with Daleks he drew and taped to popsicle sticks. And so, here we are again. I guess it must be fate. And other Peter Cetera lyrics.

A few days ago, I watched the tv movie again. I do, every once in a while. It feels dated, of course, but dated like the sofa you grew up with. I feel echoes of Dr. Grace Holloway in Dr. Martha Jones, because they were both the girls who didn’t wait. I watch that first episode of Christopher Eccleston’s run and imagine the regeneration we never saw, from Eight to Nine. When Ten speaks so passionately about the Time War, I want to cry, because I know it was Eight, it was my Doctor who fought those legendary battles we’ll never see.

I hold out hope for a lot of things to happen during the 50th Anniversary celebration. Donna’s memories to return. The Doctor going back and picking up Lethbridge-Stewart for a fantastic voyage. Susan. Romana. The end of the Time Lock that imprisons Gallifrey. Triumph over the Daleks, for once and for all. But most of all, I wish for my Doctor to return. Because we’ve got a lot of running we still need to do.

Hey there, friends, Romans, countrymen. Lend me your eyeballs a second.

All right, on to the recap:

When we last left Ana and Christian, he had just told her that he loves her. Well, no, actually. She said, “You love me,” and he said, “Yes, I do.” Which means he never said he loves her. He just agreed with her. And let me point out that he agreed with her after she stopped trying to have sex with him in order to talk about his feelings. Does anyone else see some motivation here for him to move this scene along? Does anyone else feel like this is a conversation Charlotte had with the rest of the girls on Sex and The City?

“I’m an Ana!” said no woman. Ever.

Since being owned by a man is the highest bar that Anastasia Rose “Courageous” Steele has set for herself, the next chapter starts like this:

I cannot contain my jubilation. My subconscious gapes at me in stunned silence, and I wear a face-splitting grin as I gaze longingly up into Christian’s tortured eyes.

Why is she smiling if he’s looking tortured? It’s like that old “I always cry at weddings,”/”What the fuck do you do at funerals?” chestnut from days of Rocky Horror yore. Also, way to show that bitch, your subconscious. It’s not like she’s given you any good advice that you’re routinely ignoring in favor of your loins. Your stupid, stupid loins.

Ana gushes over his “three small words,” even though they’re not “I love you,” and might as well be, “Sure, fuck now?” because confessions garnered in pursuit of nookie are inadmissible in the court of this blog. Then she again thinks about him being a “beautiful, fucked-up man,” which an astute commenter pointed out is directly from the lyrics of Sarah McLachlan’s “Building a Mystery.” I should have caught that, too, because I passionately sang that album from start to finish during my hormonal teenaged years, even though my boyfriends in high school were all pretty normal teenaged boys. I desperately wanted a beautiful, fucked up man to angst over. I guess some writers grow out of it.

Oh yes, I did.

My heart swells with joy but also pain for his suffering. And I know in this moment that my heart is big enough for both of us. I hope it’s big enough for both of us.

Oh, so you mean, you’re pretty sure you can love him so much that he doesn’t have to really participate in the relationship and all and you can still trick yourself into feeling that your emotional needs are fulfilled? Because that’s what you’re saying, Ana.

They decide to continue the fucking, albeit in another location, probably because talking about his feelings in the shower has deflated Christian’s erection considerably. Ana dries Christian’s hair with a towel, and he comments that no one has ever done that for him before. Ana insists that Grace must have done that for him as a child, and he answers:

“No. She respected my boundaries from day one, even though it was painful for her. I was very self-sufficient as a child,” he says quietly.

I feel a swift kick in the ribs as I think of a small copper-haired child looking after himself because no one else cares.

You mean like the adoptive parents who took him into their very wealthy family and gave him opportunities to achieve things he could never have dreamed of in his past situation, while respecting the fact he came from a hideously abusive and traumatic childhood and treating him with that in mind? Yeah, those fucking monsters. Only you can love him the right way.

So, Ana gets this idea that if she can dry his hair with the towel, she can touch him through the towel, too:

Carefully, I wipe his back beneath the faint lipstick line, which is still visible.

Please, someone tell me what this brand of never-wears-off lipstick is, so I don’t accidentally buy it and tattoo myself into permanent Joker cosplay with it.

Ana wipes his back with the towel, even in the no-go zones, while he makes audibly tense breathing noises and grimaces, and it’s a lot like the scene in Diana Gabaldon’s Dragonfly In Amber where Claire rapes Jamie into not being messed up by rape. Or something. I was kind of confused by a lot of stuff in those books.

Gazing at us both in the mirror – his beauty, his nakedness, and me with my covered hair – we look almost biblical, as if from an Old Testament Baroque painting.

Okay, first, how self-involved do you have to be to compare drying your boyfriend off after a shower to the fucking Bible, which is, btw, probably the only book that could outsell this behemoth? Second, what strange phrasing. “Old Testament Baroque painting” makes it sound like the Baroque period was actually in the time of the Old Testament, and that it was referenced in the Bible. Also, I’m pretty sure Satan didn’t take your soul in exchange for advertising his primary competition, E.L.

Oh, yes I did.

She’s still wiping him off with the towel, and he’s still reacting like a war veteran during an air show, and she thinks:

My subconscious looks on with approval, her normally pursed mouth smiling, and I’m the supreme puppet master.

Whoa, that got 50 Shades Darker. Really, Ana? Your boyfriend has severe PTSD and you’re proud of how well you can make him suffer from it? Don’t get me wrong, Christian Grey is a dickhole, but I don’t really think it’s fair to manipulate him through his childhood memories of molestation and physical torture.

Ana and Christian have off-camera sex, but it isn’t shown because it’s apparently not uber-kink, the way all these other, very, very shocking and titillating glimpses into the life of hardcore BDSM have been.

Apparently, this time it wasn’t fucking, hard, but making love. Awww. Ana mentions that Christian was surprisingly gentle, then tells him:

I grin. “You weren’t particularly the first time we… um, did this.”

She still cannot speak about sex with the man, even after they have just had sex. She literally can not say the word. The instant I read that line, it took me directly back to this novel I wrote in seventh grade. You see, I wanted to write a blisteringly good romance. It was about actors in a Broadway company of Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (no, I didn’t have many friends, thanks for asking) who fell in love while working on the show. It was the worst novel anyone has ever written, and that’s including the book we’re talking about right now and the historical romance novel I wrote in sixth grade (which is actually pretty good, probably only because it was partially lifted from Far and Away). There was no conflict in the romance, there was no external conflict on the characters, it was just a story about two people who dated, fell in love, had sex, and got to be on Broadway. But what I felt was very grown up and important to the story were lots of conversations between the main characters about the sex they were having, because that’s what I thought a grown up relationship was. Only, they said stuff very similar to “the first time we… um, did this,” because while I was horribly fascinated by the concept of sex and adult relationships and thought night and day about how those concepts worked together and separately, I was also very embarrassed and giggly about those subjects, as well.

“No?” He smirks. “When I robbed you of your virtue.”

Hey, when I lost my virginity to you, you weren’t gentle enough. Wait, are you smirking? Why would you be proud about that? That’s horrible.

“I don’t think you robbed me,” I mutter haughtily – I am not a helpless maiden. “I think my virtue was offered up pretty freely and willingly. I wanted you too, and if I remember correctly, I rather enjoyed myself.” I smile shyly at him, biting my lip.

No, you’re not a helpless maiden. Just a stupid one who won’t bother to call the police – or assert your right to call the police – when your life is in danger, because you can wait for big, strong Christian to protect you from the problem he created.

 “So did I if I recall, Miss Steele. We aim to please,” he drawls and his face softens, serious. “And it means you’re mine, completely.” All trace of humor has vanished as he gazes at me.

That’s right. If a man gives you an orgasm, he owns you now. It’s in the Magna Carta, look that shit up.

Ana asks Christian if he knows who his biological father was:

His brow creases and then he shakes his head. “I have no idea. Wasn’t the savage who was her pimp, which is good.”

Maybe it’s just my white guilt, but something happens in this section that gives me pause. First of all, he says that pimp was a “savage.” I hate that word, because it makes me think of all those 80’s rapemances where the women were kidnapped to nights of endless, sometimes non-con rapture by sweet, savage savages (aka Native Americans). The word savage would be used liberally, either in the title or the back cover copy, to warn the reader that non-white loving would be happening in the pages. So when Christian says, a few paragraphs later:

“Police interviewed him later. He denied flat out I had anything to do with him, and Carrick said he looked nothing like me.”

I can’t help but wonder if this is a clumsy, roundabout way of implying that the “crack whore’s” “pimp” was not white.

Ana figures she has to change the subject “before he goes all Fifty on me,” which, you know, that doesn’t sound like an abusive relationship at all, trying to constantly monitor the situations you’re in so the abuser doesn’t react negatively or anything, but I guess I digress.

“Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want to show you something.”

No, she can’t. She’ll wilt, because she’s a porcelain Victorian lass whose vagina will fall out at the mere mention of physical exertion.

 He grins at me with his boyish, carefree, I’m-only-twenty-seven smile, and my heart lurches into my mouth.

Because she realized that in three years he’ll be the dreaded thirty and impossibly old. I love that Ana, who is younger than Christian, is thinking of his age in terms of “I’m only,” as if she’s much, much older than he is. Look, I’m not calling Ana a Mary Sue, but I’m calling Ana a wishful projection of E.L. James.

As we dress, I notice that we move with the synchronization of two people who know each other well, each watchful and acutely aware of each other, exchanging the occasional shy smile and sweet touch.

The synchronization of two people who have known each other for, what, is it three whole weeks now? I’ve lost count, because it seems like time moves in slow motion in this book and days are like, thirty-seven hours long so that there is plenty of time for hours of love making and daring escapes and charity balls. For example, in this day already they’ve had breakfast, Ana’s gotten forced birth control, they shared their feelings in the shower, made slow and tender off-screen love, now they’re going to go buy Ana a new car and then take Christian’s yacht out for a day of sailing. Then they’re going to go out to dinner, drive to Christian’s apartment, have a mini-fight, have a bigger fight, play pool, fuck on the pool table, take a bath together and then they’re in bed by TEN-THIRTY. And this apparently super long day? It takes place over three or four chapters.

Christian drags a large, cream, cable-knit sweater out of his bag and drapes it artfully around over his shoulders. With his white T-shirt and jeans, his artfully rumpled hair, and now this, he looks as if he’s stepped out of the pages of a high-end glossy magazine.

New drinking game rule: take a shot every time E.L. uses the word “artfully.”

As they got dressed, Christian and Ana traded quips about how his palms still twitch, and he could prove it, or whatever, so after the artful sweater draping paragraph, Ana thinks:

And I don’t know if it’s the momentary distraction of his perfect looks or the knowledge that he loves me, but his threat no longer fills me with dread. This is my Fifty Shades; this is the way he is.

In other words, “When he threatens to hit me, I’m not scared anymore, because I’m so used to his threats. Also, he’s hot, so that makes this all okay.”

My hair is a mess, my face flushed, my lips swollen – I touch them, remembering Christian’s searing kisses, and I can’t help a small smile as I stare. Yes, I do, he said.

But not “I love you.” Keep that in mind, reader.

We have to wait with Christian and Ana while the valet gets the car, because this was written by someone who is so attached to their own work that they can’t imagine we wouldn’t all be super fascinated by the minutia of the characters’ every day lives, like getting dressed, eating breakfast, and waiting for the fucking valet. The sick thing? People actually are fascinated by these shitty details that make this book way too long.

As we cruise through traffic, Christian is deep in thought. A young woman’s voice comes over the loudspeakers; it has a beautiful, rich, mellow timbre, and I lose myself in her sad, soulful voice.

The car has a loudspeaker?

Christian is taking Ana to get a new car, so he pulls into the Saab dealership.

“Not an Audi?” is, stupidly, the only thing I can think of to say, and bless him, he actually flushes.

Better give him a derogatory nickname then, Ana.

Christian is going to buy Ana a Saab 9-3, which tragically dates this book already, because Saab went bankrupt and the US inventory of new cars was seized by GM’s finance division back in May. Since this version was published in April, it’s not like they could have done anything about it, but still, it made my heart go, “Awww, poor Saab.”

By the way, when I checked the copyright page to figure out when the Vintage version came out, I noticed this little gem:

The author published an earlier serialized version of this story online with different characters as “Master of The Universe” under the pseudonym Snowqueen’s Icedragon.

 Back in March, Jane at Dear Author excerpted a bit of a Washington Post article in which Vintage books asserted:

“It is widely known that E.L James began to capture a following as a writer shortly after she posted her second fan fiction story,” Vintage said in a statement. “She subsequently took that story and re-wrote the work, with new characters and situations. That was the beginning of the ‘Fifty Shades’ trilogy. The great majority of readers, including fan fiction aficionados, have found ‘Fifty Shades’ deeply immersive and incredibly satisfying.”

So, it’s a completely new and original work that was first published somewhere else! Thanks for the integrity, Vintage!

Anyway, back to the car search. Christian is going to get Ana a Saab 9-3 because there were no uglier cars available.

I resign myself to my fate. A Saab? Do I want a Saab?

Does it matter? He doesn’t let you order your own meals in restaurants, I highly doubt he’s going to let you pick what car you drive.

Troy Turniansky, the salesman, is all over Fifty like a cheap suit.

Why does the salesman have a last name? Or any name? Why do we even have to go car shopping with them? It’s not interesting at all, and I will skip a lot of it. The gist is, Christian asks Ana what color car she wants, then argues with her and overrides her choice, and when Ana points out the way he’s behaving, she instantly regrets it and tells him she’ll take the Audi instead. Then, they talk about getting the convertible model, which makes Ana horny in the pants and her inner goddess shows up again (drink!). While Christian gets the safety stats on the car from Troy Turniansky, the car salesman so important as to have a last name even though he’s in one goddamned scene, Ana thinks:

Naturally Christian wants me safe. It’s a religion with him, and like the zealot that he is, he listens intently to Troy’s well-honed patter. Fifty really does care.

Yes. I do. I remember his whispered, choked words from this morning, and a melting glow spreads like warm honey through my veins. This man – God’s gift to women – loves me.

On behalf of all women, I would like to return the gift.

I find myself grinning goofily at him, and when he glances down at me, he’s amused yet puzzled by my expression.

So, he’s amused and bemused at the same time? Come on, E.L., you missed such an opportunity there!

Christian produces his credit card, or is it Taylor’s? The thought is unnerving.

A lot of stuff unnerves Ana, I’m noticing. What does it matter if it’s Taylor’s card? Is she worried that Christian isn’t going to pay him back?

I wonder how Taylor is, and if he’s located Leila in the apartment. I rub my forehead. Yes, there’s all of Christian’s baggage, too.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out what she means by “all of Christian’s baggage, too.” In addition to what? Leila is part of Christian’s baggage. I’m so confused.

Back in the car (not the Saab they just bought, Christian’s car), Ana asks who the singer on the “loudspeaker” is, and Christian informs her it’s Eva Cassidy, then explains that she died young. And then he’s all, “Are you hungry,” so no, the conversation wasn’t a metaphor or anything, it’s literally just needless chit-chat. I’m not kidding, look how quickly he shifts gears:

“She died young.”

“Oh.”

“Are you hungry?”

Well, not now, I’m not. Geesh. Nothing wets the appetite like the untimely death of a criminally ignored young talent. Mmm, let’s get porkchops! Why the hell was that conversation included?

Ana is all “uh-oh” when Christian asks her if she’s hungry, because she’s apparently afraid to admit that she wants to eat. Or she’s afraid to admit that she’s hungry, but how is she supposed to control that? It’s not like they had a buffet at the car dealership.

It’s another beautiful day in Seattle; it’s been uncharacteristically fine for the last few weeks.

Okay, this is funny, because Seattle in June usually is pretty nice (or so I’ve been told), but this year, the year this book made its debut, Seattle had an unusually cold and rainy June. So, it’s hilarious on two levels:

1. It wouldn’t be unusual to have some nice days in June in Seattle.
2. It makes it look like this book has some dark power to fuck with the weather. 

I put on my robe and wizard hat.

They’re driving now, so you know what that means: it’s time for Ana to think really deep thoughts about Christian Grey:

I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’t punish me, and he seems more comfortable with me, too.

I think what she meant to say was, “I’ve learned to modify my own behavior in order to keep from being physically abused by an angry man, and he likes that I’m acting exactly according his every whim.” I’m sure that’s what she really meant. And as confident as she is of her ability to not get beaten up, she still considers him somewhat threatening, because in the next paragraph, after they pull up to a marina, this happens:

“We’ll eat here. I’ll open your door,” he says in such a way that I know it’s not wise to move, and I watch him move around the car. Will this ever get old?

It got old two-hundred and seven pages ago. And yet…

Ana and Christian “stroll” through the marina, where Ana shows off her fancy college degree:

“So many boats,” I murmur in wonder.

So, just in case you’ve ever been wondering if there are a lot of boats on Puget Sound, there are, indeed, a lot of boats on Puget Sound.

Christian takes Ana to a bar on the waterfront where the barman knows Christian by name, and Ana has some more of her weirdly placed white guilt:

“Welcome to SP’s Place.” Dante gives me a friendly smile. He’s black and beautiful, his dark eyes assessing me and not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamond stud winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately.

Remember how when she met the black receptionist, she was like, “I could be friends with her,” but when she meets anyone white, she has a derogatory name for them, like “Mrs. European Pigtails” or “The Charlatan?” There’s a lot of weird racial stuff in these books, now that I’m thinking of it. Like Edward calling Jose “boy,” and the above mentioned use of “savage.” I can’t be the only one seeing this, right?

Hey, you guys? You’re going to need this monkey again in a second:

“What would you like to drink, Anastasia?”

I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh, he’s going to let me choose.

“Please, call me Ana, and I’ll have whatever Christian’s drinking.”

That’s right. He lets her choose something, and she defers to him. She’s so proud at how trained she is, it actually makes my heart sad. Not because I like Ana, but because I know how very common this is.

Christian orders their food – which Ana is totally okay with – and their meals are served with a side of self-centeredness:

He recounts the history of Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc., and the more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for fixing problem companies, his hopes for the technology he’s developing, and his dreams of making land in the third world more productive. I listen, enraptured. He’s funny, clever, philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.

Keep in mind that with the way Ana treats her friends, Christian could be Jesus and Buddha reincarnated simultaneously into the body of a 1950’s gay magazine pinup guy with the brain of Stephen Hawking, and it would mean squat if he wasn’t in love with her, because then it would have nothing to do with her. The only reason she’s so excited about how funny, clever, philanthropic, and beautiful he is, is because he fulfills a need for her.

Now, reread that paragraph excerpted above, and pay attention to the verbs used to indicate Christian’s sharing of information: recounts, reveals, hopes, dreams, either neutral or positive words. Now, when it’s Ana’s turn:

In turn he plagues me with questions about Ray and my mom, about growing up in the lush forests of Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He demands to know my favorite books and films, and I’m surprised by how much we have in common.

Plagues. Demands. So, on Ana’s end, conversation about herself feels like a burden. I’m undecided if it’s because she finds herself genuinely less interesting than Christian, or if it’s just because she’s as deeply unpleasant as she has been throughout the series so far.

Oh, and for you Tess of The D’Urbervilles readers out there, here’s something you can go apeshit about in the comments (and please do):

As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’s Alec to Angel, debasement to high ideal in such a short space of time.

He’s cured! Guess he doesn’t need to keep seeing the psychologist you don’t approve of despite not having any background in psychology, Ana. You’re just as smart as a doctor, and your magic hootchie cures all.

Now, I’m sure you’ve all guessed why Christian Grey drove out to the marina to have lunch with Ana. And you would be right. He has a boat, and he wants to take her sailing.

Holy cow. It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet. Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a roomy cabin, and towering overhead an impressive mast. I know nothing about boats, but I can tell this one is special.

Drink every time Ana admits to not knowing about something, but makes a quality call, anyway.

He pulls me to the side so I can see her name: The Grace. I’m surprised. “You named her after your mom?”

“Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Why do you find that strange?”

Because it’s not The S.S. Anastasia Rose Steele Magic Hootchie Express. Ana thinks that it’s weird because Christian doesn’t show much warmth when he’s around his mother, but she doesn’t say that. She just lets him ask her again why she thinks it’s weird, and then he’s all, she saved my life, the least I can do is name a boat after her, and Ana finally gets that, oh, hey. He loves his mom. And yet she doesn’t ask him why he’s not warm and friendly to the mother he loves and who saves his life, because if she did, she might get an answer. If she got an answer, we couldn’t have six or seven endless pages of her mulling over the mystery of Mr. Grey.

ALLITERATION! BOOM!

They go aboard and meet a man who I’m going to just imagine as Kurt Russel from Captain Ron, because that description is more interesting than the one in the book:

“Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”

Girlfriend! My inner goddess performs a quick arabesque. She’s still grinning over the convertible. I have to get used to this – it’s not the first time he’s said it, but hearing him say it is still a thrill. 

Yes, you do have to get used to it, Ana, because we don’t want to hear about that cupid stunt, your inner goddess, every time the word girlfriend comes up. Girlfriend! My inner goddess whips her sled dogs into a frenzy at the very mention of the word! I know we’ve been dating for four years, but I’ll never get tired of my mercurial, abusive Mr. Grey. Gag.

“How’s she shaping up, Mac?” Christian interjects quickly, and for a moment, I think he’s talking about me.

“She’s ready to rock and roll, sir,” Mac beams. Oh, the boat, The Grace. Silly me.

Yes, Ana, silly you. Not everything is about you.

Christian gives Ana a tour of the boat, and of course inside it’s all white and pale wood and blah blah blah just like the Escala, and then he shows her “oh…” the bedroom:

“This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, eyes glowing. “You’re the first girl in here, apart from family,” he says. “They don’t count.”

Because I can’t fuck them, they don’t count.

I flush under his heated stare, and my pulse quickens. Really? Another first.

Okay, so what happens when you’re not special anymore, Ana? When there aren’t any more firsts for you guys to do together?

“Might have to christen this bed,” he whispers against my mouth.

Oh, at sea!

No, in the fucking desert, where do you think, Ana? You’re on a fucking boat. No, in space, Ana. That’s where he means. I hope your inner goddess gets sea sick and pukes all over her dragon boat or whatever ludicrous metaphor you come up with.

“It’s a six-berth cat. I’ve only ever had the family on board, though. I like to sail alone. But not when you’re here. I need to keep an eye on you.”

Wait, that doesn’t make any sense. Of course he’s not going to sail alone if he’s brought another person along. It has nothing to do with keeping an eye on anybody, it’s just… I don’t know, science, or fact, or reality or something. If you bring another person, you’re not alone.

They have an absolutely maddening conversation as he puts a life jacket on her and they talk about straps and how he’s a pervert, but he’s her pervert, basically the same conversation they’ve had a bunch of times and the same conversation they will continue to have a bunch of times for the rest of the book. Then there is some bland innuendo about “rope tricks” regarding the rigging.

Mac comes scooting back down the side of the boat, grinning at me, and jumps down to the deck below where he starts to unfasten a rope. Maybe he knows some rope tricks, too. The idea pops unwelcome into my head and I flush.

And there you have more evidence that Ana is incredibly immature about sexuality. The only sexuality that is welcome is Christian’s sexuality, and hers, to a lesser extent. But once that pesky inner goddess starts casting her net a little wider, sex is once again icky and not good. Her subconscious even “glares” at her for reacting to another man, and Ana thinks about how it’s Christian’s fault. She’s not willing to own a single thing about her own sexuality, but remember, these books are somehow helping women own theirs? I don’t buy it. Those women who claim 50 Shades of Grey and the sequels have changes their lives are in exactly the same position, by the way. They’re not saying, “because of this book, I learned to accept and explore my own sexuality,” they’re saying, “because of this cultural phenomenon, I have permission to be horny.”

After they motor out of the marina:

“Sail time,” Christian says, excited. “Here – you take her. Keep her on this course.”

What? He grins, reacting to the horror on my face.

Ana is super nervous to drive the boat, which I don’t quite get, since she flew the glider with no problem. You’re way more likely to survive a boat crash than a glider crash. Ana steers the boat while Christian and Mac raise the sails:

Perhaps Mac is Fifty’s friend. He doesn’t seem to have many, as far as I can tell, but then, I don’t have many, either.

I wonder why that is, for both of you? You can tell that neither of them have any friends, because Ana seems to think it would be normal for Mac to call Christian “sir” if they were hang out buddies.

Well, not here in Seattle. The only friend I have is on vacation sunning herself in Saint James on the west coast of Barbados.

Yeah, for like, ever. At least, it seems like it. I wonder if Kate is going to show up in this book at all.

I feel a sudden pang for Kate. I miss my roommate more than I thought I would when she left. I hope she changes her mind and comes home with her brother, Ethan, rather than prolong her stay with Christian’s brother, Elliot..

Why? You won’t spend any time with her, anyway. And if you do, you’ll just complain about how terrible she is for being rich or wearing pajamas or being, horror, blonde.

Now, we reach a conundrum of POV. This book is written in first person, present tense. Not my favorite, let me tell you, to read or write, but sometimes a book doesn’t work any other way. If the story is a third person, past tense story, you can try all you want to make it work in a first person pov or a present tense, but it’s not going to work. I don’t know why that is, maybe it’s magic. Maybe it’s science. Maybe there is a reason for it in one of those craft books better writers take the time to study. But it is what it is. However, no matter what pov or tense you’re working with, you have to follow the rules, and one of the rules of first person, present tense is that you can only supply information your character has right now. Earlier on, Miss Anastasia Rose Steele says:

I know nothing about boats, 

so we, the readers, have to take her at her word. She knows nothing about boats.

If she knows nothing about boats, then how is she telling us this?:

Christian and Mac hoist the mainsail.

or:

They get to work on the headsail,

or:

He points with his chin toward Mac, who is unfurling the spinnaker –

It doesn’t make sense for her to know what any of this is, if she doesn’t know anything about boats. And if she doesn’t know it, she certainly can’t share it with us in first person, present tense, no matter how much rich detail it lends to the narrative.

Ana and Christian spend some time being lovey-dovey, and then Ana thinks:

Yes, you’re a lucky bitch, my subconscious snaps. But you have your work cut out with him. He’s not going to want this vanilla crap forever… you’re going to have to compromise. I glare mentally at her snarky, insolent face and rest my head against Christian’s chest. Deep down I know my subconscious is right, but I banish the thoughts. I don’t want to spoil my day.

I don’t want to spoil my day thinking about how eventually he’s going to need to either beat the shit out of me with a belt or dump me, fiddle dee dee, I’ll think about that tomorrow.

An hour later, we are anchored in a small, secluded cove off Bainbridge Island. Mac has gone ashore in the inflatable dinghy – for what, I don’t know – but I have my suspicions because as soon as Mac starts the outboard engine, Christian grabs my hand and practically drags me into his cabin, a man with a mission.

I find it highly suspect that Christian has never brought another girl here, but Mac just instinctively knows to get out so the boss can get down to fucking. Christian tells Ana to strip for him, then there is another scene of fresh-out-of-the-socks toe sucking (why?! why?!) and some deeply troubling inner thoughts on Ana’s sexuality:

I want to be sexy for this man. He deserves sexy – he makes me feel sexy.

Deserves? No one “deserves” for you to be anything, Ana. This is sick and sad.

I am wearing some of my new underwear – a white lacy thong and matching bra – a designer brand with a price tag to match. I step out of my jeans and stand there for him in the lingerie he’s paid for, but I no longer feel cheap. I feel his.

See, if you just have sex without it being true lurve, you’re a cheap, filthy whore. Thanks for confirming that and propping up yet another stereotype about women’s sexuality, E.L. You are truly a fucking sister.

Slowly, I slip my panties off, letting them fall to my ankles, and step out of them, surprised by my grace.

Bitch, you didn’t ribbon dance at the Olympics, you took off your panties. Get over yourself.

Standing before him, I am naked and unashamed, and I know it’s because he loves me. I no longer have to hide.

That’s right, ladies. If no one loves you, cover that shit up. No one wants to see it until you’ve done your duty as a woman and earned the love of a man, no matter how he treats you.

I step toward him, slip my fearless fingers inside the waistband of his jeans, and tug so he’s forced to take a step closer to me.

 For outstanding bravery in the field of undressing one’s boyfriend, awarded posthumously to Ms. Anastasia Rose Steele, killed in action.

“You’re getting so bold, Ana, so brave,” he whispers and clasps my face with both hands, bending to kiss me deeply.

See sarcastic Medal of Honor, above.

My intrepid fingers moves through his pubic hair to his erection, and I grasp him tightly.

Move over, Lewis and Clark. Take a hike, Sacajawea. Intrepid has a new meaning, and you better in be in awe of it.

There’s some kissing and other boring sex stuff, and then Ana gives what has to be the vaguest bj in all of recorded history:

I shift back, taking him in my hands, and I just can’t resist him in all his glory. I bend and kiss him, taking him in my mouth, swirling my tongue around him, then sucking hard. He groans and flexes his hips so that he’s deeper in my mouth.

Until I got to the flexing hips part, I had no idea she was sucking his cock.

And then they achieve simultaneous orgasm, and the chapter is over. Thank god.

Okay folks, just a heads up here: this post is going to be spoilers. Just a whole, tangly, Medusa’s head of spoilers biting and snarling and slithering over each other. So here is my spoiler warning:

• If you haven’t watched the latest Doctor Who episode, “Asylum of The Daleks” and you don’t want spoilers, stop reading this post. 
• If you haven’t watched the Christmas episode from season 2 of Downton Abbey and you don’t want spoilers, stop reading this post. 

I was a really spoiled child. Like, had-a-Cabbage-Patch-Doll-in-1982-even-though-my-grandfather-was-working-two-jobs-to-afford-that-kind-of-shit spoiled. I had the set. up. let me tell you. My mom and I lived with my grandparents and assorted aunts and uncles, and then on the other side of the coin I had my other grandparents, who let me do shitty things like eat only the middles of Oreos and rub a brick of cheese on the front of the refrigerator because I had an “independent spirit.” So, basically when I wanted something, I ended up getting it.

One of these things was a trip to Disneyworld, which I got during Christmas of 1985. I had just turned five, and things could not be better for a five-year-old than to spend actual Christmas fucking day at Disneyworld. Now, I’m not telling you all this stuff about my totally entitled childhood to make you super jealous. Although you should be, because my childhood was rad. I am just telling you all this so that you understand what was going on in my mind the day I did this horrible, horrible thing.

It went down at Epcot center, in the World Showcase section of the park. My grandparents and I were dining in the Aztec pyramid that represents Mexico on the tour of nations assembled around the vast central lagoon. As a five-year-old from the midwest who had been exposed to every variation of cheese-and-potato-potluck-dish under the sun, my palate was not impressed at the variety of flavors present in my Mexican dinner, so I asked my grandparents if I could leave the table and visit the little gift shop we saw on our way in.

Because my grandparents are too trusting of the world in general, they said, “Sure, Jenny, totally go to that little gift shop full of grown up strangers and breakable merchandise.” And so, I went. The gift shop was very much like any Disney gift shop, full of toys and light up shit and t-shirts, but it also had a section of hand-worked glass items. I guess people are really optimistic about their chances of carrying an insanely fragile spiderweb of glass threads woven into the shape of a swan out of the park, into their luggage, through the airport and home. But it’s not my place to judge what other people spend their money on.

I knew better than to touch. Lord, I knew better. I’d had my hands smacked at the grocery store more times than I could remember, and that was from touching yogurt and poking the beef tongues through the packaging. I couldn’t help it then, can’t help it now. I like the squish. But the point is, I knew so much better than what I was about to do. In fact, I wasn’t even tempted to touch anything. It was a bunch of boring glass stuff.

Then, I saw it. A tiny glass unicorn with a gilded horn winking seductively up at five-year-old me. It had wings, too, so I guess that made it a pegasus. A unisus? A pegicorn? Something like that. It was a winged unicorn, and around the base of each wing dangled a wreath of glass flowers in sparkling, translucent pastels. This was pure magic, and I was totally unsupervised.

Well, unsupervised except for the lady standing next to me. I can remember everything about this woman. She had a long, brown trenchcoat on (remember, it was the week of Christmas, so it was actually kind of cold out), and her hair was that oddly unnatural honey-gold-brown color all the moms were dying their hair in 1985. It was long and swept up and into a banana clip. The nearest comparison I can give you to really illustrate what she looked like is, “Imagine Natalie from Forever Knight, but give her worse hair somehow.” As she perused the glass objects, she would carefully pick one up, turn it this way and that, and then set it carefully back down, all the time sparing distrustful glances for the unsupervised five-year-old standing waaaaay too close to all this glass shit.

I decided that the best way to touch the unicorn and look like a serious customer would be to imitate what this lady had been doing. I reached out with authority, picked up the unicorn, turned it this way and that, and then, out of nowhere came an explosion of glass at my feet. In my careful turning about and examination of the unicorn, one of the little flower wreaths slipped off the wing and smashed spectacularly at my feet.

Now, I reached a critical moment, a time when seconds seemed to last for years. I had no idea how much the unicorn could possibly cost. A hundred dollars? A thousand? Three cents? I was five-years-old, I had no fucking clue how much baloney cost, let alone a stunningly crafted glass Epcot unicorn. I had these horrible visions of having to sit on a time-out chair in a circle of cold white light, while the dark, indistinct shape of Mickey Mouse loomed over me, demanding answers. Or would they send the big guns? Would they send Mary Poppins to shame me? Nothing could have frightened me more than the idea that Mary Poppins herself might show up to express her displeasure.

I put the unicorn down with the speed and dexterity of a 19th century urchin picking pockets, pointed my chubby little finger directly at the lady beside me (who had seen the entire thing go down) and shouted at the top of my lungs, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

Every eye in the gift shop turned to this poor lady, holding a miniature spun glass teapot, who was standing awfully close to a lot of broken glass on the floor. That was my moment. I ran out of the shop as fast as I could, and never looked back.

I’m aware now, as an adult, that the consequences for breaking that unicorn at Disneyworld were probably going to be somewhere between “nothing” and “extra nothing.” It’s Disney. They expect there will be kids there, and I’m sure they expect that shit is going to get broken. But I didn’t know that at the time. And just to be sure, when we took my son to Disneyworld in 2007, we cautiously avoided the Mexico pavilion.

Welp, it’s official. Life fucking sucks and we’re all doomed: 50 Shades fanfic is being published as a novel. As J Bridger suggested in the comments section of the last recap, perhaps E.L. James will sue for copyright infringement. Also, maybe this is the year I quit writing and start working in a cigarette factory because that industry has some integrity compared to my industry right now.

Oh. There’s also a magazine now. So, the seas should be turning to blood at any minute.

We last left Ana standing outside of Chedward’s apartment, as Chedward, Taylor, Ryan Reynolds and that guy from Lost combed over it in search of a mysterious intruder.  No, wait, Sawyer had to stay in the hall with Ana, that’s right, because this happens to him:

“Taylor, Mr. Grey has entered the apartment.” He flinches and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.

This is how I imagine Taylor’s sweep of the apartment, by the way:

“Sorry, Miss Steele. This won’t take long.” Sawyer holds up both hands in a defensive gesture. “Taylor and the guys are just coming into the apartment now.”

Wait, Christian went into the apartment ahead of his security team? So, why is he bothering to pay them to protect him, if he won’t wait for them to do their job? Talk about control freak, he’s willing to bet his life on it.

Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my aggravated breathing.

I don’t know, Ana, your posture seems kind of stiff to me. (Click here, you know what’s coming)

I have no idea how much time passes, and still we hear nothing. Surely no sound is good – there are no gunshots.

What about in the beginning of The Professional, where Leon slips a garrote around the dude’s neck and kills him silently? I can think of a bunch of ways to kill Christian Grey that wouldn’t be loud. Poison, smothering, slit his throat before he can yell, break his neck, chloroform him and drag him to a secondary location where I’ve got a Dexter-esque plastic wrap set-up waiting for him…

Look, it’s not like I’ve been thinking of this a lot, or anything.

Full disclosure: when I wrote the part about the garrote, I thought to myself, “You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that movie… it’s possible that Leon doesn’t use a garrote at all. I should check that out. To the DVDs!”

I’ve never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious – the Madonna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd.

You haven’t really looked at them before because E.L. James suddenly needed a device to “foreshadow” information about Christian’s mother. Ana noticed so many little details about the art, the lighting, the layout, etc. on the first time she was in the apartment, I’m no longer buying that she just “hasn’t noticed” different rooms or, you know, huge art collections in the first fucking room off the elevator. Because I will not humor bad writing. If he had a mansion or a castle, I get not noticing something. If she didn’t constantly comment on the art everywhere she goes, I would buy, “Oh hey, I just never looked at them.” But in the real world, people tend to notice little shit like, “Oh hey, the guy I’m dating has sixteen paintings of the Virgin Mary in his foyer.” You notice, because that really is kind of strange.

Christian isn’t religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts – these are so different.

If they’re so different, a girl as astoundingly bright as Ana should have noticed them.

Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.

He spun like a top, did he? So, he’s whirling around in circles, gun drawn? I wish I could see it, because just imagining it is hilarious.

Christian comes out the door and gives the all clear, because he’s apparently a security guy now. Why not?

“Taylor is overreacting,” Christian grumbles as he holds out his hand to me.

Dude, you’re the one who hired him. It must be awesome to work for Christian. “You must protect me, I am in grave danger. You have no idea how very grave the dangerous danger I am in is, but I assure you: it is quite grave. The graviest. You must protect me, big, strong Taylor.” And then, the second some shit goes down and Taylor just does his job, it’s all, “Taylor, you big silly fraidy cat, there’s no danger! And now your overreaction has delayed my fucking!”

What a tool. I hope Christian fires Taylor, and then Taylor can get a better job. One fighting the Predator in South America.

Ana is so relieved that Christian isn’t dead, she has to spend a paragraph rhapsodizing about how hot he is. Then she bitches a little about how difficult his exes are, then they go into the apartment. Then Christian says:

“Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don’t think she’s here.”

So, the apartment hasn’t even been checked out yet, and you still brought Ana inside? While Leila, the totally off-the-rails ex-sub who may or may not have a gun could still be hiding inside? That’s totally sensible of you.

“Why would she be here?” It makes no sense.

“Exactly.”

Ana and Christian should never try to open any kind of detective agency. Here’s why:

IF SHE IS TRYING TO KILL CHRISTIAN, THE FIRST PLACE SHE WOULD GO IS TO HIS APARTMENT. WE KNOW THAT THIS IS WHAT SHE WOULD DO BECAUSE SHE HAS DONE SO BEFORE.

Ana asks Christian if Leila could get in, and Christian shoots that down, calling Taylor “overcautious.” Well, funny how it works, Christian, when you hire someone to be cautious on your behalf in matters of life and death, they tend to do exactly that. Because if you die, not only do they lose their job, it also looks terrible on their CV. “Last guy I guarded died.” Well, not hiring him, then, am I?

And here’s another, even more confusing aspect to this sudden, “Taylor sucks at his job and he’s way too careful” angle that Christian is trying to work. As an author, it’s E.L. James’s job to make the reader feel the tension of the situation. We’re supposed to really feel that Ana is in danger here, aren’t we? Otherwise, what is the point of the entire Leila plot? But if you’ve got the main characters saying, “Well, there’s really nothing dangerous happening here,” then you’re destroying that tension. Or, making them look really, really stupid. In this case? She’s managing to achieve both.

Ana asks Christian if he searched his playroom:

Christian glances quickly at me, his brow creasing. “Yes, it’s locked – but Taylor and I checked.”

I bet the reason Taylor knows about the playroom is that Chedward bottoms for Taylor all the time. You just know that Taylor is a Dom.

For the second time on this page, Christian suggests that Ana go to bed. “There might be someone hiding in your closed, but sweet dreams!” Amiright? He takes Ana to his bedroom and she gives him the note from Mrs. Robinson. Because now, when your car has been vandalized and a killer might be in your boyfriend’s apartment, now is the time to discuss this?

“Are you going to call the police about the car?” I ask as I turn around.

He sweeps my hair out of the way, his fingers softly grazing my naked back, and tugs down my zipper.

“No. I don’t want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don’t want them here. We just have to double our efforts to find her.” he leans down and plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.

This should be a big clue to Ana that the bodies of the other subs, the ones who didn’t escape after faking a suicide attempt in front of the housekeeper, are buried in the walls of the apartment. Otherwise, why on earth wouldn’t you call the police over a vandalized automobile and a possible stalker/intruder?

You know why? Because the plot is half-baked, so the only option in order to keep the book going is to have the characters actively resist participating in said plot in any meaningful way. It’s clear at this point that the Leila subplot is, like all the other subplots in this book, just there to fill out time between lackluster sex scenes. The outcome is rigged, and the main characters clearly know it, because they won’t take even a half-hearted stab at self-preservation. There is no reason for the reader to invest in their peril, because we already know that it’s not going to be perilous. It would get in the way of the fucking.

Later, back at the ranch:

I wake with a jolt, disoriented. Have I been asleep? Blinking in the dim glow the hallway casts through the slightly open bedroom door, I notice that Christian is not with me. Where is he? I glance up. Standing at the end of the bed is a shadow. A woman, maybe? Dressed in black? It’s difficult to tell.

Ana screams for help, and the security team comes running. Just kidding!

In my befuddled state, I reach across and switch on the bedside light, then turn back to look but there’s no one there. I shake my head. Did I imagine it? Dream it?

No, it was probably this guy:

Ana sits up, looks around the room, decides she’s alone and goes out to look for Christian. Not to tell him that there was a person standing at the foot of his bed on the same night there was a possible B&E at his house, oh no. She just wants to know where he is, and blames the figure at the end of the bed on her overactive imagination.

Ana finds Christian in his study, on the phone:

“I don’t know why you’re calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you… well, you can tell me now. You don’t have to leave a message.”

I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily. Who is he talking to?

“No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?” 

He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.

“I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me?… Good. Good night.” He slams the phone down on the desk.

Raise your hand if you actually believe Elena called Christian in the middle of the night. I know that’s how it’s written, but holy hell, can I see that going down in reverse and making way more sense based on what we know of the characters.

What is the obsession with Christian repeating everything twice? He told Ana to go to bed twice, he’s telling Elena to leave Ana alone twice… this book could be a lot shorter if Christian wasn’t so into repeating himself.

This chapter really made something jump out at me. See where she says Christian sounds “belligerent and angry?” Okay, those are pretty much the same thing. Belligerent means hostile, and anger is “a strong feeling of displeasure and usually antagonism.” So, why both? Because someone bought E.L. James a Word-A-Day calendar, and now we all have to suffer for it. There are ten dollar words awkwardly shoehorned into this entire book, but it’s never so evident as in this specific chapter.

Ana gets up the courage to knock on the door, and Chedward is so angry it frightens her. But then he tells her she looks beautiful in his t-shirt, so everything is magically okay. And Ana still doesn’t mention that, hey, there was a fucking intruder in your bedroom. Even if you think you imagined that, wouldn’t you mention it? Just in case?

NO! Because it would get in the way of the fucking!

He rises slowly out of the chair, still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and full of promise… but there’s a trace of sadness, too.

How is wearing a white shirt and black pants in any way contradictory to the look in his eyes?

“Do you know what you mean to me?” he murmurs. “If something happened to you, because of me…” His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable.

Only if you’re touching his face. But if he’s seriously that worried about it, he could call the police.

I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly soft. “Your beard grows quickly,” I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up man who stands before me.

This kind of makes it sound like she thinks it’s fucked up that his beard grows quickly.

I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his lips parted. I run my index finger along the line and he closes his eyes.

Hold up a second. Was this the lipstick line she traced over his body like two chapters ago? So that he was wearing a skin-colored vest? What the hell, how is it still there? They’ve had sex twice, then went to a party at his parent’s house where there was dancing and more fucking, so that’s three times having sex, wearing clothing that’s rubbing all over while you’re dancing, then all the way home and into the house, I’m sorry, NO. The lipstick would not still be there. Also, he never took a fucking shower before he went to the party at his parent’s house? The big, fancy, raise-a-million-dollars black tie party, and he couldn’t be bothered to wash? He’d had sex with Ana twice before they got to that party. Not only would the lipstick line not be there, you know what would be there? Stink lines, the kind that come off smelly cartoon people. That’s what would be there. And the smell would probably be fantastic, like honeysuckle and lollipops, because that’s what Ana’s perfect hooch smells like.

Seriously, I know that long wear lipstick exists. My son walked around our seven day Disney vacation with a kiss on his forehead that he got from Snow White on day one. Every picture we have of that vacation looks like it happened on the same day, because that lipstick was staying put. But you know what else? It was on his forehead, and he wouldn’t let us wash it, like, at all. It would have come off, if he hadn’t treated his forehead like a fucking shrine to Snow White’s eternal promise to marry him (which, by the way, it totally was). What I’m saying is, unless Christian Grey had the same steadfast determination as a four-year-old autistic to avoid sweating, rubbing, or general touching of that lipstick on his skin, it’s not going to be there.

Ana slowly takes Christian’s shirt off, and then she orders him into the bedroom where, gosh, it’s a little chilly. I wonder why… oh, THE BALCONY DOORS ARE OPEN.

I don’t remember doing that. I recall scanning the room when I woke. The door was definitely closed.

I don’t remember you looking at the door, and I’m literally in your head. But whatever you need to build suspense, Ana.

Ana FINALLY gets around to telling Christian that, oh, hey, there was a person standing at the foot of your bed and I didn’t mention it until now. Christian makes Ana get dressed in his sweatpants because it’s far too dangerous for her to go upstairs to where the wardrobe he bought her is. It wasn’t too dangerous for her to come into the apartment before it was checked out by security, though. He gets on the phone:

“She’s still fucking here,” he hisses down the phone.

Well, wait. If the balcony doors were closed when Ana woke up, and now they’re open, doesn’t that mean that she left? But be super careful now, Christian, it will make up for you not giving a shit earlier, when you almost got your girlfriend killed.

Approximately three seconds later, Taylor and one of the other security guys burst into Christian’s bedroom. Christian gives them a precis of what has happened.

“How long ago?” Taylor demands, staring at me all business-like. He’s still wearing his jacket. Does this man ever sleep?

Does this man ever stop being interesting?

“She knows the apartment like the back of her hand,” says Christian. “I am taking Anastasia away now. She’s hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?”

“Tomorrow evening, sir.”

“She’s not to return until this place is secure. Understand?” Christian snaps.

Wait, wait, wait. It was totally okay for your girlfriend to enter the apartment before it was secure, but not your housekeeper? And what happened to this all being an overreaction, she would never come to the apartment, she couldn’t get in, anyway, and Taylor was being too careful by checking to see if she was hiding? None of this makes any sense.

Taylor asks if Christian is going to go to his parents’ house, and Christian doesn’t want to bring trouble to them, so he asks Taylor to book him a hotel. And then it’s Ana’s turn to be stupid, because she hasn’t had a chance in oh, so very, very long:

“Aren’t we all overreacting slightly?” I ask.

Christian glowers at me. “She may have a gun,” he growls.

She may have a sword. Or a potted plant.

“Christian, she was standing at the end of the bed. She could have shot me then if that’s what she wanted to do.”

Shooting someone in a dark room isn’t as easy as you might think, Ana. Also, it doesn’t matter why she’s there, it’s pretty freaking hostile to break into someone’s house and watch them sleeping.

Christian disappears into his closet while the security guy watches me. I can’t remember his name, Ryan maybe. He looks alternately down the hall and to the balcony windows. Christian emerges a couple of minutes later with a leather messenger bag, wearing jeans and a pinstriped blazer. He drapes a denim jacket around my shoulders.

“Oh, hey, there wasn’t enough time for you to not be wearing my sweatpants and the t-shirt you slept in, but plenty of time for me to put on a blazer and pack.” Unless that’s a bug out bag. That would be hilarious, if he had such a history of mentally unstable girlfriends that he actually had a bug out bag in his closet at all times.

“I can’t believe she could hide somewhere in here,” I mutter, staring out the balcony doors.

“It’s a big place. You haven’t seen it all yet.”

What the fuck? Is it the TARDIS? The only reason she “hasn’t seen it all yet” is because E.L. James wants to leave her options open, in case she wants to add some new place for them to fuck later. How on earth are people not seeing this?

Yesterday, I tweeted that I was so furious at this book, I couldn’t finish the recap. I’m sure that a lot of you who read that tweet thought that I was angry about the abusive relationship or the forced birth control, or some fresh hell I’d yet to share with you. Nope. I was mad because the writing is so pathetically bad, and people are arguing that it isn’t. There are really people out there who think this book is super well-written, and that plunges me to such depths of crushing despair that I could not continue writing the recap.

But now I’m fresh and invigorated, so let’s keep going:

“Why don’t you just call her… tell her you want to talk to her?”

“Anastasia, she’s unstable, and she may be armed,” he says irritably.

And with the crushing despair, again. Cheward already told Ana earlier in the chapter that he didn’t want to involve the police, because Leila is mentally not all there and doesn’t need “police intervention.” Christian wanted to find her and deal with it himself. Now, Ana is saying, “Why don’t you just deal with it yourself,” and he’s saying, “No, because that’s too dangerous.” But rather than call the police, he’s going to go on the run with Ana. This is not a viable option, Christian. You can’t just keep running away until she gets tired of chasing you. You either have to call the police or deal with it yourself. Those are the options, and you’re rejecting both. Why?

Drumroll please…

There isn’t enough plot in this book to sustain it over the five hundred (yes, five fucking hundred) pages it’s sprawled across. If Christian had called the police when she tried to kill herself in his house, or filed a PPO when she showed up outside of Ana’s workplace (the suicide attempt, approaching Ana, and getting a concealed carry license would have been enough for them to grant a restraining order), then most of this would already be handled. But this is a Twilight fanfic, first and foremost. When the vampire James is stalking Bella, the Cullens can’t involve the police, so as Leila the ex-sub is stalking Ana, so must the police also not be involved. The problem is, E.L. James (and apparently her editors as well) didn’t understand that when the characters aren’t vampires, this plot doesn’t work. The characters just bumble around in a trap of their own making, while the reader keeps wondering, “Hey… why not call the cops?”

“Supposing she tries to shoot Taylor?”

“Taylor knows and understands guns,” he says with distaste. “He’ll be quicker with a gun than she is.”

“Ray was in the army. He taught me to shoot.”

Christian raises his eyebrows and for a moment looks utterly bemused. “You, with a gun?” he says incredulously.

“Yes.” I am affronted. “I can shoot, Mr. Grey, so you’d better beware. It’s not just crazy ex-subs you need to worry about.”

You know what’s funny about shooting, Ana? You need a gun to do it. Since Leila has one (I guess?) and you don’t, your ability to shoot carries about as much weight as a hummingbird’s fart in a stiff breeze. But look at how quick Christian is to express “distaste” over the idea of his bodyguard knowing how to use a gun. What the fuck was he supposed to be protecting Christian with all these years? Long range karate? Is this The Pink Panther?

Because Taylor is a better boyfriend than Christian, he’s packed Ana a suitcase of her own clothes. Yup, that’s right. Christian went and packed for himself, but he was going to leave Ana twisting in the wind. It’s our dream man Taylor who did the polite thing and thought of Ana. And because of this, this exchange happens:

Before I can stop myself I hug him, hard. He’s taken by surprise, and when I release him, he’s pink in both cheeks.

“Be careful,” I murmur.

“Yes, Miss Steele,” he mutters, embarrassed.

Christian frowns at me and then looks questioningly at Taylor, who smiles very slightly and adjusts his tie.

I don’t know if I’m more annoyed that Taylor appears to genuinely like Ana (Taylor, how could you?!), or that Christian is irritated by his girlfriend being concerned about another human being’s life.

Taylor gives Christian a credit card, and then agent Ryan takes Christian and Ana down to the garage, where Ana surveys the damage to her Audi. Then this happens:

“How could she have known it was my car?”

He glances anxiously at me and sighs. “She had an Audi A3. I buy one for all my submissives – it’s one of the safest cars in its class.”

Ana points out that it wasn’t a graduation present, if he gives them to all of his submissives, and he argues that since she never actually submitted, it was a graduation present. Ana asks Christian if he still wants her to be his submissive, and, um, not really the time, Ana. You’re sort of on the run from a crazy vampire from a crazy ex.

I gaze out of the window, trying to rationalize my exhausted, overactive mind. If she’d wanted to hurt me, she had ample opportunity in the bedroom.

Leila can’t hurt you in the bedroom, she’s a sub. (Click here)

Christian tells Ana that he no longer hopes that she’ll be a sub for him, and Ana is worried that she’s not enough for him.

“You’re more than enough. For the love of God, Anastasia, what do I have to do?”

Tell me about yourself. Tell me you love me.

Or you could ask him about himself, or tell him that you love him, instead of just waiting for him to volunteer this shit.

She does ask him something, and that was why he thought she would leave him if Dr. Flynn had told her “everything”:

He sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment, and for the longest time he doesn’t answer. “You cannot begin to understand the depths of my depravity, Anastasia. And it’s not something I want to share with you.”

You wanted to before, remember? Like when you were wailing on her with a fucking belt? Have we forgotten that?

“And you really think I’d leave if I knew?” My voice is high, incredulous. Doesn’t he understand that I love him? “Do you think so little of me?”

This is a nifty trap an abuser sets up. What happens is, the abuser thinks so little of himself (or pretends to think so little of himself) that the victim immediately rushes to the position of, “I don’t care how fucked up you think you are, I am not like the other girls, I will stay with you.” Once the abuser has the victim in that position, the victim can’t leave. If she leaves, it’s giving up. It’s throwing in the towel. It’s quitting. And those are all things that strong, independent women of the world don’t do, right? Also, by leaving, the victim is letting the abuser down, and confirming all of those negative things the abuser thinks (or pretends to think) about himself. And since the victim loves the abuser, she doesn’t want to hurt him. At this point, Ana is trapped. She has to be with him forever, or break out of the victim mindset.

I bet I know how it ends:

“I know you’ll leave,” he says sadly.

“Christian… I think that’s veyr unlikely. I can’t imagine being without you.” Ever…

Probably best not to mention that last “ever…” while you’re both actively fleeing his psychotic stalker ex. Might make him a leeeetle bit jumpy.

“You left me once – I don’t want to go there again.”

Okay, is it really “leaving” someone if you didn’t live together and you had only been dating for like, two weeks? I think of “leaving” as being in a committed relationship and separating your belongings and shit like that. Not breaking up after two weeks of dating. And they weren’t even really dating, they were just fucking due to sex contract.

Ana asks Christian if he saw Elena after the breakup, which Christian denies:

“I didn’t go anywhere last weekend. I sat and made the glider you gave me. Took me forever,” he adds quietly.

Wasn’t that a kid’s model?

My heart clenches again. Mrs. Robinson said she saw him.

Did she or didn’t she? She’s lying. Why?

“Contrary to what Elena thinks, I don’t rush to her with all my problems, Anastasia. I don’t rush to anybody. You may have noticed – I’m not much of a talker.” He tightens his hold on the steering wheel.

Maybe you should have gone to her for help with the glider, if it took you that long. His comment about not being a talker leads to Ana asking him about what Carrick told her re: Christian not talking after his mom died, which he doesn’t confirm. He does talk about Mia and how much he loves her, to which Ana makes some comment about Mia trying to keep them apart at the banquet.

Oh, and all this time they’re driving on the highway, just in case they’ve been followed. Now I’m starting to think they’re being a little overcautious, myself.

Ana asks Christian about his relationship with Elena, and he reasserts that it was all consensual and good for him. Then he complains that Ana is able to “inveigle” information out of people. Except, “inveigle” means getting information out of people with deceit or flattery… Ana is actually pretty straightforward when she’s talking to people. She’s certainly being straightforward in the scene.

They get to the hotel, where Ana is pretty sure that the valet looks surprised at their arrival because they’re so late. If it’s so unthinkable that people would arrive late, why does the hotel have a third shift valet? They go inside to check in as Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, where the requisite stunned female waits to ogle Christian hungrily:

Of course, she’s overawed by Christian. I roll my eyes as she flushes crimson and stutters. Even her hands are shaking.

“Do… you need a hand… with your bags, Mr. Taylor?” she asks, going scarlet again.

So, here we have Ana criticizing another woman for acting exactly the same way she acts all the freaking time. How dare this slutty, slutty slattern FLUSH CRIMSON in the presence of Christian Grey! It’s unconscionable!

When Christian refers to Ana as his wife, Ana actually hides her hands because there’s no ring on her finger. I love how Ana naturally assumes that the girl at the desk is going to a) check out her finger to see if it’s true and b) call her on it.

By the way, I have never once checked into a hotel where I didn’t have to show photo identification to get a room. So, I don’t know how this whole “I’m Mr. Taylor” thing is working.

Ana refers to the receptionist as “Miss Flushing Crimson,” which actively makes me want to reach into the book and slap the shit out of her. Are you kidding me with this? You’re going to give her a derogatory name for something you do all the time? That would be like me calling someone a pothead in a negative way. It would be pothead/kettle.

In the room, Christian pours them some drinks and they stand by the fireplace, making infuriating conversation:

“You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today – or yesterday, rather – you’re not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You’re very strong.”

NO. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. Just repeatedly having a character say the same thing over and over about Ana does not alter her characterization. It doesn’t pull the wool over my eyes. It shouldn’t pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. Ana isn’t strong. She wasn’t able to successfully stay broken up for more than five days. She hasn’t picked up the phone and called the police to protect herself, because she’s waiting for Christian to protect her. And how fucking often are we going to have to read Christian saying, “I am in awe of you.” What is there to be in awe of? Her mind-boggling stupidity at every turn of the page? Her inability to think for herself? Her towering misogyny? Tell me, please, Chedward, tell me what is so awe fucking inspiring about your  too stupid to live girlfriend, because I am DYING to know.

Oh, Christian, what do I have to do to make you realize how I feel?

Let him beat you, my subconscious sneers.

Oh hey… maybe I’m Ana’s subconscious.

To lighten the mood, Ana brings up Jose. Actually, she asks where Christian is going to hang Jose’s pictures, and then it’s time for the sexy:

Very bravely – emboldened by the brandy, no doubt – I take Christian’s hand and pull him toward the bedroom.

So, just be aware, ladies, the bar for bravery has been lowered for us. It used to be “rescue a toddler from a burning building,” now it’s “fuck you boyfriend.” In other news, words don’t mean anything anymore.

They start to get down, and the lipstick is still on him (bullshit), and then there is another astounding feat of bravery for us to be “in awe” at:

Taking a deep breath and beyond courageous, I reach for the hem of my t-shirt and lift it over my head so I am naked before him.

Courageous. Used to apply to pulling unconscious drivers from burning, wrecked automobiles, now means getting naked in front of your boyfriend (who has seen you naked plenty of times). Also, words continue to not mean a goddamned thing anymore.

They have sex, the word “avaricious” is used, and then it turns into a Kathleen Woodiwiss novel:

“You’re going to unman me, Ana,” he whispers suddenly, breaking away from me and kneeling up.

Unman? I literally have not seen that used in romantic fiction since the very, very early ’90’s. In historical romances.

His head rests on my belly, his arms wrapped around me. My fingers forage in his unruly hair, and we lie like this for I don’t know how long.

He’s come a long way, as have I, in such a short time. It’s almost too much to absorb. With all the fucked-up stuff, I am losing sight of his simple, honest journey with me.

Words continue to not mean things, and also I cry tears of blood. He hasn’t come a long way. He hasn’t really come anywhere. No matter what Ana says, Christian still is getting everything he wants. He’s still manipulating her. And she hasn’t come a long way, she’s exactly the same person as she was when we first met her on page one of Fifty Shades of Grey. Just now, she’s had sex. Big whoop.

When they wake up in the morning, Christian informs Ana that Dr. Greene will be there shortly. Because even in an apparently life threatening stalker emergency, Christian Grey will see that the needs of his penis are met.

Ana thinks about how she doesn’t want another Audi, but that she doesn’t have a choice. If I were her, I would ask for a better car. But if I were her, I wouldn’t be dating Chedward, either. She goes to the dining room of the suite and finds Christian eating breakfast. He tells her she’s going to need her strength today. I’m thinking he doesn’t understand what a gynecologist visit entails, if he thinks you need to bolster your strength for it. Then he tells Ana he just plans to go out and get some fresh air. Since Ana is a frail and wilting Victorian, she clearly is going to need to eat so that she doesn’t faint dead away from such physical exertion. Or something. Then Dr. Greene arrives.

We’re in the bedroom, and Dr. Greene is staring at me openmouthed. She’s dressed more casually than last time, in a pale pink cashmere twin set and black pants, and her fine blonde hair is loose.

“And you just stopped taking it? Just like that?”

I flush, feeling beyond foolish.

“Yes.” Could my voice be any smaller?

“You could be pregnant,” she says matter-of-factly.

Wait, what? That’s not how the pill works. You don’t take it to avoid spontaneous pregnancy, and if you stop taking it you get pregnant. She would have had to have unprotected sex, which they did, but I believe she was on her period at that time. Now, I realize that it’s technically possible to have unprotected sex on your period and still get pregnant, but the pill wouldn’t have been effective then, either, because she’d just started taking it. And after she and Christian got back together, they were having protected sex. So, yes, I suppose she could be pregnant, but it seems pretty fucking unlikely.

Still, we have to go through the agony of Ana taking a pregnancy test and worrying about what “Fifty” will do when he finds out that she’s preggers. Only after the pregnancy test does Dr. Greene ask when Ana’s last period was, and then she shames Ana for her irresponsibility before giving her the results of the test:

“You’re in the clear. You’ve not ovulated yet, so provided you’ve been taking proper precautions, you shouldn’t be pregnant. Now, let me counsel you about this shot. We discounted it last time because of the side effects, but quite frankly, the side effects of a child are far-reaching and go on for years.” She smiles, pleased with herself and her little joke, but I can’t begin to respond – I’m too stunned.

Okay, the part about “You’ve not ovulated” and “you shouldn’t be pregnant,” those could have happened before telling Ana she could be pregnant and taking a pregnancy test. OB/GYNs know this shit. It would have been the first thing she asked. Plus, how is she telling whether or not Ana has ovulated based on a pregnancy test? And wait a second… any good doctor would have asked Ana if she wants the shot, rather than take her boyfriend’s word for it, right? So, I’m guessing Dr. Greene isn’t a very good doctor.

Dr. Green launches into full disclosure mode about side effects, and I sit paralyzed with relief, not listening to a word. I think I’d tolerate any number of strange women standing at the end of my bed rather than confess to Christian that I might be pregnant.

Then you need to not be having sex. Or grown up relationships. No, wait, not having sex, because as you’re sitting there thinking, “Gosh, it would be super icky to have to tell Christian I’m pregnant,” you’re ignoring what the doctor is telling you about the medicine you are relying on to not get pregnant.

There’s another page of needless and overwrought drama about how Ana could have been pregnant, but isn’t:

He furrows his brow at me, puzzled. “My reaction? Well, naturally I’m relieved… it would be the height of carelessness and bad manners to knock you up.”

“Then maybe we should abstain,” I hiss.

Yes, you should, because you’re not emotionally ready for the responsibility of sex.

He gazes at me for a moment, bewildered, as if I’m some kind of science experiment. “You are in a bad temper this morning.”

Force birth control does that to a person.

“Ana, I’m not used to this,” he murmurs. “My natural inclination is to be it out of you, but I seriously doubt you want that.”

Your “natural inclination” is to beat her? WHY ARE SO MANY WOMEN SO IN LOVE WITH THIS BOOK?

They go and take a long and stupidly drama-filled shower, in which they argue over whether or not Christian is worthy of love:

“I can’t hear this. I’m nothing, Anastasia. I’m a husk of a man. I don’t have a heart.”

Okay, this is where I separate the nerd men from the nerd boys (even though I suspect the readership of this blog is mostly female…). When Christian says he’s a “husk,” the first thing I thought of was:

“Yes, you do. And I want it, all of it. You’re a good man, Christian, a really good man. Don’t ever doubt that. Look at what you’ve done… what you’ve achieved,” I sob. “Look at what you’ve done for me… what you’ve turned your back on, for me,” I whisper. “I know. I know how you feel about me.”

Okay, yeah, Christian Grey has achieved a lot. But so did like, Hitler, Mussolini, Pol Pot, Franco, Peron, they all achieved stuff and I don’t see people lining up to love them into wellness. And what has he done for Ana, really? He’s beaten her, he’s made her cry hysterically at the drop of a hat, he’s earned her a stalker, he’s controlled her career, he bought her a bunch of shiny toys that serve as leashes, he’s isolated her from her friends and family… and what else? Nothing of value. Oh, he gave her orgasms. I forgot about those. Orgasms trump everything. And what did he supposedly give up? His fetish. That’s what he gave up. She gave up her family, her friends, her emotional well-being, her independence, but he doesn’t get to cane anyone, so it all evens out.

By the way, the way he feels about her? He loves her. She says he loves her and he agrees, and the chapter is over.

In the past, I have tried to put up a recap twice a week. Unfortunately, I have a looming deadline. It’s actually not looming. It’s sort of… passed. So, I’m late with a book. I need to get it finished, so count on one recap per week for the next couple of weeks, until I get my work done.

Today, my friend Warnement was telling me about this funny website where owners shame their dogs. I was like, “Shave their dogs?” and he was like “Shame them,” and I was like, “Aha, Joe! I told you yesterday when they were talking about this on the radio in the car that the dj said ‘shamed’ and you were like, ‘he said shaved, why don’t you get the wax out of your ears?’ and look who is flying high now on a rainbow of promises. This foxy lady right here!”

There may have been a celebratory dance involved.

If you are unfamiliar with what I’m talking about, there is a website where people submit photos, more like mugshots, if you will, of their guilty looking dogs beside hand written signs that explain what it was the dog did bad. Sometimes, the dog is pictured at the scene of the crime, or with evidence of his or her doggy wrong doing. Some of them don’t look guilty at all, which is even better. There is actually a chihuahua who looks like a hardened criminal facing a long sentence, but who has a tattoo of the Chinese character for YOLO. The site is here, but it’s not safe for work. The first link on the right hand side is of a woman getting her butthole tatooed. And apparently, she loved it. Emphasis mine.

You get the idea, right? Well, I decided that if it worked with dogs, it has to work with humans, right? And there are all these annoying things my husband does. So, I decided to call him out on them. And he was a great sport about it: