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Okay, some links for you all.

50 Shades Generator, courtesy of Tanya Eby, AKA Blunder Woman. Actually, her husband found it. So, you know, they’re good for something, am I right, ladies?

This is the funniest 50 Shades twitter parody.

In The Beginning, There Was Fanfic: From The Four Gospels To Fifty Shades is a really cool article on fanfiction, how it got started, the way the community functioned before the internet, and touches on the 50 Shades phenomenon. The author raises an interesting point:

 As one leading fanfic site claims, “the majority of Twilight fanfic is porn”. Many of these stories will sound spookily familiar. In one: His Personal Assistant (2009), “Bella Swan, personal assistant to handsome, rich, successful Edward Cullen, decides to make oblivious boss fall in love with her”; in another (2009) “Edward is a millionaire obsessed with Isobella Swan”. One, The Submissive by Tara Me Sue, is described as “37 chapters of juicy graphic detail”, “Think Story of O meets Twilight minus the vampire stuff”. This story, which can be found on fanfiction.net, like the others above, predates the publication of Fifty Shades by two years and was not written by EL James.

So, not only is 50 Shades of Grey plagiarized from Twilight, it’s actually plagiarized from other Twilight fanfiction. Really let that sink in a moment, the fact that people are all:

Holy shit, did I really just do that? It must be the alcohol. I’ve had champagne plus four glasses of four different wines.

Shots! Shots shots shots shots! EVERYBODY!

Ana looks at Christian, and notices that he looks happy, but she knows he’s going to be really angry.

My subconscious has finally decided to make an appearance, and she’s wearing her Edvard Munch The Scream face.

I bet E.L. James has that poster in her office. Think of how much calmer this entire book would have been if that poster had just been Monet’s Water Lilies.

Now, I’ve noted a few places in this book and the last where an otherwise fine paragraph or sentence will be ruined by something utterly creepy. To illustrate this point, I’m going to show you two excerpts out of order. This is the excerpt that is just fine. It’s actually pretty well written, and something that would get me hot in any other book:

“I don’t know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living shit out of you.”

Oh, I know what I want right now. I gaze up at him, blinking through my maks. I just wish I could read what’s in his eyes.

“I’ll take option two, please,” I whisper frantically as the applause dies down. His lips part as he inhales sharply. Oh, that chiseled mouth – I want it on me, now. I ache for him. He gives me a radiant sincere smile that leaves me breathless.

“Suffering, are you? We’ll have to see what we can do about that,” he murmurs as he runs his fingers along my jaw.

See? Taken out of the context of Chedward and Anabella, that’s actually some pretty good sexual tension. So, what was it that completely destroyed that entire passage for me? This one, that came directly before it:

Christian leans over to me, a large, fake smile plastered across his face. He kisses my cheek and then moves closer to whisper in my ear in a very cold, controlled voice.

So, read that, and go back and read the other passage, so that they’re in the correct order. Literally everything that comes after large, fake smiles and cold, controlled voices is sinister and creepy. All of it.

Things do not get better. While sitting at the same table as his sister, parents, and grandparents, Christian takes Ana’s hand and…

Slowly and surreptitiously, so I don’t realize his game until it’s too late, he eases my hand up his leg and against his erection.

His parents. His grandparents. Same table.

Taking full advantage, I slowly caress him, letting my fingers explore. Christian keeps his hand over mine, hiding my bold fingers, while his thumb skates softly over the nape of my neck. His mouth opens as he gasps softly, and it’s the only reaction I can see to my inexperienced touch. But it means so much. He wants me. Everything south of my navel contracts. This is becoming unbearable.

It sure is, Ana. Seriously, wouldn’t all of this be painfully obvious? I get that there is an auction going on, and people are watching it. But I think I would notice if someone at my table was gasping because he was getting an under-the-table-handy. No auction is that enthralling, that anyone would miss that subtle detail. Also, I don’t think Ana’s touch can be accurately described as “inexperienced” anymore. They have sex almost every chapter. Of course, as the sex piles up (lol, “sex piles”), her euphemisms do seem to be getting more general. “Everything south of my navel,” could be her cunt, but it could also be her knees. I’m kind of imagining her legs stiffening up rigor mortis style and Ana toppling from her chair.

Now, let’s learn about pronoun agreement!

A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for auction. Of course Mr. and Dr. Grey have a house in Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am barely aware of it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers, and it makes me feel so powerful.

Do you see it? Let me give you a hint:

A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for auction. Of course Mr. and Dr. Grey have a house in Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am barely aware of it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers, and it makes me feel so powerful. 

Yup. Due to clumsy writing, Ana is now jacking off Christian’s father. Or both of them. Maybe she’s got one in each hand? That has to attract some attention at the dinner table.

Ana and Christian want to sneak off and have sex, because they are at his parents’ house, after all, but Mia ruins their plan by bringing up the First Dance Auction.

“The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won’t be on the dance floor,” he murmurs lasciviously into my ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of my need. Oh yes! My inner goddess performs a perfect triple Salchow in her ice skates.

That bitch can do it all!

Christian gives Ana a kiss, and gives us all something to think about:

Glancing around, I realize that our fellow guests at the table are astonished. Of course, they’ve never seen Christian with a date before.

So, if they’re all astonished about that kiss on the cheek, what are the chances that they saw Ana fondling his dongle? Pretty high, right? He’s never appeared in public with a date before, so everyone is going to be watching him. It wouldn’t be a big deal if he was a womanizing billionaire like, oh, Tony Stark, right?

“Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!” the MC booms over the babble of voices. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies have all agreed to auction their first dance to the highest bidder!”

Oh no. I blush from head to toe. I hadn’t realized what this meant. How humiliating!

Okay, she didn’t realize what it meant when, on the last page, Mia said:

“The First Dance Auction. Come on!” 

What else could you possibly infer from the words “first dance auction”? It’s one of the most cliche fundraising events of all time, too. Seriously, what did Ana think was going to happen up on that stage?

“It’s for a good cause,” Mia hisses at me, sensing my discomfort. “Besides, Christian will win.” She rolls her eyes. “I can’t imagine him letting anyone outbid him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening.”

Mia senses her discomfort because Alice is psychic.

So, you’ve probably already deduced that this is going to be yet another chance for Ana to prove her Mary Sueishness by earning the highest bid for her first dance. You might think that you are prepared for the cliche that is to come, and that you will be able to weather the storm. You are wrong. It’s so much worse than you could have imagined.

Yes, focus on the good cause, and Christian is bound to win. Let’s face it, he’s not short of a dime or two.

But it means spending more money on you! my subconscious snarls at me. But I don’t want to dance with anyone else – I can’t dance with anyone else – and it’s not spending money on me, he’s donating it to charity. Like the $24,000 he’s already spent? My subconscious narrows her eyes.

How dramatic can one person reasonably be about how another person spends their money? Or about dancing with someone else? Ana, you’re just going to dance with someone, not fuck them. And it’s going to raise money for drug addicted parents of small children, let’s not forget that.

“Now, gentlemen, pray gather around, and take a good look at what could be yours for the first dance. Twelve comely and compliant wenches.”

Jeez! I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch, horrified, as at least twenty men make their way to the stage area, Christian included, moving with easy grace between the tables and pausing to say a few hellos on the way.

Okay, maybe I was wrong, because this is starting to sound like a really, really fancy gang bang. “Comely and compliant?” That’s a bit creepy, isn’t it? Wasn’t there a scene like this in the movie where Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman pretended to be into each other sexually, and no one was buying it? That had masks in it, didn’t it?

Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler Trevelyan-Grey – who would have known.

“How long ago?” I ask Mia.

She glances at me, nonplussed.

“How long ago was Christian brawling?”

“Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home with cut lips and black eyes. He was expelled from two schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his opponents.”

Okay, the first time I read this chapter, I totally missed the part where Mia said that there might be a brawl, so it looked like the conversation was coming out of nowhere and I was super confused. So, for all the people who say, “Who has the time to read a book multiple times just to bitch about it?” this is one of those cases that proves that if you’re going to rip something absolutely apart, you have to read it a few times or risk criticizing an element of the work that isn’t actually flawed.

However, holy fuck, is this flawed. First of all, they’re on a stage in front of three hundred guests. And they’re having this conversation about something intensely personal. Guess what, you’re not invisible, ladies. Someone is going to see you talking, someone is going to pay attention to what you’re talking about. Second, oh, hey there proof that Christian shouldn’t be involved in BDSM. If you have serious anger issues, to the point that your frequent physical assaults of other people had actual medical consequences, maybe being a Dom isn’t for you. Just saying.

We don’t find out how much the next girl goes for, because Ana stops paying attention, but the bidding is up to $4,000. Let’s recap:

• Jada went for $5,000.
• Mariah went for $4,000.
• Jill’s only mentioned bid was $4,000.

So, what do you want to bet Mr. Grey bids for Ana?

“Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, is keen on yoga… well, gentlemen -” Before he can even finish his sentence Christian interrupts him, glaring at the MC through his mask.

“Ten thousand dollars.” I hear Lily’s gasp of disbelief behind me.

Did Lily bid? Also, why is Christian glaring at the MC? The MC is doing his job.

“Fifteen.”

What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed man standing to the left of the stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit, what will he make of this? But he’s scratching his chin and giving the stranger an ironic smile. It’s obvious Christian knows him. The stranger nods politely at Christian.

OMG.  Is it Taylor? OMG. Is it Jack Hyde? OMG OMG OMG.

“Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house this evening.” The MC’s excitement emanates through his harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a great show, but it’s at my expense. I want to wail.

Full disclosure: this post took me super long to write, not because of the stuff I’m writing, but because I spent literally two hours looking at each and every “Look at all the fucks I give” macro on the damned internet because I give so few fucks about Ana’s mortification that I had to get the exact. Right. One. There were Doctor Who ones, there was one of Renee Fleming, I’m telling you, there were a lot to choose from. There was a Darth Vader in a kilt riding a unicycle and playing the bag pipes one. But ultimately, MST3K won, because they seriously do not give a fuck and neither do I. Oh, poor Ana! You’re the belle of the ball again. That must be absolutely humiliating, to have two men fighting over a dance with you to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars, while the other women have all gone for like, four. Oh, how horrifying, that such attention is being called to you, because you don’t like it, even though you fucking thrive on it, because you’re a Mary Sue so Mary Sueish that they’ll have to retire the goddamned term and start using “Anastasia Rose Steele” instead. Poor. Poor. You.

“Twenty,” counters Christian quietly.

The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring at me, Christian, and Mr. Mysterious by the stage.

“Twenty-five,” the stranger says.

Could this be any more embarrassing?

I don’t know, Ana. You could be watching it happen. Second hand embarrassment is often more crushing than actual embarrassment. Trust me, I’m having it right now, for both you and the author.

Christian stares at him impassively, but he’s amused. All eyes are on Christian. What’s he going to do? My heart is in my mouth. I feel sick.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” he says, his voice ringing clear and loud through the tent.

Okay, fine. She’s embarrassed. And it is kind of an embarrassing thing. But you know what’s more embarrassing? Being the girl who went for $4,000, when Ana went for $100,000. Just saying. I know that it buys into the whole patriarchal thing of a woman being worth what a man believes she’s worth, but this is a fun, albeit cliche, activity to raise money for a charity that helps parents of small children get off drugs. Maybe keep that in focus, take the ego stroke, and shut the fuck up about it. No one forced you to participate. Mia is overbearing, but if you had said you didn’t want to do it, she wouldn’t have made you.

Ana asks Christian who the other bidder was, and he says that he’ll tell her later. They have time for a quick fuck before the first dance actually happens, so he spirits her away to Edward Cullen’s bedroom:

“This was my room,” he says quietly, standing by the door and locking it behind him.

It’s large, stark, and sparsely furnished. The walls are white, as is the furniture; a double bed, a desk and chair, shelves crammed with books and lined with various trophies for kickboxing, by the look of them. The walls are hung with movie posters: The Matrix, Fight Club, The Truman Show, and two framed posters featuring kickboxers. One is named Guiseppe DeNatale – I’ve never heard of him.

Wait, has she heard of the other one? I love how Ana’s mind works, like she expects she’s going to have this knowledge of kickboxing because she knows fucking everything because she’s so “bright.” “Oh, Guiseppe DeNatale? I’ve never heard of him. I should comment on how I’ve never heard of him, because the reader obviously trusts that I have encyclopedic knowledge of every subject on the planet, and I wouldn’t want to mislead them. With great intelligence comes great responsibility, to paraphrase Spiderman.”

“I’ve never brought a girl in here,” he murmurs.

Oh, play her the lullaby you wrote for her, Edward! Please do!

They have a brief discussion about how she wants him to spank her, but he won’t because he said he wouldn’t do the punishment thing anymore.

“I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even if you begged me.”

“Please,” I beg.

Well, clears that up, right? He’s down to spank her if she promises to use the safe word if she needs to. And then, it’s on to our latest installment of Word Rep Theatre. Emphasis mine:

He swallows, then takes my hand, and moves toward the bed. Throwing the duvet aside, he sits down, grabs a pillow, and places it beside him. He gazes up at me standing beside him and suddenly tugs hard on my hand so that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly so my body is resting on the bed, my chest on the pillow, my face to one side. Leaning over, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on my mask.

Sometimes, word rep is unavoidable. Not these times. None of those times. It could have easily read:

He swallows, then takes my hand and moves toward the bed. Throwing the duvet aside, he sits. He gazes up at me and tugs me down, so that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly so my body is resting on the mattress, my chest on a pillow beside him, my face turned away. Leaning down, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on my mask.

Nothing of value is lost by losing the word rep. This is actually a very common mistake a lot of writers make, thinking that they have to spell things out like assembly instructions, when it’s often just a few key words that get the description across. If you don’t believe me, read Tolkien’s Fellowship of The Ring and try to find the exact description of Rivendell. Then go look at what it looks like in the movie. Hardly any of the stuff you see in the movie is described in detail by Tolkien in the novel, but everyone had the exact same image of it in their heads, so that when they went to see the movie, they saw what they had seen when they’d read the book. It might be unfair to compare any author to Tolkien, but it’s just an example. Like J.K. Rowling with Privet Drive. She doesn’t go into a lot of detail about Privet Drive, but it still showed up in the movies as looking exactly the way people imagined it in the books. It’s not about using more words or more description, it’s about using the right words. Well, that and not repeating the same words over and over and over when it can be avoided.

Christian asks Ana if she really wants to be spanked, and why:

I groan as soon as his hand makes contact with my skin. I don’t know why… you tell me not to overthink. After a day like today – arguing about the money, Leila, Mrs. Robinson, the dossier on me, the road map, this lavish party, the masks, the alcohol, the silver balls, the auction… I want this.

Let’s pick out the bad reasons from the good:

Good reasons to want to be spanked:

• All geared up from Ben Wa balls.
• Inhibitions lowered by alcohol (now, this would be a bad reason to be all, “cane me!” but a light spanking with a bare hand would probably be okay).
• The roleplay mystery of wearing masks at a fancy party gets you all revved up.

Bad reasons to want to be spanked:

• Because you feel inferior in comparison to his ex-girlfriends who were more willing to explore BDSM fantasies, and to whom you’re afraid you’re going to lose him.
• Because you argued about money.
• Because he profoundly invaded your privacy.

I have no problem with Ana getting spanked, but let’s make sure it’s because she’s horny and wants it, okay? Not because she’s trying to prove that she can be just as good at getting spanked as his exes were.

He spanks her and fingers her for the next page, and then they have sex, and it’s super sexy, with Christian saying things like:

“This is going to be quick, baby,”

Oh, how I’ve longed to hear a man say that to me, let me tell you.

“Ana, shit,” he hisses as he comes, and the tortured sound sets me off again, spiraling into a healing orgasm that goes on and on and wrings me out and leaves me spent and breathless.

“Healing orgasm” sounds like it comes directly from one of those orgasmic birth books.

So, they get done and Ana notices a picture of a woman on a bulletin board in Christian’s room. She looks familiar, but it isn’t someone she can immediately place, and Christian won’t tell her who it is.  So, it’s probably his bio mom.

They go back out to the dance floor for the first dance, and halfway through, the mysterious other bidder cuts in. It’s Dr. Flynn, Christian’s psychologist, so it’s super professional of him to be at a party at Christian’s parents’ house, right? I suppose one could make an argument that he’s a friend of  the family, but in that case, shouldn’t he not be Christian’s doctor? We have a psychologist friend of the family, and she won’t work with any of us because of ethics or whatever. Or maybe I’m wrong, maybe we’re just way too cray for her. But I’m betting it’s not cool for a psychologist to hang out with patients in their down time.

The band strikes up another song, and Dr. Flynn pulls me into his arms. he’s much younger than I imagined, though I can’t see his face. He’s wearing a mask similar to Christian’s. He’s tall, but not as tall as Christian, and he doesn’t move with Christian’s easy grace.

Just in case you were wondering, Christian is still the most handsomest, most graciest, most awesomest.

What do I say to him? Why is Christian so fucked-up? Why did he bid on me? It’s the only thing I want to ask him, but somehow that seems rude.

I like that she thinks of two things she wants to ask him, but it’s singularly “only” the “only” thing she wants to ask him. She’s so “bright.”

“I’m glad to finally meet you, Anastasia. Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks.

“I was,” I whisper.

What a charmer, ladies and gents. And to think, it only costs $100k to dance with her.

Dr. Flynn asks if he’s the reason she’s not having fun anymore, and her answer is even more gracious:

“Dr. Flynn, you’re the shrink. You tell me.”

He grins. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? The shrink bit?”

I giggle. “I’m worried what I might reveal, so I’m a little self-conscious and intimidated. And really I only want to ask you about Christian.”

I’m not a mental health professional, but I think it must get really annoying to have everyone around you feel so certain that their brains are utterly fascinating to you and that you’re going to constantly be analyzing them. I bet Dr. Flynn has heard this kind of thing so many times that he wishes he could shoot lasers out of his eyes and incinerate anyone who jokes about the fact that he’s a psychologist.

He smiles. “First, this is a party so I’m not on duty,” he whispers conspiratorially. “And second, I really can’t talk to you about Christian. Besides,” he teases, “we’d need until Christmas.”

I gasp in shock.

“That’s a doctor’s joke, Anastasia.”

I flush, embarrassed, and then feel slightly resentful. He’s making a joke at Christian’s expense. “You’ve just confirmed what I’ve been saying to Christian… that you’re an expensive charlatan,” I admonish him.

You wanna back the rude train up a fucking minute, Ana? First of all, you were totally down with Dr. Flynn spilling intimate personal details about Christian if it would help you in your quest to be OMG THE BEST GIRLFRIEND EVER WHO FIXES HIM YAY!, but when he won’t break with doctor/patient confidentiality for you, you believe he’s crossing a boundary by making a joke?  So, it’s totally okay for you to go behind Christian’s back and ask his doctor for personal info, but his doctor making a joke about it is so totally inappropriate that you call him a “charlatan?” And not just calling him that, saying that you’ve called him that in the past, when you have no idea how he runs his practice, what his methods are, or if he’s actually helping Christian at all. You decided he was a charlatan because you think you can fix Christian better, with the magical healing power of your super vagina.

Of course, rather than get offended, Dr. Flynn is utterly charmed by Ana, because this book makes no goddamned sense:

Dr. Flynn snorts with laughter. “you could be on to something there.”

Ana grills him on where he’s from (England) and why he came to America (he doesn’t tell her).

He snorts. “No, Anastasia. that you don’t give much away.”

“There’s not much to give away,” I smile.

No shit.

Their dance finishes and Christian comes back to claim her from the sinister Dr. Flynn.

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia.” He gives me his warm smile again, and I feel like I’ve passed some kind of hidden test.

Yes, because as I mentioned before, your brain is so fascinating that Dr. Flynn couldn’t help but analyze you outside of office hours.

Ana jokingly tells Christian that Dr. Flynn told her everything about him, and it turns into angst-o-rama times:

Christian tenses. “Well, in that case, I’ll get your bag. I’m sure you want nothing more to do with me,” he says softly.

I stop. “He didn’t tell me anything!” My voice fills with panic.

Christian blinks before relief floods his face. He pulls me into his arms again. “Then let’s enjoy this dance.” He beams down at me, reassuring me, and then spins me around.

Why would he think that I’d want to leave? It makes no sense.

Does anyone else feel like they’re reading about high schoolers? And not like, one high schooler and one really immature hundred year old dude who is a vampire, I mean like, two fourteen year olds? “I can’t dance with anyone else!” “You want to leave me now!” “I don’t want to leave you!” Ugh. You’re at a swanky party with lots of swanky people. Why don’t you just shut the fuck up and enjoy yourselves, already?

Ana goes to the bathroom, and on the way she gets sidelined by Mrs. Robinson, who wants to also act like a fourteen year old. She tells Ana that Christian is in love with her:

I am reeling. Christian loves me? He hasn’t said it, and this woman has told him that’s how he feels? How bizarre.

A hundred images dance through my head: the iPad, the gliding, flying to see me, all his actions, his possessiveness, $100,000 for a dance. Is this love?

No, it’s not love. He bought you the iPad to avoid telling you how he feels. He took you gliding because it’s an activity he enjoys. He flew to visit you in Georgia, yes, but he did it after you told him not to, because you wanted time away from him. He paid $100,000 for a dance because he wanted to display to everyone that he owns you. Possessiveness is not love. Nothing he has done has been an expression of love.

But on to Mrs. Robinson acting like a fourteen year old:

“I’ve never seen him so happy, and it’s obvious that you have feelings for him, too.” A brief smile flits across her lips. “That’s great, and I wish you both the best of everything. But what I wanted to say is if you hurt him again, I will find you, lady, and it won’t be pleasant when I do.”

Yeah, Ana. Now that you’re with him, you’re with him forever, because if you break up with him and hurt his feelings, Mrs. Robinson is going to beat you up. Because this is high school.

She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my skull, trying to get under my mask.

Taken literally, that sentence is really funny, and implies that Ana is wearing the mask under her skull.

Just when I thought this entire chapter was just going to be one long, slow backslide into alcoholism for me, this happens:

“I’m laughing at your audacity, Mrs. Lincoln. Christian and I have nothing to do with you. And if I do leave him and you come looking for me, I’ll be waiting – don’t doubt it. And maybe I’ll give you a taste of your own medicine on behalf of the fifteen-year-old child you molested and probably fucked up even more than he already was.”

BOOM. Atomic burn. I’m even going to ignore the fact that Ana kind of threatens to molest Mrs. Robinson there, because she called her a molester to her face. Good for Ana!

Ana leaves the tent all angry, and still needing to pee, and Christian intercepts her, wanting to know what’s wrong. Ana tells him to ask Mrs. Robinson, and Christian says he’ll talk to her:

“You will do no such thing.” I cross my arms, my anger spiking again.

Okay, so what do you want him to do here, Ana? Because you’re mad at him for what Mrs. Robinson did, which doesn’t make a lot of sense. He can’t control whether or not she approaches you. But are you saying, “You will do no such thing,” because you don’t want him to confront his molester, or are you saying it because you don’t want him to talk to a woman who you feel is competition for his affection? I think it’s the latter. Yet, you somehow want him to make this situation right by you. The only way he can do this is by speaking to her, and yet if you ask him to do this, you’re asking him to defend you against his rapist.

Obviously, in this situation the only thing to do is say, “Look, she’s way too possessive of you. I’m not going to try and cross her path again, let’s just avoid her and let the cray cray die down.” So that’s what they do.

HA! No, I’m totally kidding. Ana calls Mrs. Robinson “old” (I thought she was forty) and then goes to the bathroom, and then when she comes back out:

Christian is on the phone some distance away and out of earshot of the few people laughing and chatting nearby. As I get closer, I can hear him. He’s very terse.

“Why did you change your mind? I thought we’d agreed. Well, leave her alone… This is the first regular relationship I’ve ever had, and I don’t want you jeopardizing it through some misplaced concern for me. Leave. Her. Alone. I mean it, Elena.”

Wait a second… aren’t they at the same party? Why is he calling her?

“How’s the old news?”

Har har. We all remember Ana’s description of Mrs. Robinson, right? That she looked like she was in her late thirties or early forties? You’re not going to be twenty-two forever, Ana. Your youth and ability to wear low-waisted jeans will fade. And when that day happens, I hope Christian dumps your ass for a twenty-two year old blonde with pigtails and lipstick you don’t approve of.

Christian asks Ana if she wants to stay for the fireworks, and she is all about fireworks, so they’re going to stay.

“We’ll stay and watch them, then.” He puts his arms around me and pulls me close. “Don’t let her come between us, please.”

Well, that’s really not Ana’s responsibility, is it? Mrs. Robinson is actively trying to come between the two of you. She’s the one to blame. The best course of action is to ignore her, not call her the second Ana goes to the bathroom. He goes on to say that Mrs. Robinson is a good friend. How good a friend can she be if she took sexual advantage of him as a child? And if Christian rejects the idea that his relationship with Mrs. Robinson is wrong, then wouldn’t it be his job to make sure Mrs. Robinson doesn’t come between them? The fact that Christian feels helpless and unable to control the situation with Mrs. Robinson only reinforces what we already knew, that she’s a creeper and Christian is her prey. So now Ana and Christian and Mrs. Robinson are locked in this chain of abuse. Mrs. Robinson has abused Christian, so Christian reacts to her as though she were an abuser, Christian is currently abusing Ana, so Ana reacts to him as though he were an abuser.

Christian’s dad wants to dance the last dance with Ana (I guess to pay her back for the under the table bad grammar action earlier in the chapter), and to feel her out to make sure she can afford the $24k bid she made during the auction.

“I’m delighted to be able to contribute. I unexpectedly came into some money. I don’t need it. And it’s such a worthy cause.”

He smiles down at me, and I seize the opportunity for some innocent inquiries. Carpe diem, my subconscious hisses from behind her hand.

How does someone “hiss” a phrase with no sibilant consonants? And you know, if my son was a billionaire, and his broke ass college student girlfriend was so casual about dropping $24k, I would be on full gold digger alert. Especially if I knew she lived rent free with a roommate whose parents have supported her financially all through college.

“Christian told me a little about his past, so I think it’s appropriate to support your work,” I add, hoping that this might encourage Carrick to give me a small insight into the mystery that is his son.

Way to carpe that diem, Ana, in a totally passive way.

Carrick tells Ana that he’s never seen Christian so “buoyant,” and that it’s clearly all Ana’s doing. He tells her that Dr. Grey was on duty when Christian was brought into the emergency room, and that he didn’t speak for two years after his bio mom’s death. Playing the piano was what made Christian start to come out of his shell, as did the addition of Mia to the family.

“He’s always been such a loner. We never thought we’d see him with anyone. Whatever you’re doing, please don’t stop. We’d like to see him happy.” He stops suddenly, as if he’s overstepped the mark. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

I don’t know if it’s that Carrick “overstepped the mark” or that the author just showed her hand. You know how when you start filling up a glass of water when you’re really thirsty, halfway is good, full is better, but it gets to that point that the glass is overfull and if you try to take a drink, you just get water everywhere? This chapter. This chapter is equivalent to exactly that. If one person had commented, “Hey, you guys make a cute couple,” I wouldn’t have noticed so much. If maybe one other person had also commented on Ana and Christian’s relationship, it would have still seemed like the characters were reassuring Ana that they liked her and her involvement with Christian. but somehow, when Carrick does it, near the end of a chapter that has been an endless parade of “You’re so good for him/you’re totally saving him just like you wanted to/you guys are going to get married and have babies forever!” I suddenly snapped and realized that this is the author trying to force the reader to accept them as a couple. “All these fictional characters think the relationship is love everlasting,” I imagine E.L. James screaming at the computer as she mashes two paper doll characters together in front of the screen, “so you have to, as well, reader! Because I say so!”

Well, that’s not how it works. Nothing really happens in the bulk of this chapter, apart from Ana showing up at this party and impressing everyone (making a huge bid, having a huge sum of money bid on her), and then having little side conversations with people who reassure her that she’s the best thing that ever happened to Christian. Even Mrs. Robinson, who does it in a jealous way, is moved to threaten physical harm should Ana ever bar access to her magic hootchie and its healing powers from Christian Grey. That’s the entire point of this chapter, in fact, to clumsily show the reader the magical power of the love between Chedward and Anabella without actually doing the super hard work of building their personalities and forging their relationship in an organic way.

What’s even more enraging is that once the dance ends and Christian comes back to claim Ana, this happens:

“I think my dad likes you,” Christian mutters as he watches his dad mingle with the crowd.

“What’s not to like?” I peek coquettishly up at him through my lashes.

“Good point well made, Miss Steele.” He pulls me into an embrace as the band starts to play “It Had to Be You.”

Just in case you missed it, reader, Ana is amazing. She charms or threatens everyone she meets, by virtue of being super duper awesome. And in case you’re still not getting it, she’s going to pretend false modesty in the vein of, “Aw, shucks, I know nobody really likes me, so it’s okay if I say they do,” and then a song about how fucking perfect she is starts playing.

This woman. This fucking woman.

I also want to take this opportunity to point out that before she dances with his father, Christian tells Ana the fireworks are going to be in five minutes. Then she dances an entire song (“Come Fly With Me”) with Carrick, and she’s now going to dance to another song and then start walking toward the firework display after the paragraph break. So, it seems like that would all take longer than five minutes. Nit. Picked.

Everyone takes off their masks to watch the fireworks by the dock, and Ana spots the security team:

Christian has his arm around me, but I’m aware that Taylor and Sawyer are close by, probably because we’re in a crowd now. They are looking anywhere but at the dockside where two technicians dressed in black are making their final preparations.

That’s right. Look everywhere BUT at the guys with tons of explosives. They seem legit.

Unfortunately, no one is hit with a stray firework, and it’s the most glittering and amazing fireworks display ever, obviously. The MC tells the crowd that the benefit has raised $1,853,000, and then Christian and Ana are ready to leave, to get home to more sexy times, probably.

He glances up again, and Taylor is close, the crowd dispersing around us. They don’t speak but something passes between them.

 Just heads up, I’m never going to get tired of using the telepathic conversation pictures. NEVER.

Taylor makes them wait until the crowd disperses, because he’s like, on high alert or something:

“I think that fireworks display probably aged him a hundred years,” he adds.

“Doesn’t he like fireworks?”

Christian gazes down at me fondly and shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate.

 OMG. You guys, Taylor is really coming together. I bet he was a Navy SEAL or something. OMG.

Oh, this is a good time to clear something up:

“You were quite overcome, Miss Steele. A most satisfactory outcome, if I recall.” He smiles salaciously. “Incidentally, where are they?”

“The silver balls? In my bag.”

Okay, so here’s the thing. Last recap, everyone was like, “What did she do with the balls?!” And I feared it would turn out like the panties thing, where I didn’t remind everyone in the one chapter that Christian still had Ana’s panties, and people were all, “How did her panties magically reappear?” I never mentioned it, because 1) I can’t reproduce every line of these books, that would strain the boundaries of fair use. So please, don’t use these recaps to find continuity errors. If there is a continuity error, I will probably point it out, unless I miss it, but unless you’ve read the books and found it that way, don’t be all, “She had these silver balls and they just disappeared!” Because then some anonymous commenter comes in (as they did with the panties) and claims that I’m purposely not excerpting bits of this book in an attempt to make it look worse than it is. Which is not the case. Actually, leaving out huge chunks of text makes the book more readable. And 2) I usually will only excerpt things that are problematic or move the story along. Ana putting the Ben Wa balls in her purse didn’t fulfill either requirement, so I didn’t mention it. So, you know. Just so we’re all on the same page here.

Mia wants Ana and Christian to stay for the after party, but Christian says they can’t, because they have a big day the next day. Ana doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but she goes along with it. Then Mia invites Ana to go to the mall, and Ana graciously accepts:

“Sure, Mia.” I grin, though in the back of my mind I’m wondering how since I have to work for a living.

I have to work for a living, too, Ana, but I can still grin. Seriously, how shitty is it to respond to an invitation with that thought? Way to belittle Mia, who is just trying to be friendly, by immediately thinking she’s lazy and too rich.

We can’t leave the party without one more reassurance that Ana is OMGSAVINGCHRISTIAN’SLIFE! and that OMGEVERYONEWITHAVAGINAISSUPERJEALOUS!:

“I like seeing you happy,” she says sweetly and kisses him on the cheek. “Bye. You guys have fun.” She skips off toward her waiting friends – among them Lily, who looks even more sour-faced without her mask.

I wonder idly where Sean is.

Christian and Ana say goodbye to his parents, but not his grandparents, who, Ana must remind you, she does not care for:

Fortunately, Grace’s parents have retired for the evening, so at least I am spared their enthusiasm.

Ugh, I know. It’s so fucking terrible when people like you and behave in a way that makes you feel welcome. Guh.

As they walk to the car, Ana asks Christian what he means by “big day tomorrow,” and his answer (and her response to it) should probably turn you into a quaking ball of rage:

“Dr. Greene is coming to sort you out. Plus, I have a surprise for you.”

“Dr. Green!” I halt.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate condoms,” he says quietly. His eyes glint in the soft light from the paper lanterns, gauging my reaction.

No matter how romantic the soft fucking light from the paper fucking lanterns is, I’m sorry, E.L., but you cannot make forced birth control sexy. I feel like I’m rapidly approaching that line between hating the book and hating the author as a person for all the terrible shit she’s feeding to women everywhere. How romantic, ladies! The hero of your dreams refers to going to the gynecologist as having a “big day” and thinks you need to be “sorted out” because your pesky fertility is interfering with his sexual pleasure. I’m so wet. Oh, that’s because I started drinking at about seven-o-clock last night and didn’t stop for breakfast because I’m in a state of alcoholic despair about the way women in the western world clamor to be treated like fucking livestock and we as a culture throw handfuls of money at the stupid jerk asses who feel that this is the romantic ideal, so I missed my mouth when I tried for that last swig of cheap wine.

Lucky for me, before I can have a moral quandary about crossing that book/author line, E.L. does me a solid and pushes me right the fuck over it:

“It’s my body,” I mutter, annoyed that he hasn’t asked me.

“It’s mine, too,” he whispers.

Oh, shit is that a rich white guy telling a woman he has ownership over her body? I would call Chedward a Republican Conservative, except he seems to like feeding poor people, so maybe he’s a Libertarian?

I gaze up at him as various guests pass by, ignoring us. He looks so earnest. Yes, my body is his… he knows it better than I do.

BECAUSE YOU’VE KEPT YOURSELF PURPOSELY IGNORANT! There are tons of resources out there for women to learn about their bodies, but you’re one of the women who apparently has no hinderance like a strict religious upbringing or prior sexual abuse or any of the other horrible circumstances that keep women ignorant of their bodies who simply CHOOSES TO BE FUCKING STUPID ABOUT YOUR BODY! BECAUSE YOU WERE WAITING FOR A MAN TO TELL YOU WHAT IS UP!

“You look hot like this,” I whisper. Actually he looks hot all the time, but really hot like this.

IT’S OKAY THAT HE WAS GOING TO FORCE ME ONTO HORMONAL BIRTH CONTROL GUYS, BECAUSE HE’S REALLY HOT ALL THE TIME.

I may have misjudged you. And you have definitely misjudged me. Call me if you need to fill in any of the blanks – we could have lunch. Christian doesn’t want me talking to you, but I would be more than happy to help. Don’t get me wrong, I approve, believe me – but so help me, if you hurt him… He’s been hurt enough. Call me: (206) 279-6261

She even signs the note “Mrs. Robinson,” meaning Christian told her all about his conversations with Ana. That’s probably healthy. But maybe I’m “misjudging” a grown woman who would fuck a child. I need the blanks filled in. Someone call that number, I’m dying to know if it’s a real phone number, but I don’t have the balls to call it myself, lest it be some kind of high-frequency mind control noise that will trick me into liking this book.

In case you were wondering if Ana really sees Mrs. Robinson as a rapist or competition, when Christian says he’ll deal with her on Monday, Ana thinks:

And though I’m ashamed to admit it, a very small part of me is pleased. My subconscious nods sagely. Elena is pissing him off, and this can only be good – surely.

Ana falls asleep in the car, and Christian wakes her up when they pull up to his building. Due to yet another grammatical error, Ana has a little conversation with Sawyer. Emphasis mine:

As we stand in the elevator, I lean against him, putting my head against his shoulder. Sawyer stands in front of us, shifting uncomfortably.

“It’s been a long day, eh, Anastasia?” 

I nod.

“Tired?”

I nod.

“You’re not very talkative.”

I nod and he grins.

“Come. I’ll put you to bed.” He takes my hand as we exist the elevator, but we stop in the foyer when Sawyer holds up his hand.

So, there you see some pronoun confusion. Sawyer is the last male character with an action before the dialogue, so it looks like Sawyer is the one speaking. But then we find out after the fact that it was Christian, and good thing, because I’m betting if Sawyer said he was going to put Ana to bed, Christian would have him killed. Probably by Taylor.

Ana and Christian find out that the tires on Ana’s Audi have been slashed, and someone threw paint all over it. Obviously, Leila did it, and now they’re concerned she’s gotten into the apartment. Well, everyone except Christian, who says, “She can’t get into the apartment.” Which is not true, because she did it before, when he was in Georgia. But whatever. The chapter ends with Ana standing in the hallway while security guards (their names are, I shit you not, “Ryan” and “Reynolds”) check the apartment for intruders.

Another from the “Jen’s True Stories” file: I saw the funniest porno, ever.

You know how when you make an order from Adam & Eve and they send you free videos? Don’t act all high and mighty, you and I both know that you are well aware of the free videos. But if you insist on keeping up this charade, when you buy something from Adam & Eve, they’ll usually send you a compilation DVD of little clips pulled from different full-length porno movies.

On one such disk, there was what appeared to be a three way with two girls and a guy in the great outdoors. There is also an outside observer, a man looking out a window and pleasuring himself as he watches the action on the lawn. It’s high concept, I know. But stick with me.

The action is pretty tame, kissing, fondling, blow jobbing, etc., and suddenly, one of the girls has this huge strap on. Except, she doesn’t use it on the other girl. She uses it on the dude. It’s a straight up, out of nowhere, hardcore pegging scene, and the dude in the house? He’s having none of it. He gets this disgusted face – I wish I could plug a camera into my mind and show you, because for the rest of my life I will never forget this guy’s face – and silently mouths (because of the glass, you dig?), “What the fuck?!”

To this day, I will never understand why that scene was included in the porno. It makes no sense. If you were a person who was into pegging, you’d be all, “Oh, yeah, it’s on!” as the scene starts, and then suddenly there’s Studly McJackoff, totally disgusted at your fetish. It’s so weird and judgmental. Unless that’s a really, really specific fetish, getting shamed for liking pegging by actors in pornos.

Still, as I’m sitting here, laughing with my husband over that hilarious porn, I’m so glad they included the scene. It’s become a part of the culture of our marriage. We’ll be laughing about that when we’re seventy. It will be a special memory, shared only by me, Joe, and the window guy.

And all of you, who also got that DVD, because you totally know about the free DVDs.

After a brain-meltingly drunk week on Bourbon street, you would think I would be coming into this recap refreshed and renewed for the task ahead of me. Instead, I’m bone weary and looking at the page count of this thing in despair.

I know this is the spot where the links go, but since I’ve received such a slew of them over the week and I’ve had no time to investigate them all, you’ll have to forgive me for putting them off until the next recap. The good news is, the funny stuff will still be funny, and the news stuff will still probably be infuriating, if not timely.

One thing I would like to share with you, by the by, is that this week wasn’t just total debauchery. I was actually working. I do that, sometimes, but don’t let that get around. I have a reputation to maintain. Anyway, I’ve been at the Authors After Dark conference, a reader-oriented event for fans of the romance genre. On one of the days, I was on an erotic romance panel. And because I should never talk about anything, anywhere, in public, I said the following things:

• About reading other erotic romance after reading 50 Shades: “It’s the only drug where your second hit will be more powerful than your first.”
• About the term “mommy porn”: “Can we just fucking stop calling it mommy porn? Just because I have kids doesn’t mean I stop having any sexual desire or curiosity.”
• About “down there”: “It’s not a fucking down there. I don’t have a down there. I have a pussy. I have a cunt.”

Boy, I want him inside me now.

Willikers! They have sex, it’s exactly like every sex scene they’ve had so far, with one caveat:

He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his head back. Seeing Christian undone is enough to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning down and around, collapsing on top of him.

Wait, she had an orgasm without him verbally commanding her to do so? I’m actually excited about this. It’s like a lunar eclipse, it doesn’t happen very often in these books.

Afterward, Christian has some condescending things to say about Ana’s other potential suitors:

“All those boys pursuing you – that isn’t enough of a clue?”

“Boys? What boys?”

“You want the list?” Christian frowns. “The photographer, he’s crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate’s older brother. Your boss,” he adds bitterly.

“Oh, Christian, that’s just not true.”

“Trust me, they want you. They want what’s mine.”

Okay, a couple things here. First of all, gross. Second, Ana, you know that Jose has a thing for you. You expressly told us that in the first chapters of the first book. You friendzoned him, that doesn’t mean he stops having a crush on you. Plus, Miss Won’t Take A Hint, besides him professing his love for you while he drunkenly groped you outside of the bar in the first book, he also made you the focus of his very first gallery exhibition. I think you can drop the “aw, shucks, no one would be interested in me,” routine when literally everything with a penis in this book wants to climb on you despite the fact that you have the most horrible personality ever recorded in fiction.

Also, I hate the way Christian, who is all of twenty-fucking-six years old calls men who are his age or just a few years younger, “boys.” In fact, he included Jack Hyde in that category… if it hasn’t been stated outright, it is somewhat implied that Jack Hyde is older than both Ana and Christian. So what is up with this “boy” thing? It’s juvenile and pretentious, so I guess it shouldn’t really surprise me that he’s doing it.

Finally, does it seem weird to anyone else (and I know that it does, otherwise you wouldn’t be here reading this) that Christian isn’t like, “They want you because you’re a great person,” but instead, “They want you because you’re mine,” as  if that’s the lure of Ana? Just belonging to Christian somehow makes her something for other men to covet? That doesn’t make sense, because these men all liked her before Christian was a blip on their radar.

Since he still has the lipstick marks on his body, Ana wants to touch him, but first, he has to throw the used condom on the floor. Because he is a gentleman.

“I hate those things. I’ve a mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot.”

I probably don’t have to tell you what’s wrong with a man saying he’s going to have a woman injected with hormonal birth control without asking her opinion on the idea first. But a lot. A lot is wrong with that. Ana, however, is just skeptical that a doctor as highly respected as Dr. Greene will come-a-runnin’, so the short discussion ends up focused on how much power Christian Grey has in Seattle.

Christian is still very uncomfortable being touched, but to his credit he is game to try. This isn’t enough for Ana, though, who immediately brings up Mrs. Robinson. When Christian says he doesn’t want to talk about his past, this is what he tells Ana:

“No, you can’t, Ana. You see red Whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It’s a fact. I can’t change it. I’m lucky that you don’t have one, because it would drive me crazy if you did.”

So, basically, “It’s okay for me to have a past and you just have to deal with it, but if you had a past, I would be even more unbearably possessive than I am now.”

I actually just finished reading a great paranormal romance novel by Shanna Abe, The Smoke Thief. Near the end of the book, the hero tells the heroine that he knows she has a past, and he has a past, too, but he’s not going to hold her past against her and expects the same courtesy from her, so that they can forge ahead in a loving relationship. I almost jumped up and threw my fist in the air in like, a frozen movie moment, I was so excited to read that. It’s a fantastic book and I absolutely recommend it.

Since Christian has no refractory period, Ana just touching his stomach gets him hard and ready again, and there is a section break as they start to have sex again.

Now, onto a word-use nit-pick! Huzzah!

I stand beneath the shower, absentmindedly washing myself, careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last couple of hours.

How do you do something both absentmindedly and carefully? Answer? You don’t. Those things are near opposites. “Careful” implies some degree of concentration, while “absentmindedly” implies a lack of thought. Words are hard, guys.

Ana thinks about how much Christian has revealed to her in the past day:

It’s staggering, trying to assimilate all the information and to reflect on what I’ve learned: his salary details – whoa, he’s stinking rich, and for someone so young, it’s just extraordinary-

I would have said “totally unbelievable,” but whatevs.

and the dossiers he has on me and on all his brunette submissives. I wonder if they are all in that filing cabinet.

My subconscious purses her lips at me and shakes her head – don’t even go there. I frown. Just a quick peek?

The grown-up, not frosted side of me says that she should respect his privacy if she expects him to respect hers, but the frosted kid in me says to crack that shit open, because we all know he’s not going to really respect her privacy.

And there’s Leila – with a gun, potentially, somewhere – and her crap taste in music still on his iPod.

Yeah, but you listened to it, didn’t you, Ana? You scrolled past all the Thomas Tallis to get that Beyonce, so let’s not go pointing proud, proud fingers here.

But even worse, Mrs. Pedo Robinson; I cannot wrap my head around her, and I don’t want to. I don’t want her to be a shimmering-haired specter in our relationship.

But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal, sane person would do that to a fifteen-year-old boy? How much has she contributed to his fucked-upness? I don’t understand her.  And worse still, she says she helped him. How?

How indeed, Ana? Oh, I’m sorry, I was addressing a different question, which was, “how can this incredibly good point be made and maintained in a book that gets everything else so completely wrong?” But still, and here is the SHOCKING part, I really like that this is in here. At this point, I was so afraid that the author would normalize statutory rape with dumb justifications, that I was really, really pleased with this paragraph.

He’s said such loving things to me today.

Like what, Ana? What has he said that has been loving? Was it the part where he said men want you because you belong to him? Or the part where he was going to force birth control on you without asking you if you wanted it, because he doesn’t like condoms? Was it when he got angry with you for complimenting his mother and snapped at you about picking out a dress to wear tonight? Help me out, Ana, because I don’t remember a lot of “loving things” Christian has said or done in this or the last chapter.

Perhaps we can make this work. But how long will he want to do this without wanting to beat the crap out of me because I cross some arbitrary line?

Ah, romance.

Ana goes into her room and looks at the clothes that Christian had bought her before their breakup, and of course they’re all expensive and this makes Ana uncomfortable. Christian comes in to watch Ana get dressed, and they have one of their “cute” conversations about how much they want to fuck, but they can’t because they have to go somewhere. They actually have to go to his parents’ house for a charity dinner (if you’ve forgotten), so of course, that’s the appropriate time for her to wear the Ben Wa balls. No, seriously. He wants her to go to dinner with his parents like that. What is it with him and his parents and wanting to do sexual stuff to his girlfriend in close proximity to them? That’s a really, really specific fetish.

He puts the balls in and then gives her a pair of “second-chance” diamond earrings from Cartier (yes, as in, “you gave me a second chance, allow me to buy you some fancy shit since I can’t express emotion any other way), and then Ana admires herself in her fancy new dress.

My hair falls in soft waves around my face, spilling over my shoulders to my breasts. I tuck one side behind my ear, revealing my second-chance earrings. I have kept my makeup to a minimum, a natural look. Eyeliner, mascara, a little pink blush, and pale pink lipstick.

I don’t really need the blush. I am a little flushed from the constant movement of the silver balls.

“Security team?” I ask.

“Close protection. They’re under Taylor’s control. He’s trained in that, too.” Christian hands me a champagne flute. 

Taylor is trained in controlling people, too? Did he and Christian go to the same school for that? And I’m about to start a drinking game where you just drink every time the characters drink, but again, everyone would die.

“Here, you’re going to need this.” He hands me a large velvet pouch that was resting on the kitchen island. “Open it,” he says between sips of champagne. Intrigued, I reach into the bag and pull out an intricate silver masquerade mask with cobalt blue feathers in a plume crowning the top.

I love it when the cover is described in the book. This is my favorite.

“It’s a masked ball,” he states matter-of-factly.

No, it’s just a mask, Christian. Oh. Oh, no, I see, I get it. The thing that you’re going to… never mind.

“Are you wearing one?”

Wait, can’t you tell, Ana? You’re standing right next – Oh. Right, I got it, is he wearing one to the… never mind.

“Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out his hand, he leads me out into the hallway and to a door beside the stairs. He opens it, revealing a large room roughly the same size as his playroom, which must be directly above us. This one is filled with books. Wow, a library, every wall crammed floor to ceiling. In the center is a full-sized billiard table illuminated by a long, triangular-prism-shaped Tiffany lamp.

“You have a library!” I squeak in awe, overwhelmed with excitement.

Yes, Belle, he has a library. You’re excited now, but wait until later when you realize he didn’t go out and buy you those first editions of Tess of The D’Urbervilles, he just pulled them off the shelf. Then you won’t be as impressed.

“Yes, the balls room, as Elliot calls it. The apartment is quite spacious. I realized today, when you mentioned exploring, that I’ve never given you a tour. We don’t have time now, but I thought I’d show you this room, maybe challenge you to a game of billiards in the not-too-distant future.”

Sorry, chap, I have plans for the “not-too-distant future” and they involve being trapped on a Satellite of Love with robot friends I made all by myself, even though I’m just a janitor. Holy shit, I just realized that MST3K is the sequel to Good Will Hunting.

Seriously, though, Christian “forgot” to give Ana a tour because E.L. James was in the middle of writing Masters of The Universe when Disney’s Beauty and The Beast released on DVD and she was all, “Damnit! Why didn’t I think to give him a sexy, sexy library?!” I would bet money on that.

“Bring it on.” I secretly hug myself with glee. Jose and I bonded over pool.

You should mention that to Chedward. I bet he won’t be jealous at all.

Next scene, they’re in the back of the Audi, headed to the party:

I am beginning to feel a dull, pleasurable ache deep in my belly, caused by the balls. I wonder how long I will be able to manage without some, um… relief? I cross my legs. As I do, something that’s been gnawing at me in the back of my mind suddenly surfaces.

“Where did you get the lipstick?” I ask Christian quietly.

Okay, why is this gnawing at Ana? You and I both know, reader (and specifically YOU, not the other people reading this blog, I’m talking to YOU personally), that Ana is wondering if it’s Mrs. Robinson’s lipstick. But why would it have to be? The guy is rich, and he’s had some girlfriends. Either he bought it at CVS (they don’t make you declare your gender before you buy stuff), or one of his girlfriends could have left it behind. I honestly don’t see why this would be “gnawing” at her, except for the part where she’s ridiculously insecure. But then, the most wonderful thing happens:

He smirks at me and points toward the front. “Taylor,” he mouths.

MOST. INTERESTING. I’m so invested in Taylor at this point, that I’m now dying to know where he got the lipstick. Because I know he didn’t just pick it up at CVS. He’s got that lipstick because he’s a stone cold ladies man. Why can’t this book be about Taylor?

 When I open my eyes again, Christian is regarding me closely, a dark prince. It must be the dinner jacket and bow tie, but he looks older, sophisticated, a devastatingly handsome roue with licentious intent. He simply takes my breath away. I’m in his sexual thrall, and if I’m to believe him, he’s in mine.

Oh my god, Christian Grey is Dracula. It’s all so clear now!

Also, reading the description, especially the bit about the bow tie, I thought, “This is exactly what the 11th Doctor thinks he looks like.”

Long, pale pink paper lanters hang over the drive, and as we inch closer in the Audi, I can see they are everywhere. In the early evening light they look magical, as if we’re entering an enchanted kingdom. I glance at Christian. How suitable for my prince – and my childish excitement blooms, eclipsing all other feelings.

And that, right there, is the crux of Ana’s problem. She lets childish excitement and romantic expectations formed from fairytales and gothic novels eclipse the very real warning signs she’s acknowledged, then chosen to conveniently ignore, throughout the entire first book.

Before they get out of the car, they put on their masks, and we get some really weird emphasis:

 All I can see of his face is his beautiful mouth and strong jaw.

Now, since I’ve been quoting, I’ve been converting all the text into italics, using plain text to represent italics, because I am, apparently, the editor of People magazine. Anyway, the “jaw” at the end of the sentence is in italics in the book, for some reason. I don’t know why. It’s totally bizarre, and probably the most puzzling thing in all three books.

Coming into the party, there are photographers, and they call out to Christian:

Christian nods in acknowledgement and pulls me close as we pose quickly for a photo. How do they know it’s him?

He’s famous. That’s how they know who it is.

Oh, my picture in the press again. Leila briefly enters my mind. This is how she found me, posing with Christian. The thought is unsettling, though it’s comforting that I am unrecognizable beneath my mask.

Um, Ana, I hate to ruin your moment of calm here, but Leila already knows you’re dating Christian. It doesn’t matter if your picture is in the paper, she already knows who you are and where you work.

Christian gives Ana another glass of champagne, and then it’s time for the needlessly detailed description!

We approach a large white pergola hung with smaller versions of the paper lanterns. Beneath it shines a black-and-white checkered dance floor surrounded by a low fence with entrances on three sides. Standing at each entrance are two elaborate ice sculptures of swans. The fourth side of the pergola is occupied by a stage where a string quartet is playing softly, a haunting, ethereal piece I don’t recognize. The stage looks set for a big band but as there’s no sign of the musicians, I figure this must be for later.

I complained about the description in these books to a friend recently, and she defended it by saying, “Well, it is fanfic, and there was a lot of needless description in Twilight.” That doesn’t make it okay. Seriously, in no universe am I ever going to need to know the number of exits from the dance floor, or that there isn’t a big band now, but there might be later. Just move the damn story along!

A young woman appears out of the throng and throws her arms around his neck, and immediately I know she’s Mia.

Because you’ve met her before. If I see my friend Jill on the street, I don’t think to myself, “A woman in a Beatles t-shirt and red converse sneakers, and immediately I know she’s Jill,” I think to myself, “I see Jill.”

Mia is super excited to see Ana, and wants to take her to meet her friends, because none of them can believe Christian has a girlfriend. The implication is that no one can believe a notorious playboy can commit, but I’m going to assume they can’t believe he has a girlfriend because he’s so fucking difficult, no one wants to date him.

I shoot a quick, panicked glance at Christian, who shrugs in a resigned, I-know-she’s-impossible-I-had-to-live-with-her-for-years way, and let Mia lead me over to a group of four young women, all expensively attired and impeccably groomed.

Yeah, the nerve of that bitch, wanting to introduce you to people at a party! How inappropriate.

Mia makes hasty introductions. Three of them are sweet and kind, but Lily, I think her name is, regards me sourly from beneath her red mask.

“Of course, we all thought Christian was gay,” she says snidely, concealing her rancor with a large, fake smile.

“Lily, behave yourself. It’s obvious he has excellent taste in women. He was just waiting for the right one to come along, and it wasn’t you!”

Thanks, Mia, for defending your brother from such horrific allegations of gayness. This book doesn’t reek of homophobia now AT ALL.

Lily blushes the same color as her mask, as do I. Could this be any more uncomfortable?

As if summoned by those very words, who appears but Christian “The Dark Prince” Grey himself, to drag Ana away from Mia’s friends and introduce her to his. Ana is getting tipsy, and then dinner is served. They go to the big tent where the dinner is being held, and Ana gets to meet more of Christian’s family:

“Mother,” Christian greets her stiffly and kisses her on both cheeks.

“Oh, Christian, so formal!” she scolds him teasingly.

Have they not met?

Christian’s grandparents also show up, and Ana thinks they seem “exuberant and youthful,” but she can’t tell because of their masks. Here’s a hint to their age, Ana: they have a twenty-seven year old grandson. Trust me, they’re probably old.

“Grandmother, Grandfather, may I introduce Anastasia Steele?”

Mrs. Trevelyan is all over me like a rash. “Oh, he’s finally found someone, how wonderful, and so pretty! Well, I do hope you make an honest man of him,” she gushes, shaking my hand.

All over her like a rash? How fucking charming. Tell me again why everyone is so taken with the beautiful, kind, Ana? She’s saying this about someone’s grandmother.

Mia has brought a date, so Christian has to try and intimidate him:

Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him shrewdly. Don’t tell me that poor Mia suffers from her overbearing brother, too.

No, he only has a pathological need for total control in one area of his life.

Christian’s father opens the party with a short welcome speech, then joins them at their table:

Carrick joins us, kissing me on both cheeks, surprising me.

And then Christian punches him out. No, totally kidding, that doesn’t happen. But in my mind, it did.

The MC gives each table some instructions for a game they’re playing:

“In the center of the table you will find an envelope,” the MC continues. “Would everyone find, beg, borrow, or steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage, write your name on it, and place it inside the envelope? Table heads, please guard these envelopes carefully. We will need them later.”

Oh, and they will be full of money. That’s a good reason to guard them carefully, too.

Then, there’s some more needless description, this time of Christian’s fountain pen:

I sign my name using his fountain pen – it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap – and Mia passes the envelope around.

I bet you have been dying since page one of the first book, thinking, “If only I knew what Christian Grey’s fountain pen looks like. I can’t fully immerse myself in the details of this erotic fantasy until I know this.” Breathe easy now, friend. Your moment has arrived.

There’s a menu on the table, and there’s a different wine served with each course, so Ana should really be in her element here. Then the waiters come to serve the first course:

“Hungry?” Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I know he’s not referring to the food, and the muscles deep in my belly respond.

“Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and Christian’s lips respond.

Do you get it? She’s hungry, but not for food. What she’s saying is, she wants to have sex, but she’s saying it in such a way that suggests she’s talking about dinner. I’m not sure if you get it, and I want to make it very clear for you, because it’s a subtle motif that has been woven throughout the book and I feel like if you’re not fully grasping the double meaning of “hungry” every single time it is used in this context, you’re really missing out on something special.

Ana wishes Kate were at the party, but I’m really glad she’s not, because listening to Ana bitch about yet another female would be just too much for me to take in this chapter. And besides, she’s too busy bitching about Christian’s grandmother, aka The Rash:

Christian’s grandmother is the most vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually at the expense of her husband. I begin to feel a little sorry for Mr. Trevelyan.

If a woman in this novel is not Ana, then they are bitches. It’s how this works.

There is some boring stuff about Christian’s business and this wind-up cell phone they’re developing, and people stop by the table to meet him.

He introduces me to some but not other. I’m intrigued to know how and why he makes the distinction.

My money is on jealous insecurity.

Dessert rolls around, and Ana is done with the Ben Wa balls, she has to go take them out.

Before I can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at our table, and with him – if I’m not mistaken – is Miss European Pigtails.

What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel… Gretchen.

She’s masked, of course, but I know it’s her when her gaze doesn’t move beyond Christian. She blushes, and selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Christian doesn’t acknowledge her at all.

Why is she there? As far as I can tell, she’s there because there aren’t enough females for Ana to dislike at this party.

When Ana gets up to go to the bathroom, she’s kind of hoping Christian will go with her so they can fuck at his parent’s house again. Apparently, they both get off on the idea of doing it around his parents, so this is a match made in heaven. But Mia offers to take Ana to the bathroom instead, and Christian sulks, so it’s not going to be totally obvious to everyone what the plan was. Good thinking, Chedward. When she comes back, he’s in a better mood:

Phew… he’s no longer mad at a missed opportunity, though maybe I am.

Why would he be mad? Oh, that’s right, because he’s a child who demands what he wants, when he wants it, and if he doesn’t get it he throws a fit at the nearest available person he can blame. I really need to take better notes here.

There is a list of items up for auction, rich people stuff like oil paintings and landscaping design and driving an Aston-Martin DB7 (because at least SOMEONE in this book drives a rich people car, damn!), and a weekend stay at a property in Colorado that is donated by one Mr. C. Grey. Ana had no idea that Christian owned property in Aspen, and he’s annoyed when she mentions it, so I guess that’s where his super secret vampire lair is located? I’m not sure. She asks him if he owns any property anywhere else:

“I’ll tell you later,” Christian says quietly. “I wanted to come with you,” he adds rather sulkily.

Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still querulous, and no doubt, it’s the frustrating effect of the balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on the list of generous donors.

I wonder why they don’t get invited to more parties, these wacky, fun loving kids. They’re openly pouting because they didn’t get to fuck in the bathroom. I want them at every wedding, funeral, retirement function, etc.

I glance around the tent to see if I can spot her, but I can’t see her telltale hair. Surely Christian would have warned me if she was invited tonight.

Surely, he would have. Just like he warned you that he was taking you to her salon, where he took all of his exes, and like he was going to warn you about how Leila wants to murder you. Because if there is one thing Christian Grey is, by god, it’s forthcoming.

Christian’s weekend away in Aspen is on the block, and the bidding has climbed to $20k. Since she’s in such a good mood, Ana bids $24k, which, if you recall, is the amount of money Christian just deposited in her bank account without her permission. The chapter ends with Ana winning the weekend, and we can all look forward to the endless argument this will cause in Chapter 7.

Since I will be boarding a flying death machine tomorrow – sorry, “commercial airliner” – I thought I should have my affairs in order. So, I approached my husband about my last wishes, to make sure we were both on the same page.

Before we get into the recap proper, I have to make a PSA about the blog schedule. I try to get two 50 Shades recap posts in during the week. I would do more, except it takes a really long time to write these recaps. Even with a copy of the book chock full of notes and underlines, I spend a few hours working on these. For example, today’s recap clocked in at seven hours. So that’s why they’re not up every day. Well, that and the fact that I have children to care for, a husband to maintain a marriage with, a house that frequently requires at least minimal cleaning, and books of my own to write.

With that in mind, I will be “out of the office” next week, attending the Authors After Dark conference in New Orleans. I will be there speaking on the panels “GLBT Alpha/Beta” and “Erotic Romance,” as well as co-hosting a Steampunk tea party and an epic karaoke blow out. So, I’m gonna be a bit busy. Did I mention the hotel is on Burbon street? Busy.

So, what I’m saying is, next week I’m going to be too busy flashing my tits for cheap beads to do any recapping. I thought I would be able to get a post scheduled ahead of time, but it doesn’t look like it’s in the cards, so if you don’t see anything next week, you know the reason why. I will be back in the saddle on the 12th. I will probably post some short updates from the field, however. And if you’re really, really jonesing to know what’s going on, you can follow me on twitter. @JArmintrout. I post links to the freshest recaps there, and I check in quite often. I’m also quite chatty, so just, you know. Be aware that I’ll be blowing up your feed.

Next up, literally everyone in the world has sent me this link this week: Erica Jong hates 50 Shades  It’s some good reading, you should check it out, then come back here and read this recap.

We last left Ana looking on as Mrs. Robinson put her old, old, impossibly old hands all over Christian.

“Greta, who is Mr. Grey talking to?” My scalp is trying to leave the building.

Greta – who is blonde and therefore a whoore, remember – tells her that Mrs. Robinson is, in fact, Mrs. Lincoln, co-owner of the salon with non-other than Christian Grey. She usually doesn’t work at that location, but she just happens to be there filling in for a technician who got sick. After volunteering all that information, Ana asks Greta what Mrs. Lincoln’s first name is, and this happens:

Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curiosity. Shit, perhaps this is a step too far.

Asking what her first name is? Greta just voluntarily spilled all that information and asking her first name is a step too far? Mrs. Lincoln’s first name is Elena, and Ana is glad that her spidey sense was right.

Spidey sense? my subconscious snorts. Pedo sense.

HA! Good one, Ana.

They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talking rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding, grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs his arm soothingly while biting her lip.

And then he just bends her over one of those weird chair hair dryers and fucks her in front of everyone. Just kidding. But can you imagine how this conversation is going? “Hey, Elena, this chick I’m with has this weird hang up about statutory rape. I know, I know, she’s so plebeian. If only she were as rich as we are, she could see that love between an old lady and a teenager is perfectly normal, right?”

Elena smiles at Ana, and Ana glares at her, and Elena and Christian continue to have a conversation we don’t know the content of, until he finally comes back to Ana. She asks him why he didn’t want to introduce her, and he’s genuinely shocked that she has a problem with being in the salon he co-owns with his rapist.

“For a bright man, sometimes…” Words fail me. “I’d like to go, please.”

“Why?”

Because you co-own this place with the woman who molested you. Seriously, what part of this is he not getting? Also, why are we laboring under the delusion that Christian is bright? Is this like when people say Ana is bright, and we’re supposed to just believe it because it’s in print? Christian has yet to do a single thing in this series that I would consider “bright.”

Then, we get words that are practically copied out of those domestic violence handouts that I used throughout the last book:

“We won’t need Franco, Greta,” Christian snaps as we head out of the door. I have to suppress the impulse to run. I want to run fast and far away. I have an overwhelming urge to cry.

 “You wish he would go away, you want to cry, and you want to run away from him.” If you are new here, and you haven’t read the recaps of 50 Shades of Grey, consider checking out this post, 50 Shades and Abusive Relationships, which outlines the red flags in Christian and Ana’s relationship. This is a big one. Christian admits he took some of his other subs, including Samara Leila, to that salon, but he thought Elena wouldn’t be there, as she often works at a different location. He tells her that while Mrs. Robinson met all of his subs, they never knew who she was. Which seems incredibly fucked up, to me, but I have no experience being an emotionally crippled billionaire.


At least Ana doesn’t let it go blithely by:

“Can you see how fucked-up this is?” I glare at him, my voice low.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” And he has the grace to look contrite.

“I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven’t fucked either the staff or the clientele.”

Picky picky.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I can have Franco come to the apartment, or your place,” he says quietly.

“She’s very attractive.”

Franco? I thought that was a dude’s name.

Oh, wait, they’re talking about Mrs. Robinson again. Ana asks if Elena is still married, and Christian says she got divorced five years ago.

“Why aren’t you with her?”

Jeez, Ana, are you trying to set them up? Christian tells her that it’s over between him and Elena, and then he gets a call, so he has to stand on the sidewalk snapping at whoever called him while Ana waits patiently beside him. Remember that, for later in this chapter. When Christian Grey has a phone call, time better fucking stop for him.

People bustle past us, lost in their Saturday morning chores, no doubt contemplating their own personal drama. I wonder if they include stalk ex-submissives, stunning ex-Dommes, and a man who has no concept of privacy under US law.

No, Ana. Just you. Because you’re so special. We get it.

I absolutely hate it when Christian is on the phone, because he talks like someone pretending to be on the phone. He talks on the phone like he’s in a poorly written play, and the words he says are exposition to the audience:

“Killed in a car crash? When?” Christian interrupts my reverie.

And then a paragraph later:

“That’s twice that bastard’s not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?” Christian shakes his head in disgust. “This is beginning to make sense… no… explains why, but not where.”

Christian starts looking around all paranoid, then Ana does, too, but she doesn’t see anything.

“She’s here,” Christian continues. “She’s watching us… Yes… No. Two or four, twenty-four seven… I haven’t broached that yet.” Christian looks at me directly.

At this point, I’m adding “paranoid schizophrenia” to my list of possible mental illnesses for Christian, right next to “borderline personality disorder,” and “reactive attachment disorder.” Christian continues to have his exposition-splosion conversation:

“What?” he whispers and pales, his eyes widening. “I see. When?… That recently? But how?… No background checks?… I see. E-mail me the name, address, and photos if you have them…. twenty-four seven, from this afternoon. Establish liaison with Taylor.” Christian hangs up.

Of course, by now this is all so built up and dramatic that Elena who? Christian tells Ana that he was speaking to his security advisor, who has just discovered that Leila the ex-sub ran out on her husband with some guy who recently died in a car accident.

“The asshole shrink should have found that out,” he says angrily. “Grief, that’s what this is. Come.” He holds out his hand, and I automatically place mine in his before I snatch it away again.

Yeah, um, things haven’t changed with Ana since you took your big, dramatic, elaborate distraction phone call, Christian. Also, why would Leila’s psychologist tell you anything about what was going on in her life? I don’t care what kind of money and power you have, no mental health professional (who wants to keep their license) is going to say, “Oh, you’re her ex? Well, allow me to break HIPAA and tell you all these details about Leila’s life.”

I wish I could say that was the most poorly researched and unbelievable detail in this chapter, but just wait. It’s coming.

So, Ana is still mad and not thrown off the subject by Christian’s phone call:

“Wait a minute. We were in the middle of a discussion about ‘us.’ About her, your Mrs. Robinson.”

Yeah, wait a minute, Christian. I know it’s getting kind of confusing in here. After all, there was practically no plot in the last book, and in this one it’s stacking up, but one crisis at a time. Christian tells Ana they can talk about it at his place, and she’s like, no, I want to get my hair cut, so he calls the salon and says to have Franco at his place in an hour. But she still doesn’t want to go, and Christian is worried that Leila will hunt Ana down and do something to her, so she should really come and stay at his apartment:

“Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychotic break. I don’t know if it’s you or me she’s after, or what lengths she’s prepared to go to. We’ll go to your place, pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we’ve tracked her down.”

Wait, back up. Christian doesn’t know who Leila is after, himself or Ana. So, the obvious thing to do would be to go to his apartment (that Leila already knows the location of and has tried to commit suicide in) so that they’re both there, together, to… make it more convenient for the stalker? If anything, wouldn’t they be safer staying at Ana’s place? Or, I don’t know, filing PPOs against Leila and involving the police somehow? Like, immediately after she tried to kill herself in Christian’s apartment would have been an IDEAL time to get that stuff done.

He glares at me. “You are coming back to my apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair.”

Oh, you charmer, you.

I gape at him…this is beyond belief. Fifty Shades in Glorious Technicolor.

First of all, the entire reason Technicolor existed was so movies weren’t fifty shades of gray. Also, how is this beyond belief? Has he never threatened you with physical violence before, Ana? Haven’t you read the book?

“No,” I state stubbornly. I have to make a stand.

This is Jen, not holding her breath.

Christian threatens to carry her, and she thinks there’s no way he would do that:

Surely he wouldn’t make a scene on Second Avenue?

He tried to finger you at his parents’ dinner table, just inches from his entire family. But you’re right, he probably wouldn’t do anything crazy.

We glare at each other – and abruptly he sweeps down, clasps me around my thighs, and lifts me. Before I know it, I am over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” I scream. Oh, it feels good to scream.

He starts striding along Second Avenue, ignoring me. Clasping his arm firmly around my thighs, he swats my behind with his free hand.

Careful now, Chedward. It’s hard to stride purposefully with a boner. Why is no one stopping this? If I were on the street, and a woman was screaming and being carried off by a man, and it seemed like she was legit angry and not, you know, giggling, I would call the police. Ana sees that people are staring, but I can’t imagine that anyone would see an angry woman screaming “put me down,” to a man carrying her off and not do anything.

Eventually, he does put her down:

What am I going to do? I am so angry, but I’m not even sure what I am angry about – there’s so much.

No, really?

Ana makes a mental list of the reasons she’s mad, which of course leads her to the conclusion that there is something she doesn’t know about the situation:

Realization dawns. Something’s changed. What could that be? I halt, and Christian halts with me. “What’s happened?” I demand.

Of course he can’t tell her right off the bat, there has to be six or seven lines of dialogue in which he evades the question and pretends not to understand what she’s asking, so I’ll skip to the part where he just gives Ana the damned answer:

“She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit yesterday.”

Wait right there. Let’s check out Christian’s phone call one more time:

“What?” he whispers and pales, his eyes widening. “I see. When?… That recently? But how?… No background checks?… I see. […]”

Leila got a concealed weapons permit without any background checks? BULL. SHIT.

If you follow me on the twitter or the facebook, you are probably already aware that I’m quite fond of guns, and as such, I am aware that laws vary from state-to-state with regards to open and concealed carry. I decided that this was a big enough plot point that I should do a little research (something E.L. James might have tried, if she wasn’t so busy racing to the next sex scene) and Here is what I found. Background checks are mandatory. From the Washington State Department of Licensing website: “The law enforcement agency will fingerprint you and conduct a background check before you can be issued a license. If you’re a Washington State resident, it may take up to 30 days to complete the background check.”

Oh shit. I gaze at him, blinking, and feel the blood drain from my face as I absorb this news. I may faint. Suppose she wants to kill him? No!

She would have to get in line behind me.

“That means she can just buy a gun,” I whisper.

No, it means she can carry a handgun concealed on her person, or carry a loaded gun in her car. That’s all it means. She could buy the gun any time she wants. Washington is an open carry state, so she could carry the unloaded gun with her, so long as it’s in an exposed holster. Also, she could buy a rifle at any time and just pop them off from a distance with no paperwork at all, that’s what they should be worrying about in his all-glass apartment.

“Ana,” he says, his voice full of concern. He places his hands on my shoulders, pulling me close to him. “I don’t think she’ll do anything stupid, but  – I just don’t want to take that risk with you.”

“Not me… what about you?” I whisper.

While they stand on the sidewalk arguing over who loves who more, Leila could just come up behind them and kill them both. Christian said she was there, and she was watching them. He knows she has a gun. So, by all means, let’s stand on the sidewalk and continue with this, “No, I would be more shattered if she did something to you.”

They go to Ana’s apartment and she packs her stuff (including the Charlie Tango balloon. No, I’m not kidding) to leave. She off-handedly mentions that Kate’s brother is coming to town on Tuesday.

Christian gazes at me blankly, but I notice the frostiness creep into his eyes.

“Well, it’s good you’ll be staying with me. Give him more room,” he says quietly.

Why don’t you just buy the building and make a “No Ethan Allowed” policy, Christian?

They get her stuff and go out to the car, where they argue about who’s driving. Seriously, Leila is a shitty assassin, she could have killed them twice now, while they stand out in the open talking to each other. She could have done it with an AR from a distance, and not had to bother with all these pesky licenses.

I know I sound like I’m rooting for Leila here, but with these two, can you blame me?

Once they’re safely in the car (Leila, you’re killing me here, you could murder/suicide into them in your own car, and it would tie in so poetically with the death of your boyfriend!) they start talking about how Christian seems to have a thing for brunettes. He says that Mrs. Robinson is who put him off blondes forever, but he’s just kidding.

So, he only likes brunettes, I wonder why? Did Mrs. Extraordinarily Glamorous in Spite of Being Old Robinson really put him off blondes?

Back up once again. “in Spite of Being Old?” In the last chapter, Ana describes Elena as being in her late thirties or early forties. Christian is twenty-seven. So, let’s say Elena is forty, just for the sake of argument and easy math. That means that when Christian was fifteen, when their relationship started, she would have been either the age Christian is now, or a year older. And since we don’t have the specifics, that number could go either up or down. So… how is she old, exactly? She wasn’t old when she molested Christian, and she isn’t old now. How is this happening? Either Ana is one of those people who believes anything over twenty-five is old and E.L. James is brilliantly portraying this detail (which I find doubtful, given the evidence at hand), or E.L. James herself believes that anyone over twenty-five is old and shouldn’t be having sex because it’s gross, in which case she has created a hellish existence for herself with the readership of these books and the universe is restored to some merciful balance in my favor.

Christian explains to Ana that he’s a silent partner in the salon business, he just invested the money in order to repay at $100k loan that Elena gave him when he dropped out of Harvard after two years to go into business for himself. Remember that thing I said about “bright?” He dropped out of the school people would literally, not figuratively, kill to get into. Unsurprisingly, his parents didn’t approve. He also gives Ana some backstory on Elena:

“She was a bored trophy wife, Anastasia. Her husband was wealthy – big in timber.” He gives me a wolfish grin. “He wouldn’t let her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are like that.” He gives me a quick sideways smile.

 It’s nice that they can joke about how controlling Christian is, without ever actually doing anything about it.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Christian asks Ana if she’s still mad at him. Gee, one of your exes is totally uprooting Ana’s life on the same day you took her to your rapist’s salon to get her hair done? Why would she be hanging on to a trifle like that?

Christian checks in with Taylor, who we learn has a daughter. Taylor is officially the most interesting character in this book, but there’s no time to dawdle, they have to go wait for the hair dresser. Christian goes to make some phone calls, leaving Ana to her own devices. She goes to her room and finally checks out all the clothes in her closet. This will come as a shock to no one, but they’re all needlessly expensive.

This isn’t me. I put my head in my hands and try to process the last few hours. It’s exhausting. Why, oh why, have I fallen for someone who is plain crazy – beautiful, sexy as fuck, richer than Croesus, and crazy with a capital K?

Because you have no self-esteem and believe that if you’re not with Christian Grey, the next step is dying alone? I thought we covered this in the first book. Also, Christian has his problems, and he’s definitely not mentally healthy, but you’ve got one of his exes planning a gun crime, so in this case, “crazy” might be subjective.

Ana decides to call her mom:

“Ana, honey! It’s been so long. How are you, darling?”

So long? She came home from Georgia and broke up with Christian like, a day or two later, right? And it’s been, what, a week since then, so… it hasn’t been that long at all. But okay. They talk about Christian and how things are complicated, and her mom says things are complicated with Bob, too, and then Ana has this staggeringly self-aware thought:

Oh, someone else has problems. I’m not the only one.

I think that pretty much sums up the entire character of Ana.

Christian appears in the doorway. “There you are. I thought you’d run off.” His relief is obvious.

Wait, he was the one who left to go make phone calls. Did he seriously expect her to just stand there and wait in the same spot until he got back?

I hold my hand up to indicate that I’m on the phone. “Sorry, Mom, I have to go. I’ll call again soon.”

Why does she have to go? Oh, right. It’s not like Christian has ever made her wait while he took a call. It certainly didn’t happen right now or just a little bit ago on the street or over and over and over again.

“Why are you hiding in here?” he asks.

“I’m not hiding. I’m despairing.”

And I am LOLing.

Christian and Ana have one of their trademark conversations in which they seem to believe there is some kind of problem with their relationship, but they won’t articulate it, so they just dance around it and try to be witty rather than actually resolving anything:

“I know, I’m trying,” he murmurs.

“You’re very trying.”

“As are you, Miss Steele.”

“Why are you doing this?”

His eyes widen and his wary look returns. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You are one frustrating female.”

JUST TALK TO EACH OTHER.

But if they did that, there wouldn’t be anything to space out the time between sex scenes, and we’d be left with just blank pages. Christian tells Ana that he likes that she’s not into him for his money, and she gives him “hope.” For what, you ask?

He shrugs. “More.” His voice is low and quiet. “And you’re right. I am used to women doing exactly what I say, when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly. There’s something about you, Anastasia, which calls to me on some deep level I don’t understand. It’s a siren’s call. I can’t resist you, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Sirens kill people. Just saying. And how infuriating is it to hear this douche, he of the “sign this sex contract,” complain that it’s boring when women do what he says? He’s the one who makes them sign contracts to do that in the first place! It’s not their fault he’s bored with what he asked for.

He looks so vulnerable… It’s disturbing.

Oh, NOW you’re disturbed. She tells Christian she can be patient, and then the hairdresser shows up:

Franco is small, dark, and gay. I love him.

Of course you do. You seem incapable of liking any person who isn’t a part of some marginalized group.

“Such beautiful hair!” he gushes with an outrageous, probably fake Italian accent. I bet he’s from Baltimore or somewhere, but his enthusiasm is infectious.

Gay people. They’re just so over the top, all the time, amiright? No, I’m not. Because we don’t live in Stereotopia, land where stereotypes are reality.

When they get done with her hair cut, Franco presents her to Christian:

“See! I tell you he like it,” Franco enthuses.

Good news, he talks like the prostitute in Full Metal Jacket for the rest of his scene.

“Over lunch, then. I’m hungry, and not just for food,” he gives me a salacious smile.

Oh stop.

“I am not going to let you dazzle me with your sexpertise.”

“What’s bothering me? Well, there’s your gross invasion of my privacy, the fact that you took me to some place where your ex-mistress works and you used to take all your lovers to have their bits waxed, you manhandled me in the street like I was six years old – and to cap it all, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!” My voice has risen to a crescendo.

I think you forgot, “Your ex is trying to kill me, and you weren’t even going to let me know.” Because if Ana hadn’t asked, Chedward wasn’t going to tell her about the CCW.

Christian wants to clarify that Elena isn’t his Mrs. Robinson, and Ana points out that, hey, Elena can touch him, and she can’t. Christian says it’s because Elena knows where she can touch him, and it’s apparently impossible to teach that to another living human being.

“You and I don’t have any rules. I have never had a relationship without rules, and I never know where you’re going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch completely – ” He stops, searching for the words. “It just means more… so much more.”

Wait, they don’t have any rules? Did I black out and start reading a different series? Because they had a whole bunch of rules, a contract, actually. And even though he said the contract has been thrown out, he’s still manipulating her into following those rules.

Ana tries to touch him, and he’s all panicked about it. Ana points out that he would feel pretty bad if he couldn’t touch her, and he agrees.

“You’ll have to tell me why this is a hard limit, one day, please.”

“One day,” he murmurs, and seems to snap out of his vulnerability in a nanosecond.

How can he switch so quickly?

Mental illness?

“So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy.” His mouth twists as he contemplates this. “Because I know your bank account number?”

“Yes, that’s outrageous.”

“I do background checks on all my submissives. I’ll show you.” He turns and heads for his study.

It doesn’t make it better that he’s done this to other women. It just makes it more shady, because he now has a lot of women’s banking information. There was nothing in the contract allowing him to do such a thing, and he never asked Ana if it was okay to run this check or find this information out.

From a locked filing cabinet, he pulls a manila folder. Typed on the tab: ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE.

Why is it in a filing cabinet? Surely someone with his finger on the pulse of developing technologies would have, you know, a computerized database for this stuff. It would be more secure than just a locked filing cabinet.

“So, you knew I worked at Clayton’s?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t just drop by?”

No, Ana. I’ve been trying to tell you this. He did not “just drop by” to pick up his kidnapping supplies, he went there on purpose. EVERYONE WITH HALF A BRAIN KNEW THIS ALREADY IT IS NOT A REVELATION.

Ana tells him that the whole background check thing is fucked up, and he says he doesn’t “see it that way,” so obviously that makes it okay.

“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get ahold of it if they have half a mind to, Anastasia. To have control – I need information. It’s how I’ve always operated.”

 The thought of just, you know, NOT CONTROLLING WOMEN has never entered into his mind. Christian Grey is a person who should not be in a relationship, in any relationship, because he has no clue how to respect other people and have boundaries. Keep in mind, somewhere, right now, a woman is schlicking to a fantasy of having this man treat her like garbage. GO FEMINISM! And let’s examine the ways Christian Grey does misuse the information:

• He goes to Ana’s workplace to “bump into” her.
• He deposits money into her bank account without her permission.
• He follows her to her mother’s house in Georgia against her wishes.

I’m sure there are more, but I’m too enraged by this normalization of abuse to remember them. At least Ana calls him on the deposit, but when she does, he asks her how much money she thinks he makes. She says it doesn’t matter, because she doesn’t care, and he says:

“I know. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

I gaze at him, shocked. Love about me?

So, yeah, now she’s going to focus on that to the exclusion of all common sense. Oh, and he tells her his unrealistic salary:

“Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand dollars an hour.”

Break it down now:

• $100,000.00 per hour
• $2,400,000.00 per day
• $16,800,000.00 per week
• $67,200,000.00 per month
• $806,400,000.00 annually

This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades, surely. He can’t put himself in my shoes.

Can’t, or won’t, Ana? He continues to argue that it’s okay for him to lavish gifts upon her, because he wants to. That’s what makes it okay, reader. He wants it, and he’s not willing to stop.

Oh, this is going nowhere.

Ana thought, echoing my own frustration.

They go to have lunch, and since Mrs. Jones has the day off, Ana will cook. Christian informs her that his subs usually cook for him on the weekend, so I guess that’s not like, slavery or anything. Christian goes to his study and leaves Ana to it.

Christian is still in his study, no doubt invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacy and compiling information. The thought is unpleasant and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

As it should. But not for long, of course, because to cook, Ana must also dance! Facing the fact that Leila might have put more music on Christian’s iPod, she bravely looks through it to find a song:

I scroll through the extensive list. I want something upbeat. Hmm, Beyonce – that doesn’t sound like Christian’s taste. “Crazy in Love.” Oh yes! How apt. I hit the “repeat” button and put it on loud.

I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin to whisk, dancing the whole time.

In case you’re keeping score at home, this is the second time Ana has whisk-danced in Christian’s kitchen.

No empathy, I muse. Is this unique to Christian? Maybe all men are like this, baffled by women.

No, Ana. All men are not like this. You’re just willing to believe that they are, rather than realize that you are in an abusive, controlling relationship that is only getting worse instead of better.

I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been in Barbados far too long. She should be back at the end of the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder if it’s still lust at first sight with them.

One of the things I love about you.

Notice the juxtaposition there? Kate and Elliot are only in lust, Ana and Christian are in love. That’s not an accident, as all along Ana has looked down on Kate and Elliot for being too sexual and too expressive of their love. They can’t possibly feel what Ana feels for Christian. Also, note that the reason Ana has given for missing Kate is, once again, because Kate could do something for her. First, she missed Kate because she needed someone to nurse her through her breakup, now she misses Kate because she’s not available to work through Ana’s relationship problems.

Christian comes back to the kitchen and asks Ana how long she’s going to stay mad at him for a piddly little thing like invading her privacy. Ana asks him if he put “Crazy In Love” on his iPod (even though she already knows the answer), and asks if Leila was trying to tell him something with the song choice. I’m guessing she was trying to tell him, “I’m going to go crazy and try to kill your next girlfriend if you break up with me.”

Why can’t anyone just use words to communicate their feelings in this series? Why must it always be some cryptic method through music? Oh, that’s right. Because they’re seventh graders.

Because writing something new and original for book two would be difficult, this happens:

He heads over to the iPod dock while I go back to my whisking.

Moments later the heavenly sweet, soulful voice of Nina Simone fills the room. It’s one of Ray’s favorites: “I Put A Spell On You.”

You know how Evil Dead and Evil Dead 2 are basically the same movie, with some minor changes? That. Right down to reminding us that it’s one of Ray’s favorite songs.

I flush, turning to gape at Christian. What is he trying to tell me?

WHY CAN’T YOU JUST SPEAK TO EACH OTHER LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE?!

I watch him, enthralled as slowly, like the predator he is, he stalks me in time to the slow, sultry beat of the music.

It’s way sexier than the way he stalks her the rest of the time. And “like the predator he is?” If the word you’re using to describe the man you date is “predator,” and you are not the heroine of a paranormal romance, maybe you might need to reevaluate your situation.

Christian tries to sex her out of being mad at him, but she rejects his advances. You know, a little.

I don’t want this – I do want this – badly. He’s so frustrating, so hot and desirable. I tear my gaze away from his spellbinding look.

“I want you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you. It’s very new. I need to know that we’re okay. It’s the only way I know how.”

“To manipulate you into forgetting that I’m a dick,” is how that sentence should have ended.

“I’m not going to touch you until you say yes,” he says softly. “But right now, after a really shitty morning, I want to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us.”

Oh my… Us. A magical combination, a small, potent pronoun that clinches the deal.

Luckily, Taylor comes in and interrupts them making out. You know, for now, because Ana doesn’t have the self-respect required to not have sex with Christian Grey when she’s legitimately angry with him.

Christian and Taylor stare at each other, some unspoken communication passing between them.

Taylor and Christian go into the study, and Ana goes back to making lunch and thinking about what is wrong with Christian and how she can fix it, because if there is one thing women are known for it’s their high success rate with fixing broken men. Christian comes back and they eat. They actually don’t fight about it for once, but Ana does mention that she’s eating despite not being hungry. They talk about how Christian knows French and stuff, and Ana says his parents must be very proud of him, which is apparently not an okay thing to say, because he gets really surly. Christian goes to brief the security team about recent developments, and Ana goes to fire up the google on the old internet machine. No, I’m not kidding, she says this:

I set about transferring Christian’s playlist from my iPad to the Mac, then fire up Google to surf the net.

Ana is one hundred years old.

I’m lying across the bed looking at my Mac as Christian enters.

“What are you doing?” he inquires softly.

I panic briefly, wondering if I should let him see the Web site I’m on – Multiple Personality Disorder: The Symptoms.

Here’s another nit to pick: any up-to-date website would refer to it as “Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

Christian and Ana banter wittily about how fucked up he is, then he suggests that she take a tube of lipstick and draw on his body so that she has a map of where she can touch him:

“I could get a tatto.” His eyes are alight with humor.

Christian Grey with a tat? Marring his lovely body, when it’s marked in so many ways already? No way!

Fuck you, Ana. First of all, don’t say “tat” because it sounds skeezy and like something you get in prison, and second, tattoos don’t “mar” a body, they decorate it.

For a page and a half, Ana draws on Christian with lipstick.

“Finished,” I murmur, and it looks like he’s wearing a bizarre skin-colored vest with harlot red trim.

I may have already told you all this story before. If I have, just nod and smile, as if I’m a forgetful old grandpa telling you the same story every year at Christmas time.

Once upon a time, I had this dream that I was going to be a big time Broadway star. But I could never commit to leaving Michigan, due to its awesomeness. Instead, I had this weird idea that I could live in Michigan and worry about relocating to the Big Apple if I ever actually got a job. In industries that are not “acting in a play in New York,” that’s a smart strategy. But I’ve already mentioned what industry I was interested in, so my plan bleeeeeeeeeeeeew.

So, anyway, I would fly into New York, audition for shit, then fly home either the same night or the next morning. On one such occasion, I was walking around and saw the marquee for a revival of The Iceman Cometh. I had heard that Tony Danza was in that. I thought it would be funny to wait at the stage door and meet him, and get his autograph on one of the brochures you get out of the back of taxis. Because he was on Taxi, get it? I’m hilarious.

I go over to a cab, I get one of the brochures from the guy, I go back and wait at the stage door. People start coming out, but nobody I really want to see. Then the dude next to me starts talking about how he’s the big Kevin Spacey fan, and he’s so into Kevin Spacey, and I’m like, “That’s nice, me too,” and thinking, “Wow, it’s weird that this guy just keeps talking about Kevin Spacey,” and then I realize, oh, Kevin Spacey is in this show, and just then, bam, out the stage door comes Kevin Spacey.

So, I got Kevin Spacey’s autograph on an index card, and it was pretty awesome. Except, I’m not really good at meeting celebrities (ask me about the time I puked in front of Tori Amos!) so I ended up pointing at his face when he was like, a foot away from me, and saying, “Hey! You’re Keyser Soze!”

Then I started pretty actively hardcore trolling on Kevin Spacey fan email lists, but that… is a story for another time.

Oh, also, Tony Danza never came out, otherwise this story would have been way cooler.

And lo, Jen said it was link times, and it was, and she looked upon it and saw that it was good. Aaaaallll good:

Product Review: Masturbation to 50 Shades of Grey: “WANKING TO THIS BOOK IS EVIDENCE OF A DISEASE.”

OMG! That 51 Tints of Granite thing is hilarious! More to read. I love it! I have never been into fanfic before, but suddenly I’m seeking it out all over the place. Jenn, you have introduced me to a world I never knew existed. I think I love you.

This got me thinking. A lot of the criticism coming at the entire 50 Shades phenomenon has been that it’s fanfic. And I think along the way a lot of people, myself included, have used “It’s fanfic” to make fun of the horrible writing. But there are some really good fanfics out there, with absolutely stellar writing, and I think I would be remiss if I didn’t point them out to y’all. So, expect an upcoming post with fanfic recs. Because fanfic is magic and the more people who participate, the better!

But for now, let’s bust right through this chapter like it’s Ana’s problematic hymen.

As sanity returns,

You realize you’re in an abusive relationship and leave him?

I open my eyes and gaze up into the face of the man I love.

Damn.


Christian tells Ana how much he’s missed her (in the five days they were broken up) and how much he missed having sex with her, and he tells her not to leave him again. Then she’s all, “Thanks for the iPad,” and then he says:

“Come cook me some food, wench. I’m famished.”

Because this is Westeros or something. Or…

Oh my gosh. Does anyone else remember Covington Cross, that show that was on (and got immediately canceled) in 1992? I have been obsessed with that show for so long, I’m almost embarrassed that this is the first time I’m thinking of this in this context… the family name of the main characters was “Grey.” I could write a 50 Shades of Grey fanfic… and it could be about one of the Greys from that show. My mind is spinning. What deadline?

Wait, what was I doing? Right, reading this book. Bummer.

As I scramble out of bed, I dislodge my pillow, revealing the deflated helicopter balloon underneath.

How does someone sleep with a deflated mylar balloon under their pillow? Isn’t that all kinds of crinkly? Why didn’t he notice the strange crunchy noise when they were fucking? They have a little conversation about the balloon, and then they get something to eat:

Christian and I sit on Kate’s Persian rug, eating stir-fry chicken and noodles from white china bowls with chopsticks and sipping chilled white Pinot Grigio.

Try to read that sentence out loud without taking a breath. I hope that’s not a real Persian rug, because who does that? “My roommate isn’t here, so let’s sit on what is possibly the most expensive thing in the apartment and eat with chopsticks.” Also, thanks for the heads up, Ana, I would have never known Pinot Grigio was white unless you’d told me, because where I come from Pinot Grigio is bright green.

He’s wearing his jeans and his shirt, and that’s all.

That sounds… fully dressed.

Christian says the food is good, and Ana actually eats without them arguing about it, and she also says:

“I usually do all the cooking. Kate isn’t a great cook.”

Poor Kate, she probably never gets to eat, then, if she waits for Ana to make dinner.

They talk about Ana’s upbringing a little, namely how her mother’s third husband didn’t like her, so she had to go back to live in Forks with Ray. Christian observes:

“Sounds like you looked after him,”

Sounds like you read Twilight, Christian.

Christian doesn’t like the fact that Ana has taken care of people her whole life. I’m amazed that Ana has actually taken care of anything, because she’s so utterly inept at taking care of herself. This woman can’t remember to eat for four days. I would assume even houseplants wouldn’t be safe with her. Christian tells Ana that he wants to take care of her, and she says that’s nice, but he does it in weird ways, and he says it’s the only way he knows how. So, that makes it okay that he bought your job, I guess.

“I’m still mad at you for buying SIP.”

He smiles. “I know, but you being mad, baby, wouldn’t stop me.”

He might as well just pat her on the head and tell her that her feelings don’t matter. Because they don’t.


Take a deep breath. In and out. Because it’s just going to get worse.

I scowl. “If I leave and find another job, will you buy that company, too?”

“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” His expression alters, wary once more.

“Possibly. I’m not sure you’ve given me a great deal of choice.”

“Yes, I will buy that company, too.” He is adamant.

You know how you solve this one, Ana? Go get a job at McDonald’s. I’d love to see Christian try to buy THAT company. Go work for Disney, or Time Warner. Good luck, Stalky McFuckhead, trying to buy THOSE.

Because Ana doesn’t want to fight (yeah, if you fight over little, unimportant things like your boyfriend buying every company you ever work for in an attempt to exert total control over your life, what kind of a relationship do you have?), they decide to have dessert instead:

“Would you like dessert?”

“Now you’re talking!” he says, giving me a lascivious grin.

“Not me.” Why not me? My inner goddess wakes from her doze and sits upright, all ears. “We have ice cream. Vanilla.” I snicker.

Because she’s into vanilla relationships and vanilla sex, get it? By the way, we’re only on page 74 and I’ve already lost count of the number of times Chedward and Anabella joke about being hungry, but not for food. It’s one thing to use a cliche… it’s another to overuse a cliche.

Christian asks Ana where the ice cream is, and she tells him it’s in the oven, to which he responds:

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Miss Steele.”

Oh yeah, I’m soooo sure it is. Seriously, though, despite Ana telling the reader that Christian has a great sense of humor and he’s so witty and funny, I’ve yet to see evidence that he actually is. Most of the time he’s just stomping around, yelling, “I must protect you, helpless Ana!” I think he cracked a couple jokes in the last book. But pardon me if I’m not taking lessons in comedy from a dude whose go-to line is to act like he’s confusing an offer of food for an offer of sex.

I will give Christian credit for the pun that comes next, after he exhibits sarcasm himself and Ana calls him out on it:

“Well, Anastasia, my new motto is, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.'”

It’s funny, because he beat the shit out of her with a belt while she cried and screamed, get it?

Christian decides that vanilla ice cream is perfect for the sexy times, so he ties Ana up to the bed and drizzles ice cream on her:

Oh… it’s cold. Each nipple peaks and hardens beneath the cool of the vanilla.

No shit, it’s cold? Is it? Is ice cream cold? I’m glad Ana shared that detail. I’m also glad she pauses to tell us how hot everything is once the sex scene gets going. Then he drips ice cream onto her pubes and clit, and starts fingering her while he licks it up. I hope there are whole chapters devoted to the yeast infection she gets from someone pushing ice cream up her cooch.

“Hush now,” Christian says softly as his magical tongue sets to work lapping up the vanilla, and now I’m keening quietly.

How does one keen quietly? Keening means wailing or screaming. If you’re screaming quietly, you’re doing it wrong. Or Chedward is doing it wrong. OH SNAP!

“Oh… please… Christian.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he breathes as his tongue works its magic.

I groan as he picks up speed.

“You are mine, Anastasia.”

“Yes, yours,” I pant.

“I take care of what’s mine,” he hisses and bites my ear.

“Come on, baby,” he growls through gritted teeth and on cue, like the sorcerer’s apprentice I am, I let go, and we find our release together.

It’s a good thing he tells her to orgasm, otherwise she might not at this point. And still with the “Come on,” to get her to orgasm and “come,” to get her to go somewhere. The fact that the confusion is so consistent is only more maddening, because it means he’s saying the same thing in every single sex scene.

“What I feel for you frightens me,” I whisper.

He stills. “Me too, baby,” he says quietly.

Me three.

Christian tells Ana that he doesn’t think he’ll ever leave her, because he can’t imagine getting tired of her. How romantic.

“I’ve never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia. I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that again.” He sounds so sad, dazed even.

Um. Didn’t your mom kill herself in front of you when you were four, and you spent a bunch of days with her dead body? And you’ve never felt so bad as when your girlfriend dumped you? Okay.

Ana has a nightmare about the girl who confronted her outside of SIP, and I suppose the whole thing is supposed to be moody and cryptic, but it’s terribly obvious and very short. Why is it that E.L. James can reserve ten pages every chapter for fucking, but glimpses into Ana’s actual subconscious only get five paragraphs? Christian shakes her awake from her nightmare, and she finally thinks, “Gee, maybe I should bring up the weird girl I saw outside of work today and instantly forgot until it was more convenient for the author to address the subject.”

Turns out the girl is Leila, the ex-sub who put “Toxic” by Britney Spears on Christian’s iPod. This is an important detail that Ana remarks on, because as a reader, I care deeply about who does what with Christian’s iPod.

My scalp prickles as adrenaline spikes through my body. What if she means a lot to him? Perhaps he misses her? I know so little about his past… um, relationships. She must have had a contract, and she would have done what he wanted, given him what he needed gladly.

Oh no – when I can’t. The thought makes me nauseous.

The thought makes you “nauseated,” Ana. What makes you “nauseous” is the fact that a girl who looks like the ghost from The Ring came up to you after an obvious suicide attempt and you’re jealous of her. This woman clearly tried to kill herself at some recent point in time, she still had the bandage on her wrist. She was haggard and thin, and obviously not having a great time of things, and you’re worried that she’s going to steal your boyfriend.

Christian gets on the phone and, in a long, ellipses filled block of dialogue, implores someone named Welch to find Samara Leila. He’s obviously stressed out, so Ana offers him tea:

“Do you want some tea?” I ask. Tea, Ray’s answer to every crisis and the only thing he does well in the kitchen.

Isn’t Ray supposed to be Charlie? Look, I read Twilight, and I guarantee you that Charlie hasn’t so much as purchased a single tea bag in the entire time he’s been alive. I know some of you have complained about people pointing out so-called Britishisms that aren’t really Britishisms, but come on. The obsession with tea in these books? I’m not saying there’s no tea in America, or that no one in America has a fondness for the stuff, or that everyone in the UK is always drinking tea all the time, because that would be patently false, but in America we usually associate tea with England. Because of that whole taxation without representation thing that happened a little while ago in the 18th century that turned us all into coffee drinkers. And because years of cultural conditioning starting with that whole “Fuck your tea, we’ll throw it in the harbor and drink coffee instead,” thing, a manly man’s man like Charlie Swan would not be an old hand at making tea in times when consolation is needed, ergo, Ray would not, either. I think Ray and Charlie would both say that beer is the answer to everything.

I put the kettle on the stove and busy myself with teacups and the teapot. My anxiety level has shot to DEFCON 1. Is he going to tell me the problem? Or am I going to have to dig?

What do you think, Ana? Do you think he’s going to tell you all about it, since he’s so open and forthcoming?

She asks him if he’s going to tell her what’s going on, and of course he’s not:

“Because it shouldn’t concern you. I don’t want you tangled up in this.”

I’m surprised he doesn’t just pat her on the head here, too. This fucking guy.

Ana gets him to tell her the truth, with surprisingly little pressure, actually. He admits that Leila is messed up, and that while he was busy stalking Ana in Georgia, Leila got into his apartment and tried to kill herself in front of the housekeeper. So, that was the “situation” that made him leave Georgia.

“Let me get this straight. She hasn’t been your submissive for three years?”

“About two and a half years.”

“And she wanted more.”

“Yes.”

Okay, it’s story time, dear readers. I once hooked up with a guy friend I’d been hanging out with for the summer. It was totally hot. However, what followed was not hot. See, he had an ex-girlfriend who was craaaaaaaaazy. They had been broken up for three years, and he hadn’t been with anyone since her, so he broke a long, long streak by hooking up with me. Two days after the hook up, which was never intended to be anything more than just a little fun, the ex came into my place of business, grabbed me by the front of my uniform polo shirt and said, “If you ever sleep with [poor guy] again,  I will fucking kill you. He’s mine.” It was so utterly bizarre. Reading this part of the book, I actually got creeped out. Like, looking around to see if the freak was lurking around a corner somewhere. So let me tell you, I do not doubt that someone could go that nuts after a breakup that they would stalk the next girlfriend or boyfriend or casual hook up after several years. This is one place where this horrible book is rooted in fact.

I stare at Fifty, magnificently naked from the waist up. I have him; he’s mine. That’s what I have, and yet she looked like me: same dark hair and pale skin. I frown at the thought. Yes… what do I have that she doesn’t?

This is a great excerpt to display how shallow Ana truly is. While a normal person would go, “Wow, that chick is messed up, I bet she wasn’t able to hide that level of crazy and that’s why they broke up,” Ana can’t figure out why it’s her with Christian and not Leila, because they look the same. To Ana’s thinking, two human beings with distinct personalities and quirks and thoughts are completely interchangeable, so long as they look exactly alike. Her self-obsession also keeps her from accepting the truth of the situation, that it has nothing at all to do with her. Christian could have started fucking Taylor, and Leila would still have shown up. It’s not an Ana problem, and it’s not even a Christian problem, it’s a Leila problem.

Christian asks Ana why she didn’t mention Leila yesterday, and Ana’s excuse was that she just forgot. How do you just forget something that bizarre? Especially when she made reference to it in her internal monologue a couple times after the fact? That’s not forgetting. That’s the author wanting to have more sex scenes before the plot happens. Speaking of which:

“Forget about her. Come.” He holds out his hand.

My inner goddess does three back flips over the gym floor as I grasp his hand.

Ana, you’re being stalked by two people now! Let’s fuck to celebrate!

Luckily, it’s a section break instead of a ten page long sex scene full of “It’s so freaking hot,” and “jeez!” Ana wakes up beside Christian and tries to touch him, and he’s all, “LOL, no,” and then asks her if she wants sex or breakfast. Get it, they’re HUNGRY, but not for FOOD. For SEX instead. Tee hee.

There’s another section break, and Ana tries to fix her horrible, no good, very bad hair while watching Christian get dressed. She asks him how often he works out, and he says he does every week day. He runs, lifts weights, and kickboxes, which leads me to my biggest nit pick of the chapter:

“Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He’s very good. You’d like him.”

Kickboxing isn’t an Olympic sport! It never has been! Claude is either a fraud, or Christian is talking a big game about his kickboxing trainer because he needs to sound FANCY.

Despite the fact that they allegedly threw the contract out and are having a vanilla relationship, Christian tells Ana she needs a personal trainer:

“But I want you fit, baby, for what I have in mind. I’ll need you to keep up.”

So, in other words, “We’re not doing that whole contract thing, but you still need to follow the rules in it.”

I flush as memories of the playroom flood my mind. Yes… the Red Room of Pain is exhausting. Is he going to let me back in there? Do I want to go back in?

Now, in the three times they’ve actually been in the Red Room, Ana has stood up, shackled to the ceiling, fucked against a bed post, been blindfolded while Christian fucks her, and then the last time, beaten with a belt. I’m not going to deny that these things would be somewhat physically taxing, but I can’t think of a single exercise you could do with a personal trainer that would make you more physically capable of the psychological exhaustion involved in heavy BDSM. Ana hasn’t been tired from the complicated acrobatics of sex with Christian Grey (because the sex being described just isn’t that physically demanding), but from the emotional aspect of submission.

I flush, and the undesirable thought that Leila could probably keep up slithers invidious and unwelcome into my mind.

For real, Ana? Yes, fine. Leila is perfect, way more perfect than you. That’s why Christian is still with her, and not with you, right? Get over yourself and your little pity party.

Ana tells Christian she needs to get a haircut and put a check in the bank so she can buy a car, because she’s still without wheels. Christian responds by giving her the key to the Audi he bought her as a graduation present.

He’s giving me back the car. Double crap. Why didn’t I foresee this?

Because you have no short term memory? Because you’re just too dumb and trusting? I don’t know, Ana, help me out, why didn’t you see this coming? Because we all did.

Ana tries to give Christian his check back, that way he’s not giving her the car and the money for the car he sold for her. I’m not quite understanding this, because the original plan was that she would keep the Audi and he would reimburse her for her Beetle. However, that doesn’t justify Christian’s reaction to the suggestion that she would like to return the money. He gets super angry – the word “fury” is used twice – and they argue, ending with:

“End of discussion, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”

Why? Because you’ll hit her? We already know that you won’t leave her, because it was just too hard to not be attached to her for five days.

Ana rips up the check.

Christian gazes at me impassively, but I know I’ve just lit the fuse and should stand well back.

Christian leaves the room, and Ana messes with her hair a little before going to see what he’s up to. He’s been on the phone, and he’s just hanging up when she finds him.

“Deposited in your bank account, Monday. Don’t play games with me.” He’s boiling mad, but I don’t care.

“Twenty-four thousand dollars!” I’m almost screaming. “And how do you know my account number?”

My ire takes Christian by surprise.

“I know everything about you, Anastasia,” he says quietly.

Ana does not interpret this as the creepy, creepy red flag that it is, and instead argues that her car wasn’t worth twenty-four thousand dollars. Christian says a collector bought it, and she can ask Taylor if she doesn’t believe him. Because the dude Christian pays would be a totally impartial source.

So, how about him knowing your bank account number? Aren’t you concerned with that, Ana?

And I feel it, the pull – the electricity between us – tangible, drawing us together. Suddenly he grabs me and pushes me up against the door, his mouth on mine, claiming me hungrily, one hand on my behind pressing me to his groin and the other in the nape of my hair, tugging my head back.

So, that would be a “no,” I take it?

“Why do you defy me?” he mumbles between his heated kisses.

All this line made me think of was Jareth.

“Okay,” I acquiesce and just like that, our fight is over.

Just like that, she forgets that he’s somehow dug up her bank account number and dumped a huge amount of money into it, despite her wishes to the contrary. BECAUSE ROMANCE, DUH!

They go out for breakfast, and Christian gets grumpy because Ana pays the bill. Nothing is sexier than a man who clings to outdated gender stereotypes, let me tell you. He reminds Ana about a black tie benefit thing they’re going to at his parents’ house. It’s a fundraiser for a drug rehab program for parents and their children, called “Coping Together.” I did a search to see if this charity exists, and it does. Only, the real life “Coping Together” organization is for parents grieving miscarriage. Since these stupid books are inducing people to buy sex toys and trips to Seattle, I hope this organization gets some of the blow-back in the form of monetary donations.

Ana and Christian explore her neighborhood for the first time, and Christian takes her to a salon a couple blocks from her apartment:

Christian stops outside a large, slick-looking beauty salon and opens the door for me. It’s called Esclava.

The door is called Esclava? That is one FANCY door.

The interior is all white and leather. At the stark white reception desk sits a young blonde woman in a crisp white uniform.

Always with the blondes. I bet she flirts evilly with Christian.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey,” she says brightly, color rising in her cheeks as she bats her eyelashes at him. It’s the Grey effect, but she knows him! How?

Yeah, how does she know him? The nerve of this bitch, being blonde and knowing Ana’s boyfriend! But hold up, I thought the Grey Effect caused women to attempt suicide in front of housekeepers?

This evil!blonde is “Greta” (well, that’s European if I’ve ever heard-). All you need to know about how Ana feels about her is right here:

“The usual, sir?” she asks politely. She’s wearing very pink lipstick.

It’s like Ana cannot meet a woman without critiquing her hair and lipstick color. Ana think it’s weird that Christian has a “usual,” until she has a stunning lightbulb moment that you guys have probably all figured out already:

Holy fuck! It’s Rule Number Six, the damned beauty salon. All the waxing nonsense… shit!

For someone who is supposedly so super intelligent that everyone around her instantly notices how stunningly bright she is, Ana can be super dumb a lot of the time.

I glare at him. He’s introducing the Rules by stealth. I’ve agreed to the personal trainer – now this?

Okay, it’s not “stealth.” He’s not being particularly artful about this. It’s open manipulation. He brought Ana to the same salon all the other subs went to because he knows she’s insecure and will just do whatever he asks her to once she’s started comparing herself to his past conquests.

Ana asks why he brought her to this particular salon, and Christian tells her it’s no big, he owns this one and three more. Because he owns everything, I guess. Christian tells her all the things this salon does, and she says she just wants a haircut. Then, there’s more anti-blonde, anti-European sentiment:

Greta is all pink lipstick and bustling Germanic efficiency as she checks her computer screen.

I bet she and European pigtails from the last book double up on Christian all. the. time.

But before Ana can get her haircut, enter another evil!blonde:

I peek up at him, and suddenly he blanches – something, or someone, has caught his eye. I turn to see where he’s looking, and right at the back of the salon a sleek platinum blonde has appeared, closing a door behind her and speaking to one of the hair stylists.

Do you know who this evil!blonde is yet?

Platinum Blonde is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her late thirties or early forties – it’s difficult to tell. She’s wearing the same uniform as Greta, but in black. She looks stunning. Her hair shines like a halo, cut in a sharp bob. As she turns, she catches sight of Christian and smiles at him, a dazzling smile of warm recognition.

Seriously, are you getting a sense of build up here?

Christian looks upset about something. He’s reasoning with her, and she’s acquiescing, holding her hands up and smiling at him. He’s smiling at her – clearly they know each other well. Perhaps they’ve worked together for a long time? Maybe she runs the place; after all, she has a certain look of authority.

ANA HOW ARE YOU NOT PICKING UP ON THIS?

Then it hits me like a wrecking ball, and I know, deep down in my gut on a visceral level, I know who she is. It’s her. Stunning, older, beautiful.

Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

It’s Mrs. Robinson.

That is the end of the chapter, and the first effective chapter hook E.L. has managed to execute in the series so far.

Thanks everyone for your nice comments on my depression post. I always feel weird writing about stuff like that, like it’s going to seem like I’m fishing for compliments or something, but to have so many people share their stories really reinforced how important it is for people with depression to be open and honest and talk about this stuff.


Before we dive right in to your ass the recap, I’ve got links! Oh, how I have links!


First of all, some jackass decided he should replace the the bibles in his hotel with copies of 50 Shades. Now, I’m not one of those ultra-religious people who think that every hotel room needs a bible or else some sinning might go down there, but seriously? This guy sounds like a douche canoe. I mean, he had first planned to replace the bibles with Atlas Shrugged. Sounds like someone just has a problem not showing off how irreverent he can be. Oh, you. But seriously, this article makes me furious. Not because he swapped out the bibles, but because the press keeps referring to this as an “erotic” novel with “graphic” sex scenes. How graphic is “down there,” really?


Then, from Pastor Douglas Wilson, comes this op-ed piece, 50 Shades of Prey, at HuffPo. Now, I almost didn’t link this, because I’m so fucking angry at HuffPo for giving those StalkTheGoodReadsUsersWhoseOpinionsIDon’tAgreeWith nutjobs a platform, but this is a guy who called out Twilight for training women to be in bad relationships, and now he’s talking about 50 Shades, so I thought it was worth posting.


Okay, onto the recap. We last left Ana curled up in her bed, hugging a deflated mylar balloon and dreaming of her abusive boyfriend. It is now the next day:

The good thing about being carless is that on the bus on my way to work, I can plug my headphones into my iPad while it’s in my purse and listen to all the wonderful tunes Christian has given me.

But Mo-Om, Taylor the bodyguard gets to listen to his iPod while driving!


Ana goes into work, where her boss has the audacity to compliment her:

“Good morning, Ana. You look… radiant.” His remark flusters me. How inappropriate.

Why, because he’s not a billionaire? I’m not going to lie, I have a real issue with guys who give creepy compliments. But Christian Grey gives them all the time. “I’m in awe of you,” is much, much more disturbing than, “You look… radiant.” The difference is, Jack is probably old, like in his thirties or forties (remember, in the first book Ana believes thirty to be impossibly old), and he doesn’t fly a helicopter. So, he’s totally inappropriate.

Jack finishes sexually harassing her and gives her four manuscripts to look over by lunchtime. She’s supposed to read the first chapters and give him a report. I bet every “report” is going to compare the book in question to classic literature. But first, she has to email back and forth with Christian, about nothing at all that furthers the plot. In fact, one email is an almost direct rehash of one she sent him in the last chapter. Then we find out she eats a pastrami sandwich at lunch while listening to more of the music Christian put on the iPad, and then it’s right back to the emails. In one of his replies, Christian writes:

Your e-mails at SIP are monitored.

Well, her emails at home are probably also monitored, stalker.

Ana is astounded by this news:

 Oh shit. I had no idea. How the hell does he know?

Because that’s pretty much par for the course at any job, Ana. Now, I’m not saying that it’s right, but lots and lots of companies monitor the content of their employees’ email accounts. This shouldn’t be news, and if you’re going to send email to your boyfriend, why not use your personal email account? How on Earth did Ana get through four years of college and, hell, just being a teenager in America, without learning stuff about the internet and how it works?


At the end of the work day, Jack stops by Ana’s desk to invite her out for drinks with him and the rest of the staff. Seems Ana might have been feeling a little full of herself, hmmm? She thought the boss wanted to get into her pants, and he was just inviting her out on the weekly staff outing. They’re going to a bar called “Fifty’s.” Dollars to donuts, Christian owns it. Ana emails Christian the details and tells him:

The rich seam of humor that I could mine from this is endless.

Not really. So please don’t. I rolled my eyes hard enough the first time the name of the bar was mentioned, I had to spank myself.

Ana invites Christian to come to drinks with her work colleagues, because she’s never had a job before and doesn’t realize how fucking awkward that is.

I check myself in the mirror. What a difference a day can make. I have more color in my cheeks, and my eyes are shining. It’s the Christian Grey effect.

Huh. I would have thought the Christian Grey effect would involve having color in entirely different cheeks.

I turn expectantly, and an ashen young woman approaches me cautiously. She looks like a ghost – so pale and strangely blank.

This woman knows Ana’s full name, and just stares at her until Ana says the polite version of “What the fuck do you want and why are you staring at me and also are you that girl from The Ring?” which translates into nice people speak as, “‘Can I help you?'”

“No… I just wanted to look at you.” Her voice is eerily soft. Like me, she has dark hair that starkly contrasts with her fair skin. Her eyes are brown, like bourbon, but flat. There’s no life in them at all. Her beautiful face is pale, and etched with sorrow.

The ghost from The Ring is wearing designer clothes that are too big, and she’s got a dirty bandage around her wrist. The ghost from The Ring asks Ana:

“What do you have that I don’t?”

What was that about?

Gosh, I wonder, Ana. What was that about? Some strange woman who looks just like you in expensive clothes and a suicide attempt wanders up and is all, “What do you have that I don’t?” and you can’t connect even one teeny tiny little dot here?

Confused, I cross the street to the bar, trying to assimilate what has just happened, while my subconscious rears her ugly head and hisses at me – She has something to do with Christian.

No. You don’t say.

Ana uses her coworkers as a distraction to forget that she’s going to die in seven days. She actually does have a conversation with the receptionist who has been the pinpoint focus of her white guilt every time she’s mentioned, and then Ana remembers that Kate exists:

Absently, I wonder how Kate is… and Elliot.

I like how in the first chapter Ana couldn’t live without Kate and missed her soooooo much, then she gets back together with Christian and it’s like, “Oh, yeah… Kate. And that other guy. What’s his name?” In literally the same paragraph, her thoughts go straight to Christian:

Oh, and Ethan, Kate’s brother, will be back next Tuesday, and he’ll be staying in our apartment. I can’t imagine Christian is going to be happy about that.

It’s Kate’s apartment. It doesn’t matter how Christian feels about it. It’s something he can’t control, so nanananabooboo and neenerneenerneener and all that.

When Elizabeth and Courtney leave, Jack joins Claire and me. Where is Christian?

Probably watching you from a corner somewhere.


Claire starts talking to someone else, and we find out that Jack is a close talker:

“Ana, think you made the right decision coming here?” Jack’s voice is soft, and he’s standing a bit too close. But I’ve noticed that he has a tendency to do this with everyone, even at the office.

I hate people who do that. They always make me really self-conscious about my breath, even if I’ve just brushed my teeth.

Jack tells Ana that she’s a bright girl, makes some chit-chat about where she lives and if she has any weekend plans. He leans on the bar and Ana feels trapped, and then our knight in shining armor shows up at just the right time:

I feel him before I see him. It’s as if my whole body is highly attuned to his presence. It relaxes and ignites me at the same time – a weird, internal duality – and I sense that strange pulsing electricity.

That’s how connected they are, guys. She can sense his presence. Shit, my eyes are rolling again. Time for another spanking, I guess. But what do you want to bet he was there the whole time, watching, like he was doing in Georgia when she was at the bar with her mom.

Christian drapes his arm around my shoulder in a seemingly casual display of affection – but I know differently. He is staking a claim, and on this occasion, it’s very welcome. Softly he kisses my hair.

Ever notice, reader, how Christian only displays affection toward Ana in public when he’s trying to impress a point on someone else? Ana finds it flattering, but doesn’t it just reinforce that he isn’t capable of feeling for her as a person, that he only views her as an object or a contest? Just throwing that out there, I don’t mean to destroy the “romance” of Christian Grey.

I feel relieved, safe, and excited with his arm around me.

This is a really sneaky thing that Christian does with all the men Ana comes into contact with. He acts possessive, which in turn tells Ana that there is something to fear from all men – except him. He does it with Jose, he did it with Paul at the hardware store, and now he’s doing it with Jack. If you’ve read the entire series, then you know that Jack really isn’t a nice guy, but Christian doesn’t know that at this point. What he’s doing is setting up a false sense of safety and reliance, so Ana believes she needs his protection from all the men of the world. It’s pretty gross.

Ana introduces the two:

“I’m the boyfriend,” Christian says with a small, cool smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he shakes Jack’s hand. I glance up at Jack who is mentally assessing the fine specimen of manhood in front of him.

I rarely actually LOL, but I LOLed heartily at that line. Seriously, I’m pretty sure that Jack isn’t thinking of Christian as a “fine specimen of manhood.” In fact, I’m pretty convinced that Ana sees Christian like this:

And everyone else sees him like this:

I glance at Claire, who is, of course staring, openmouthed and with frankly carnal appreciation, at Christian.

Someone fix those fucking commas, I beg of you.

They leave and Ana points out that she knows the whole “meeting my boss” thing was a pissing contest, and they get into the Audi, where Taylor is behind the wheel.

My cheeks turn pink, knowing that Taylor can hear us, grateful that he can’t see the scorching, panty-combusting look that Christian is giving me.

I’m sure Taylor is grateful that his panties aren’t going to combust, too. That would be awkward. And look, I know that “My cheeks turn pink” was probably swapped for “I flush” by a copy editor who later committed Seppuku with a letter opener, but seriously, Ana, you can’t see your cheeks turn pink, and you just skewed your POV.

There is a lot of uninteresting and juvenile hinting about how they’re going to have sex later, and they decide to go to Ana’s apartment, for a change. Then Christian is all:

“Your boss, Jack Hyde, is he good at his job?”

Ana can’t fathom why he would ask, since she’s not interested in Jack beyond a professional capacity, and I’m already getting a real, real bad feeling about where this is going…

“That’s the point… he wants what’s mine. I need to know if he’s good at his job.” 

Ana tells him that she thinks Jack is pretty good at his job, and then Christian says:

“Well, he’d better leave you alone, or he’ll find himself on his ass on the sidewalk.”

“You don’t have that kind of power.” Honestly! And before I roll my eyes at him, the realization hits me with the force of a speeding freight truck. “Do you, Christian?”

Christian gives me his enigmatic smile.

“You’re buying the company,” I whisper in horror.

E.L. James has a crazy idea of how business works, and here’s why. Christian is supposedly this uber-successful entrepreneur… who makes business decisions based entirely around controlling his girlfriend? Doesn’t this company have a board of directors, or stock holders, or anyone who might say, “Um… what the fuck are you doing?”

So, why did he buy the company?

“Because I can, Anastasia. I need you safe.”

Well, that’s a good reason, right? Until he realizes that she’s apocalyptically furious with him and asks him, “‘I mean, what kind of responsible business executive makes decisions based on who he is currently fucking?'” At that point, his tune changes to:

“First, I haven’t fucked you for a while – a long while, it feels – and second, I wanted to get into publishing. Of the four companies in Seattle, SIP is the most profitable, but it’s on the cusp and it’s going to stagnate – it needs to branch out.”

Let’s examine the absolutely infuriating facts here:

• Christian wanted Ana to come work for him.
• She refused.
• She then got a job at SIP
• And broke up with Christian.
• So, Christian bought the company she works for.
• Now, they’re back together AND she’s working for Christian.
• Christian has everything he wants

So, pardon the fuck out of me if I don’t believe that he really wanted to get into publishing.


Ana’s anger is, predictably, short lived, because Christian makes her laugh, and he smiles at her:

And he smiles, a dazzling, full-toothed, all-American-boy smiles, and I can’t help it. I am grinning and laughing, too How could I not be affected by the joy I see in his smile?

If you had a brain, or self-respect. Just those two, off the top of my head.

“Just because I have a stupid damn grin on my face doesn’t mean I’m not mad as hell at you,” I mutter breathlessly, trying to suppress my high-school-cheerleader giggling. Though I was never cheerleader – the bitter thought crosses my mind.

Seriously, Ana? Are you fucking serious? A man has just used his wealth and power as a weapon and blasted his way into your career against your express wishes, and you’re bitter because you were never a cheerleader?!

Go back up and look at the baby monkey picture. I’ll wait, and you probably need it.

Of course, they go inside together, and Ana has some inner thoughts about how shitty it is that Christian bought the company, but there isn’t anything she can do about it. Because breaking up clearly doesn’t stick. Then they start talking about how they’re totally going to do it, tee hee, but Christian needs to make sure she eats because clearly, she hasn’t been able to feed herself for the twenty-one years before she met this asshole. He tells her she’s going to have to tell him everywhere on her body she wants to be touched, and they talk about mapping out areas on his body that she’s allowed to touch. Then, it’s birth control times:

“Have you been taking your pill?”

No, of course she hasn’t. If you remember, Christian, she was only taking those pills because she was dating you, and then you broke up. And in the first book she makes it really clear that it’s either you or a house full of cats, and none of them are going to get her pregnant, unless this turns into a real weird fucking book.

“You need to eat and so do I,” he murmurs, burning eyes gazing down at me. “Besides… anticipation is the key to seduction, and right now, I’m really into delayed gratification.”

Says the guy who impulsively bought his girlfriend’s job.

He tells her she’s too skinny, because a chapter can’t go by without that happening YOU GUYS ANA IS SKINNY DO YOU GET IT YET SHE IS SUPERMODEL SKINNY YOU GUYS DANGEROUSLY SKINNY SHE IS SO SKINNY DO YOU GET IT THIS IS REALLY IMPORTANT and he tells her that she’ll be less mad over that whole, “I bought your job” thing when she’s had something to eat. Because Ana is a cranky toddler. But Ana is so incredibly skinny that she has no food in the house, so they have to go grocery shopping.

“Does Mrs. Jones do all the shopping?”

“I think Taylor helps her. I’m not sure.”

I bet Taylor and Mrs. Jones are boning. I feel a fanfic coming on.


While they shop, Ana asks Christian how long Taylor and Mrs. Jones have worked for him:

“Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones, about the same. Why didn’t you have any food in the apartment?”

Because she has an eating disorder.

The wine in the supermarket isn’t FANCY enough to satisfying Christian Grey, classist dick, and then Ana sees some women looking at him and mentally remarks on it “despondently” and then they leave the grocery store trip where literally nothing happened to move the plot along.

They go back to the apartment, and Christian asks if he can help with dinner, but then says he can’t cook. So I don’t know how he thinks he’s going to help. There is a lot of “Oh, it’s so sexy that he’s carrying groceries and chopping vegetables like a real person and not the God of Lust that he is,” stuff, and this:

I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the other ingredients I need, repeatedly brushing against him – my hip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly innocent touches.

So, Ana is a geisha now, I guess, with all these little touches. She keeps goading Christian into having sex with her while they cook dinner, and I can’t help but get the feeling that she’s doing it to avoid eating. Either the whole “Ana/Mia” thing is a coincidence that is messing with my head, or this chick really does have an eating disorder. They don’t wind up actually eating the stir fry they make, because Christian is so overcome with his desire for her that he must have her at once!

He smiles and hooks his index finger into my open shirt, pulling me toward him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and without taking his blazing eyes off mine, slowly starts to unbutton my shirt.

How can he unbutton her shirt if it’s already open? Theres is some more foreplay, and then:

“Kiss me,” I whisper

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“Where?”

Oh, he’s taking no prisoners. Embarrassed, I quickly point at the apex of my thighs, and he grins wickedly.

This is the reason that every time someone says, “the sex scenes are so hot,” I want to be able to just pull out a random samurai sword and chop the damn book in half. How is it hot that the heroine can’t say what she wants in bed? Why is this an ideal we’re striving toward? So. Much. Bullshit.

Here’s more of this sex scene bullshit:

He stands and gazes down at me, and his lips glisten with the evidence of my arousal.

It’s so hot…

Well, thanks for telling us. Seriously, I don’t mind reading, “He did this and it was hot,” once or twice in a book, but it’s thoroughly annoying how often Ana has to inform the reader that what is happening is supposed to be sexy. It happens constantly throughout all the books. And it’s not needed. The first sentence in that excerpt gets across that it’s sexual and exciting. It’s totally superflous to add, “It’s so hot.”

I peek up at him through my lashes,

Try that. Try it right now. Try to look up at something and still see your eyelashes.

They have sex, and all the usual culprits are there, like “he really starts to move,” and him telling her to “come on” to get her to have an orgasm on command, and then the chapter ends and I realize that I have referenced Japanese culture three times in this recap and I can’t figure out why, because it’s not a particular interest of mine, but I did watch Memoirs of A Geisha the other day.

I hate depression. It makes me into a different person, a person I don’t like. A person who snaps at her kids, a person who takes everything too personally. A person who googles “Jennifer Armintrout sucks” just to see if anyone agrees with her.

I get stuck in these deep grooves with depression, where I think I’m worthless, and I consider quitting writing. I feel absolutely no drive or passion to write, I open up old projects I’ve abandoned and tell myself, “You’re so lazy and worthless. You could at least finish this and self-publish it. You’ll have to, because no one will buy it, since you’re a shitty writer. You should just quit. Today. Contact everyone involved in your career and tell them to throw out your contracts and just quit. Go get a real job and stop being such a loser. Look at what you’re doing to your family. You’re never going to come up with any good ideas again, and if you do, you won’t follow through on them. You should just give up today.”

How can I let myself talk to me that way? That’s insane. If I heard someone saying that out loud to another writer, I would punch that person’s teeth in. I would be outraged beyond words.

But I suspect I’m not alone. I bet any number of writers struggling with depression have said those exact things to themselves. I bet I’m not the only person who struggles with this, even at the best of times. And while my career is certainly not enjoying it’s “best time,” things aren’t the worst they’ve ever been, either. So, what do I have to be defeated about? Nothing. It’s just a trick of my diseased brain, telling me mean stuff to knock me down a peg, just for kicks.

I don’t know why my brain chemistry hates me. I don’t know why it tries to destroy my confidence and mess with me, but I know that tomorrow I won’t feel this way. If that’s enough to get me through today, maybe tomorrow I’ll have confidence again, maybe something will smack me in the face and say, “Suck it up. When you google ‘Jennifer Armintrout sucks’ the first page of results is mostly shit you’ve said about yourself.”

That’s the carrot dangling in front of me right now. I’m going to just survive today. But if you suffer from depression, please feel free to share your stories in the comments, if that helps you.