Month: June 2012

Hey guys! I may have mentioned before that I have, like, smaller humans who live with me, and they’re kind of needy at times. Well, one of them got sick over the weekend, and it took a while to figure out what’s going on with her, but long story short, she’s got a wicked case of Fifth’s Disease, and thrush, which is just a fancy way of saying “yeast infection,” and yes, it’s down there, too, so the bottom line is, everyone in this house is suffering her wrath. Hence the lack of blog updates.

So, to recap, I haven’t abandoned you, I’m caring for my sick child. Please be patient (at least, more patient than a three-year-old with her first yeast infection) and recaps will resume as soon as humanly possible.

I remember the exact moment I realized that I knew how to read.

According to my grandmother, I could read when I was four years old. I don’t know if that’s necessarily right. I don’t remember doing a lot of reading. Maybe I could read a few words here and there, and memorize the books she read me. There was one in particular that I wanted every single night. It was one of those Disney book club books that you got through the mail, and it was about Scrooge McDuck. I don’t remember the story or anything, but I do remember that Scrooge McDuck was my fucking idol. The guy lived like he was tied to a shoestring budget, but he had a vault so full of money that he could swim in it. I loved that book. Another one I loved was about Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby, which my sweet and well-meaning grandmother unfortunately read to me in what may go down in history as the most offensive accent the world has ever known.

Anyway, according to my grandmother, I could read at age four. I call baloney, because I remember the exact age when I learned to read, and it was six. I know, it’s cool to say you were reading Shakespeare at age three, but I was six, and I wasn’t even in the top reading group in my class. But I remember we got our reading book, and it was a skinny paperback book that was perfectly square. The cover was green, with lighter green printing, and a picture of what I believe was a dog house. Maybe I’m just confusing this with the fact that the first story in the book was about a dog, but whatever. I had such anxiety about being handed that book, because I didn’t know how to read. I knew how to recognize a few words, like “gas” and “food” when we were in the car, but I didn’t know how to read. Only grownups knew how to read.

Try and think back to when you didn’t know how to read, and what reading seemed like to you. I remember that written words looked a certain way. Now, I can’t imagine what they looked like before I knew how to read them. But reading was definitely an intimidating thing back then. Grown ups were like gods, because they knew how to read and reading was the key to so much stuff. You had to read the directions on the pudding box. You had to read the TV Guide. You had to read the mail. Reading is involved in so many activities.

So, I sat there with my little book, and I opened the cover and hesitantly started looking on the first page for words I knew. A. I knew A, it wasn’t really a word, just a letter. Dog. Well, obviously I knew Dog, but only because I memorized it. I wasn’t actually reading. In. Yup, I knew In. Wait a minute…

By the end of my second page, I stopped reading and just stared at the page. And my little six year old head held just one, profanity laden thought:

Holy shit. I can read!


I will never forget how awesome that feeling was. I could read. It was all going to be downhill from there, because I could read. In the end, maybe that’s what we’re all looking for when we pick up a book. Reading is like a drug addiction, we’re always chasing that greater high, trying to find a book that makes us feel as awesome as our favorites did. And I think that feeling is probably inspired by how we felt the very first time we realized that we had become readers.

Today is the last day of school, and my daughter’s preschool class is celebrating this by having a pancake breakfast. I know that other parents have no problem showing up and interacting with the children and families, but I always feel like I’m wearing a big neon sign that flashes “CRIPPLINGLY AWKWARD.”

A lot of this is my fault. I like to think I’m really good at aping normal human behavior. I am not. For example, if there three people standing in a social area, and one of those people is me, inevitably I will become confident enough to go a step beyond nodding and smiling, at which point I will interject something into the conversation. This remark will be totally innocuous and completely on topic, something like, “This dip is really good,” or, “Cameron Diaz was so funny in that movie!” but the other two people will stare at me, looking horrified and offended, like I just shouted, “I love Hitler! Let’s dress up like Hitler! Let’s find Hitler’s bones and we can all clone Hitler!”

I don’t know what it is I do wrong, therefore I have no way to correct it, so I end up generally avoiding other people entirely, unless they are known and trusted. But sometimes, you have to go out and consume, generally goods for your daily living needs, or services from people who know how to fix stuff that is broken on you or things that you own. This happened to me yesterday.

AT THE FAST FOOD DRIVE THRU:


Speaker: Welcome to [fast food place], would you like to try a cherry berry chiller today? Order when ready.

Me: I would emphatically not like to try a cherry berry chiller today. I will have… uh… I’m gonna… listen, I am just completely unprepared for this whole thing right now.

EMAILING MY CAR’S MANUFACTURER


Me, via email form: I have a 2006 [car model], the kind where the seat belts come out of the top of the seats. They cut into your neck if you have to make a hard stop. I’m afraid I’m going to get decapitated in the event of an accident. Is there any way to fix this short of wearing a metal collar or never driving again?

Ten minutes later…

Me: They haven’t emailed me back yet.

Husband: It’s only been ten minutes.

Me: This is about my head not coming off. You’d think they would make it a priority!

Ten more minutes later…

Me: They are being awfully cavalier about my head re: its attachment to my body.

The good news is, they’re going to apparently call me today with a solution re: my seat belt, but I’ll probably just mess that up, too, as I am utterly hopeless at human interaction.

Here are some links you may find amusing, as recommended by commenters/emailers/twitterers/that creepy guy at the gas station who always hangs out around the air compressor but never seems to have anything in need of inflating:

11 Things About 50 Shades
50 Shades of Blue with Selena Gomez (I may have linked to this before)
The 50 Worst Synonyms in 50 Shades of Grey

Let’s do this thing. We’re nearly at the finish line.

Ana wakes up to Christian kissing her on the head.

“We have to leave in half an hour for dinner at my parents.” He’s amused.

Well, Mr. Grey, it is not amusing to be woken up from a long nap only to find that you don’t have enough time to pull yourself together. We already know she’s got major problems with her hair, and you allotted only thirty minutes for her to talk to us about it while frowning in the mirror and hating all the pretty girls? You don’t know Ana at all, do you, Mr. Grey?

I’m refreshed but suddenly nervous. Holy cow, I am meeting his folks! He’s just worked me over with a riding crop and tied me up using a cable tie which I sold him, for heaven’s sake – and I’m going to meet his parents. It will be Kate’s first time meeting them too – at least she’l be there for support.

Ah, shittyfriend!Ana. How good it is to see you again. Kate will be there to support Ana. Of course she will! It’s not like she might be nervous and in need of some support, herself. No, she won’t be, because the relationship between Kate and Elliot isn’t important, just the relationship between Ana and Christian. She’ll have to be supportive, because Ana is the heroine. I also really enjoy the part where Ana is ruminating on how she sold Christian the cable ties. How are the Greys going to know this? I’m kind of imagining Mrs. Grey asking, with a martini glass paused half-way to her lips, “Ana, I understand you worked in a hardware store. Tell me, did my son buy any hardware for deviant sex purposes?”

Where are my panties? I check beneath the chair. Nothing. Then I remember – he squirreled them away in the pocket of his jeans. I flush at the memory, after he, I can’t even bring myself to think about it, he was so – barbarous. I frown. Why hasn’t he given me back my panties?

 Is “barbarous” the word choice we’re going for here? Because slowly sliding off your panties and then sniffing them doesn’t seem barbaric at all. I mean, when I think barbaric, I think…

I don’t really think…

I steal into the bathroom, bewildered by my lack of underwear. While drying myself after my enjoyable but far too brief shower, I realize he’s done this on purpose. He wants me to be embarrassed and ask for my panties back, and he’l either say yes or no. My inner goddess grins at me. Hell… two can play at that particular game. Resolving there and then not to ask him for them and not give him that satisfaction, I shall go meet his parents sans culottes. Anastasia Steele! My subconscious chides me, but I don’t want to listen to her – I almost hug myself with glee because I know this will drive him crazy.

First of all, who is bewildered by not wearing underwear? Did she forget how to walk without panties on? Second, no, two cannot play at this particular game, Ana, unless you’ve got a pair of his underwear stashed away somewhere. Are you really going to go into a high-stress situation like meeting your boyfriend’s parents without any underwear on? Come on, lady, this is a time when you’re supposed to feel secure and confident, at least about your appearance, because you’re not going to feel that way about literally anything else all night long. No one wants to walk into the lion’s den without panties on.

Oh, it will impress your boyfriend, you say? Well, carry on, obviously.

Back in the bedroom, I put on my bra, slip into my dress, and climb into my shoes. I remove the braid and hastily brush out my hair, I then glance down at the drink he’s left.
It’s pale pink. What’s this? Cranberry and sparkling water. Hmm… it tastes delicious and quenches my thirst.

This book brought to you by the cranberry growers of New England.

You know, I bet after all this time, you’re wondering to yourself, “Jen, you haven’t mentioned anything about Chedward’s pants hanging off his hips in that way in quite some time. Surely, this is an error.” No, seriously, it didn’t come up again… until right now:

Christian is standing by the panoramic window, wearing the grey flannel pants that I love, the ones that hang in that unbelievably sexy way off his hips, and of course, a white linen shirt. Doesn’t he have any other colors? Frank Sinatra sings softly over the surround sound speakers.

So, there you go, dear reader. His pants are finally hanging off his hips in that way again. And do you like the music? We once again hear about a piece of music Christian listens to, and have a conversation about how eclectic his tastes run, because the narrative would surely suffer without such a discussion.

Frank starts crooning… an old song, one of Ray’s favorites. ‘Witchcraft.’ Christian leisurely traces his fingertips down my cheek, and I feel it all the way down there.

She just had an orgasm from being smacked in the clit with a riding crop over and over while her hands were shackled to the ceiling, but it’s still her “down there.” Plus, let me just point out, in case you missed it because you have boundary issues: gross, it’s not okay to think, “Oh, this is my dad’s favorite song I am so horny.” Or maybe it is. Maybe I just don’t have a good relationship with my father.

Ana and Christian dance for a few paragraphs, and of course his effortless grace means she moves like a pro, too, but before the number pops up so I can vote for them, Christian is all, “Shall we go and meet my parents?” and then tries to prompt Ana into asking for her panties back. Ana doesn’t bite:

“Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it, Miss Steele.” He grabs my hand, collects his jacket which is hanging on one of the barstools, and leads me through the foyer to the elevator. Oh, the many faces of Christian Grey. Will I ever be able to understand this mercurial man?

You seem to have him figured out pretty well, if you managed to suss out the underwear thing. Or have you?

I peek up at him in the elevator. He’s enjoying a private joke, a trace of a smile flirting with his beautiful mouth. I fear that it may be at my expense. What was I thinking? I’m going to see his parents and I’m not wearing any underwear. My subconscious gives me an unhelpful I told you so expression. In the relative safety of his apartment, it seemed like a fun, teasing idea. Now, I’m almost outside with No Panties! He peers down at me, and it’s there, the charge building between us. The amused look disappears from his face and his expression clouds, his eyes dark… oh my.

You fear that his private joke may be at your expense? I thought you were all smug about having figured it out. And duh, what did you think was going to happen when you left for dinner? That panties would materialize over your bits through sheer force of winning the game? Now, here is an interesting thing that comes up in the next paragraph. She gets into the car without exposing herself, and she’s thankful that Kate’s dress is so clingy and comes to the tops of her knees. If you are not a woman or you just don’t give a shit about getting dressed, you might not be hip to this awesome trick that we have. If a dress is clingy, you’ll probably have a panty line. So, in a lot of cases, women in clingy dresses will opt for no panties at all. What Ana is doing isn’t really that scandalous. It only becomes scandalous when Britney Spears or Paris Hilton or La Lohan are too coked out to keep their knees together getting out of the damned car. Something tells me you’ll be fine, Ana.

On the drive to his parents’ house, Ana notices that Christian has become withdrawn. She tries to pry some conversation out of him by asking how he learned to dance, and he tells her that it was “Mrs. Robinson,” the woman who raped him for six years beginning at age fifteen. Ana wonders if Christian was a different person before Mrs. Rapistson, and if so, was he a better person? Would he have gotten into BDSM without her influence?

I realize, in that moment, that I hate her. I hope that I never meet her because I will not be responsible for my actions if I do. I can’t remember ever feeling this passionately about anyone, especially someone I’ve never met. Gazing unseeing out of the window, I nurse my irrational anger and jealousy.

If your anger was directed at the fact that this woman straight up raped him, then it would be totally rational, Ana. But Ana isn’t mad that someone raped Christian, just that someone turned him on to BDSM, ruining him in her eyes. Because the most important person in this story is Ana.

Ana thinks about the afternoon and the fact that Christian was obviously going easy on her. She decides that she would do that all again, if it’s the only way to be with him. “That’s the bottom line. I want to be with him.” Good, then we won’t have to listen to any more rumination on that particular point, thank God.

His world indeed, and I want to belong in it, but on his terms? I just don’t know.

Ugh, Ana, you just told us on the last page that you totally would do anything to be with him. One of the things that drives me crazy in this book is the way the heroine will come to a final decision on something, then immediately turn it around and go, “No, just kidding, let’s have long thoughts about this again.” I realize that coming from me, the writer who pushed a heroine’s indecision out for four fucking novels, this is a laughable complaint. But it’s not like she’s deciding in one chapter that she’s okay with the situation, then changing her mind in the next chapter. Her flips and flops come paragraphs apart, and all they seem to do is take up space to indicate some long, tedious period of travel time. This book could have been a hundred pages shorter if every car or helicopter ride were just written as transitions, not their own scenes full of Ana’s conflicted feelings.

They arrive at the Cullen house, which is not all glass and white, because that’s Edward’s Christian’s apartment in this book. Instead, it’s a colonial-style mansion with roses around the door.

“Are you ready for this?” Christian asks as Taylor pulls up outside the impressive front door.
I nod, and he gives my hand another reassuring squeeze.
“First for me too,” he whispers, then smiles wickedly. “Bet you wish you were wearing your underwear right now,” he teases.
I flush. I’d forgotten my missing panties.

What do you mean, “you forgot?” You were obsessing about them for almost the entire ride. Then you started thinking about your relationship. Is that how all-consuming your love for Chedward is, that you can ignore a cool breeze on your cooch?

The Chevalier Trevelyan-Grey and her husband, Mr. Grey, are on the doorstep waiting, looking blond, which in most cases in this book is code for “evil” but we know that Christian’s parents are totally not evil, even if they did let one of their friends sexually abuse their son for six years when he was a teenager. Christian’s dad’s name is Carrick, a nice, unwieldy stand-in for Carlisle. They exchange a few pleasantries, then Alice shows up. Read this, and tell me if you find this exchange a totally-not-plagiarized-piece-of-original-work:

“Is she here?” I hear a screech from within the house. I glance nervously at Christian.
“That would be Mia, my little sister,” he says almost irritably, but not quite.
There’s an undercurrent of affection in his words, the way his voice grows softer and his eyes crinkle as he mentions her name. Christian obviously adores her. It’s a revelation.
And she comes barreling down the hall, raven haired, tall, and curvaceous. She’s about my age.
“Anastasia! I’ve heard so much about you.” She hugs me hard.
Holy cow. I can’t help but smile at her boundless enthusiasm.

My god, what a staggering work of fiction, to introduce such a sharply defined character as Mia! I bet you could see her in your head instantly. I bet she looked a lot like either Ashley Green, or the way you imagined Alice to look when you read Twilight, am I right? Truly, E.L. James is a master crafter of original, not at all stolen, characters.

No, seriously, if you haven’t notice by now, there is barely any description of any character (besides Edward Cullen) in this book that doesn’t rely entirely on the reader’s familiarity with Twilight. I can predict at least two comments to this entry will be some variation of, “You’re wrong, because I didn’t read Twilight and I read 50 Shades and I totally saw the characters in my mind,” and I’m going to stop you right there and point directly in your face and shout, “WRONG! WRONG WRONG WRONG!” and possibly do a little dance, because I’m a poor winner, at best. Whether or not you read Twilight or have watched the movies doesn’t matter. If you live in the Western world, you know what the cast of Twilight looks like. You know this, because the commercials are everywhere. Their pictures are in magazines. They’re on the side of your Burger King cup. Whether or not you are consciously aware of them, you know what the characters of Twilight look like, just like anyone who hasn’t read or seen Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone knows that Harry has a scarf, an owl, and eyeglasses. The fact that James does little in 50 Shades to describe any character (who is not Chedward the Adonis) beyond “They had blonde hair and looked mean/nice” is because she knew that Twilight and your knowledge of Twilight, willing or unwilling that it might be, would mean that you both knew exactly who she was talking about. Because these aren’t characters of her own invention. They belong to another writer.

Christian has never brought a girl home before, so Mia is really excited (sound familiar?). There is a lot of hugging and kisses on the cheek, and Mia keeps holding Ana’s hand, so it all starts to remind me of that skit on SNL where the family is overly-kissy and it freaks out the girlfriend who is meeting them for the first time. I would put a video here for comedic effect, but I can’t find one, and it’s the little side trips through internetlandia that make these recaps three-hour ordeals for me, so we’ll just keep going. At least Ana notices that it’s a little excessive:

Elliot grasps me in an all-embracing hug. What is this, hug Ana week? This dazzling display of affection – I’m just not used to it.

You and me both, sister. Mr. Grey offers everyone Prosecco, because if a scene passes where Ana doesn’t ingest some kind of alcohol, she might stop functioning.

I flush scarlet, and seeing Kate sitting with Elliot, it occurs to me suddenly that the only reason Christian invited me is because Kate is here. Elliot probably freely and happily asked Kate to meet his parents. Christian was trapped – knowing that I would have found out via Kate. I frown at the thought. He’s been forced into the invitation. The realization is bleak and depressing. My subconscious nods sagely, a you’ve-finally-worked-it-out-stupid look on her face.

I kind of wish I could be Ana’s conscious mind for a minute, to explain to her that no, Christian did not have to invite her. Their relationship is not Kate and Elliot’s relationship, and they don’t have to play keep up with them. Christian and Ana have just started seeing each other. He could have easily said, “I’m not ready to introduce you to my parents,” even though she’s already met his mother. That would have been a perfectly acceptable boundary, from a man who sets all sorts of unreasonable boundaries as effortlessly as sneezing. You know who was trapped into letting someone meet their parent, Ana? You were, at your graduation.

They chit-chat with the parents, and it is revealed that Elliot is going to Barbados with Kate and her family on vacation.

I glance at Kate, and she grins, her eyes bright and wide. She’s delighted. Katherine Kavanagh, show some dignity!

What a strange idea of dignity Ana has, if she believes it’s undignified to be happy that your boyfriend is comfortable and secure enough in your relationship to go on vacation with your family. This falls into the whole “Kate is a dirty, dirty slut for having sex with Elliot and liking it, while I am a paragon of virtue for dreading my orgasms” thing that Ana has going on. But at least we don’t spend a lot of time slut-shaming Kate. We move right on to the next thing that’s going to get Ana spanked and fucked:

“Are you taking a break now you’ve finished your degree?” Mr. Grey asks.
“I’m thinking about going to Georgia for a few days,” I reply.
Christian gapes at me, blinking a couple of times, his expression unreadable. Oh shit.
I haven’t mentioned this to him.
“Georgia?” he murmurs.
“My mother lives there, and I haven’t seen her for a while.”
“When were you thinking of going?” His voice is low.
“Tomorrow, late evening.”

Remember, Ana hasn’t signed that contract yet. There is no reason Christian should assume she’s going to check in with him before going anywhere. And wait, even if she had signed that contract, there’s no reason to assume that, because it’s not legally binding and only a psychopath would assume they should have complete and total control over every facet of another person’s life, unless it’s been granted to them by court order for the individual’s own well-being. Christian’s dad tries to move things along with a toast, but Christian  asks her how long she’s going to be gone for, and when she responds that it’s all up in the air, Kate gets involved:

His jaw clenches, and Kate gets that interfering look on her face. She smiles over-sweetly.
“Ana deserves a break,” she says pointedly at Christian. Why is she so antagonistic towards him? What is her problem?

Well, Ana, let’s look at your relationship from Kate’s pov, shall we?


What Kate has seen of Ana and Christian’s relationship:

• Ana is afraid to call Christian.
• Ana goes to coffee with Christian and comes home crying.
• Christian uses Kate as his errand girl to retrieve Ana for him at graduation.
• Christian sends Ana excessively expensive gifts which make Ana uncomfortable.
• Christian comes over for sex with Ana and leaves her crying.
• Ana expresses only doubts about her relationship with Christian to Kate, shares nothing positive.

Kate and Elliot follow Mr. Grey and Mia out of the room. I go to follow, but Christian clutches my elbow, bringing me to an abrupt halt.
“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?” he asks urgently. His tone is soft, but he’s masking his anger.
“I’m not leaving, I’m going to see my mother, and I was only thinking about it.”
“What about our arrangement?”
“We don’t have an arrangement yet.”
He narrows his eyes, and then seems to remember himself. Releasing my hand, he takes my elbow and leads me out of the room.
“This conversation is not over,” he whispers threateningly as we enter the dining room.

Nitpick! He didn’t have her hand. He was clutching her elbow. With that out of the way, is anyone else now picturing Chedward as the husband from Sleeping With The Enemy?

They go into the fancy dining room and all sit around the table, and despite everyone just having a drink in the living room, Mr. Grey starts passing the red wine around. Mia asks where Ana and Christian met, which leads Mia and Kate into a discussion about the student newspaper, which Ana ignores in favor of wine and begging Christian to not be mad at her. Of course he’s mad at her, and things are about to get a lot worse:

“What are you two whispering about?” Kate interjects.
I flush, and Christian glares at her in a butt-out-of-this-Kavanagh kind of way – even Kate wilts under his stare.
“Just about my trip to Georgia,” I say sweetly, hoping to diffuse their mutual hostility.
Kate smiles, a wicked gleam in her eye.
“How was Jose when you went to the bar with him on Friday?” Holy fuck, Kate. I widen my eyes at her. What is she doing? She widens her eyes back at me, and I realize she’s trying to make Christian jealous. How little she knows. I thought I’d got away with this.
“He was fine,” I murmur.
Christian leans over.
“Palm-twitchingly mad,” he whispers. “Especially now.” His tone is quiet and deadly.

Hey, Kate, if you were really concerned about Christian being a dangerous guy, WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU DO THAT? I’ve gotten some complaints recently that these recaps aren’t funny anymore because I concentrate on the domestic violence aspect too much, but I can’t, in good conscience, ignore this. As Ana Steele might say, my subconscious is very consciously glaring at me over some kind of unattractive eye wear about this one. If you have a friend who is in what you suspect might be an abusive relationship, do not goad the motherfucker she’s dating into giving you visible proof in the form of, say, a black eye. Or a corpse. If Kate really thought Christian was dangerous, why would she try to get Ana “in trouble” with him? This is not sound reason and logic, please, do not apply this in real life.

Enter the Chevalier Grey and another evil!blonde:

Grace reappears carrying two plates, followed by a pretty young woman with blonde pigtails, dressed smartly in pale blue, carrying a tray of plates. Her eyes immediately find Christian in the room. She blushes and gazes at him from under long mascara’d lashes.
What!

Yeah, What! indeed. Listen, you tramp (and I know you’re a tramp, because you’re wearing mascara, and Ana has pointed it out to me), blushing/flushing/going scarlet/going crimson and gazing at Christian from under lashes is Ana’s thing. Stop trying to steal Ana’s thing!

The phone rings, and it’s the hospital for Dr. Grey. The mom, you remember. Because this isn’t Twilight, it’s nothing at all like Twilight and it never had any connection to Twilight. In Twilight, the father was a doctor, not the mother. Totally different.

They tuck into their food (which Ana eats, so we don’t have to read another argument about how she doesn’t eat enough), Chevalier Grey comes back to talk about how kids are getting the measles because people aren’t vaccinating their children, and then the men start talking baseball.

BECAUSE THIS BOOK HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH TWILIGHT.


This gives Ana a chance to think totally normal, healthy relationship thoughts about Christian:

My mind is working furiously. Damn Kate, what game is she playing? Will he punish me? I quail at the thought. I haven’t signed that contract yet. Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll stay in Georgia where he can’t reach me.

Except for the part where he already told you he’d track you down if you went to Alaska. Ah, romance, and the perfectly acceptable personal boundaries therein.

As dinner goes on, Gretchen, the evil!blond servant, becomes more and more threatening to Ana:

As we finish our starters, Gretchen appears, and not for the first time, I wish I felt able to put my hands freely on Christian just to let her know – he may be fifty shades of fucked-up, but he’s mine. She proceeds to clear the table, brushing rather too closely to Christian for my liking. Fortunately, he seems oblivious to her, but my inner goddess is smoldering and not in a good way.

 Yeah, that’s right! He may be some unwieldy nonsense measurement of abusive pseudo-boyfriend, but he’s Ana’s unwieldy nonsense measurement of abusive pseudo-boyfriend. The dinner conversation turns to talk about Paris, and Christian remembers that Ana would would rather go to London than Paris. This charms her, for about a second, before he skeevily tries to fingerbang her at his parent’s dinner table:

He places his hand on my knee – his fingers traveling up my thigh. My whole body tightens in response. No… not here, not now. I flush and shift, trying to pull away from him. His hand clamps down on my thigh, stilling me. I reach for my wine, in desperation.
Little Miss European Pigtails returns, all coy glances and swaying hips, with our entree, a Beef Wellington, I think. Fortunately, she gives us our plates and then leaves, although she lingers handing Christian his. He looks quizzically at me as I watch her close the dining room door.

I’m not sure where in the scene it was established that Gretchen is European, or that she’s wearing a style of pigtails that could be deemed distinctly European, but let’s just go with it. Ana is already feeling out of place because she’s not well-traveled, so let’s make this evil!blonde a shady foreigner, as well. And if this chick is so obviously coming on to Christian, why hasn’t anyone at the table noticed? Wouldn’t Kate comment on it? Or Mia? They both seem pretty outspoken and observant.

Mia calls her old boss a “domineering tyrant,” which makes Ana choke on her wine, because she can connect literally anything to her sex life with Christian, but at least it makes Christian take his hand off her thigh. They all eat their delicious food, and at one point Mia and Christian converse in fluent French, so you know they’re some fucking classy ass people up in this joint. Christian offers to give Ana a tour of the grounds, and it’s an offer she literally can’t refuse, so they go out into the splendorous backyard, where Christian picks her up over his shoulder and smacks her behind.

Oh no… this is not good, my subconscious is quaking at the knees. He’s mad about something – could be Jose, Georgia, no panties, biting my lip. Jeez, he’s easy to rile.

Which is something you really want to look for in a responsible dominant, am I right? Someone who is going to get irrationally and seriously angry about everything? That’s super safe. Christian tells Ana he’s taking her to the boathouse.

“Why?” I sound breathless, bouncing on his shoulder.
“I need to be alone with you.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m going to spank and then fuck you.”

Ah, the perfect end to the perfect evening, then. And the perfect place to end this chapter recap.

You know what would be awesome? If Victoria and Laurent and that other fucking guy showed up and killed Ana and Chedward in the boathouse. That would be a satisfying read.

Last night, I went out for what should have been a “fun” night. We were going to see a band I liked, the tickets were gifted to us by someone else, the show was at one of the “hot” night spots in Kalamazoo, by all accounts, I should have had a freaking blast. Several factors conspired against me, though, to make me realize that I am impossibly old.

1. The band was so much older than I remember them being. We went to see The Verve Pipe last night. If you don’t remember who they are, they had some hits in the 90’s, like “Hero” and “The Freshmen” and “Photograph”:

They’re what we in the Kalamazoo/Grand Rapids area consider a “local” band who made good and got to the top. I saw them several times when I was in high school, usually alongside acts like “Mustard Plug” and “Bowling For Soup”. Last night, The Verve Pipe sounded just as amazing as I remembered. Maybe even better. But I realized that everyone in the group, literally every fucking one of them, probably had totally normal families at home, probably drove minivans full of beautiful suburban children around, probably played golf. What the fuck had happened to their youth? Worse, what had happened to mine?

2. Comfort is more important to me than it used to be. We got there shortly before the opening act and snagged our seats. By that, of course, I mean that we rushed to the front of the stage to stake out our spots, right? Nope. The venue was at the back of a bar, and while the area in front of the stage was cleared out for people to stand, the perimeter was set up all classy with stone-topped patio tables and thickly cushioned chairs. Guess which seats we took? But only after trying out all the other chairs like the three fucking bears. When a light drizzle started and thickly muscled young men (one of them looked, I shit you not, exactly like Thor) started carrying out the patio umbrellas, we flagged them down immediately. I remember concerts where I stood in the rain for hours, shouting my head off and dancing in the mud. I realized, as we shrilly demanded that the outdoor propane heater beside our table be turned on, that those days are over for me.

3. Wherein lactose intolerance is prematurely diagnosed as alcohol poisoning. There’s a line in a Verve Pipe song that goes, “I’m just a jerk/but a hero’s what I wanna be.” I missed half that song, because I was busy making Wild Bull’s bathroom as unpleasant as possible for anyone who dislikes the sound of violent retching. To amuse myself during the opening act, I slammed back a Long Island. Like, I emptied that thing like a small Coke at McDonald’s. I even used a straw and said, “Whoo hoo!” when I was done. Because I’m young, like the teenager that I used to be. In fairness to myself, I was riding the high of being carded by the bitchy eighteen-year-old who worked the hostess station. Until I pondered the biological feasibility that I could have given birth to her. Then it was time for the serious drinking, hence the Long Island.
When I was in my young and tender twenties, I once walked into a hotel bar during a writing conference. There was an old man there, a sailor attending a reunion with some WWII buddies. I took a seat beside him and ordered two Long Islands, and as the old sailor watched the drink being mixed, he turned to me and said, “Say, you’re not really going to drink that, are you? Did you see what he’s putting in there?” I said, with my liver of iron, “Yes, sir, I am.” And then proceeded to drink the first one while the guy mixed the second one, which I also drank down straight away. As I slammed the second glass on the bar, the old sailor looked at me and said, with no small amount of admiration, “You drink like no woman I’ve ever seen.”
So, why was I on my knees in the the Wild Bull bathroom, yakking my guts out while a bachelorette party tried to politely ignore me, after just one (tiny, overpriced) drink?
“Dude, you’ve got alcohol poisoning,” my cousin, D-Rock, said, with that same admiration. Of course I had alcohol poisoning! I wasn’t about to explore the whys and the wherefores, of course, because I only had one  (tiny, overpriced) drink. I had alcohol poisoning, because I’m a youthful, amazing party animal!
Or not. Because usually, when you throw up whatever you drank, you feel better soon. I did not. In fact, as the night went on, I felt worse and worse. I made the bathroom unpleasant again. I suffered through the rest of the concert with cold chills and roiling stomach, then I came home and made my own bathroom unpleasant. And it was then that my husband began listing off all the dairy products I’d had in the last three days: cheese and crackers, cottage cheese, quinoa mac and cheese, pizza, not to mention my daily dietary shakes, made with fat-free milk, twice a day. I wasn’t puking from my wild night out. I was puking because I’m lactose intolerant.

Nothing in my life has ever made me feel more old than last night made me feel. Last night, I realized that I’m no longer a young, twenty-something party animal. I’m almost thirty-two. I’m still “young” in some respects, but I’m officially an adult. Everything and everyone I love is growing older. It’s no longer fun to barf in bar bathrooms. I get called ma’am sometimes. I think of 8am as “sleeping in” and most of the time, I go to bed at nine. I’m sore, all the time.

But the best part of last night? Literally everyone in the audience was old, too.

Howdy y’all! It’s another glorious Sex Scene Saturday! Today, I’m bringing you BRIDE OF THE WOLF, my paranormal historical romance!

But first, let’s find out who won LONG RELIEF from last Saturday! Chosen by Random.org number generator, the winner is…

She took a breath. Her hands trembled and she clasped them together beneath her cloak. “Then what is next?”

He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing her fingertips against his lips. “You know,” he said, an echo of the words he’d spoken before, when he’d been unable to say what he truly wished to.

And in response, again, she replied, “I do.”

He kissed her, one arm around her back to support her, and a good thing, too, for she did swoon under his mouth. The taste of spice and ale on his mouth and the sweep of his tongue against hers weakened her knees. She clutched at his shoulders, and he broke apart from her long enough to say, “The bed.”

He advanced on her with kisses and she, giggling, backed away until the low bed hit her ankles and she sat down on the thin straw. He caught her up with one arm and pulled her atop him as he lay down, and she stared into his face, her hair falling around both of them. He scooped some of it back with his thumb to smooth it behind her ear. “Do you still believe what you said this morning?”

She thought back, to when she had told him. That she chose this path, that she trusted him. It was as true now as then. More so, now, for she was no longer trusting him to simply keep her from danger. She trusted him not to put her very heart in peril.

Smiling, she leaned down and brushed her lips across his. “I choose you.”

He leaned up, a hand in her hair to tug her down, crushing their mouths together. Her head reeled. This was another kind of danger, one she had no fear of losing herself in. He moved her to his side, his hands working at the laces of her tattered kirtle.

His hand cupped the base of her skull, brushing over some delightful spot. She gasped and arched her neck, forcing his fingers over that place once more. His fingertips slid through her hair, stroking her scalp with the softest of touches, and she squirmed, her breath caught on a mewling sigh.

His mouth left hers to wander over her cheek, then her jaw, to just beneath her ear, his wicked lips seeking out every bit of flesh he could reach. When his mouth closed over her earlobe, she arched up, unable to stand anymore. Her hands splayed against his chest, her only safe ground in the ocean of fierce sensation drowning her. His hand in her hair, skimming circles over that tremor-inducing place he’d found, brought a high, tight sound from her throat, surprising her. Between her thighs, she throbbed, her most private flesh grown slippery and hot.

She knew, as any maid old enough to bleed knew, how the act was accomplished, but never had she been told that it would be so exhilarating or frightening. Precious inches from losing control completely, she clung to him.

His hands slipped into her open kirtle, running over her spine through her chemise, up and then down, to cup her buttocks through the thin muslin. He pulled her hips forward, and she sat astride him as he worked her dress and chemise up. She raised her arms to help him pull the garments over her head, but reached to cover herself when she was suddenly very naked before him.

A low laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’ve seen you before, you know.”

“That was different.” She couldn’t help her blush, seeing the way his gaze roved over her, as though he were starving for her. Her skin peppered with gooseflesh in the cool room, and he smoothed it away, warming her with his touch on her shoulders, her arms, her waist. She caught his hands in hers, brought them to her breasts. Her nipples hardened beneath his palms as he cupped her flesh.

He sat half up, and she leaned to kiss him again as his hands molded her flesh. Fire swept through her, an arching flame that plunged through her body from his lips, then up again, low in her belly. It left in its wake a need that burned. Her hands delved beneath his doublet, seeking out his skin, and he leaned back, his touching leaving her body for only a moment as he divested himself of the garment.

She rose to her knees and swung her leg off him, sitting beside him on the bed expectantly. “Well?”

With a half-smile, he reached for the laces of his braies. She noticed the tremor in his hands, and that he did not work so quickly as he had at the laces of her kirtle. She brushed his hands aside and unlaced him herself, darting her hand inside the parted cloth, against the coarse gold hair that lead in a line from his navel and disappeared beneath the fabric. His cock leapt at her palm, and she could not help the flush that suffused her face even as she closed her hand around him.

It was a terribly strange thing to her, to hold him in her hand and hear him groan, feel his heart beating under her palm. She’d never touched a man this way before, and it seemed unfair that in her inexperience she wielded so much obvious power over him. Her own pulse throbbed between her legs, and she stroked him, restlessly pressing her thighs together to ease some of the ache there.

He lifted his hips, at the same time gently capturing her wrist and pulling her hand free. He pushed his braies down, and then, in a shock of realization, she knew why he’d hesitated disrobing before. His iron leg, fastened with tight straps to his thigh, was the only thing he wore on that side. On the other, a single leg of hose covered him, and he rolled that off and tossed it aside before reaching to unbuckle the false leg. The woolen bandage that wrapped his stump anchored with a length across his chest and over his opposite shoulder.

His mouth was grim as she watched him unlatch the first buckle, sliding the strap through the metal to free it. “Have you changed your mind?”

She shook her head, but no words came to her. It would not be fair to lie to him, not in this moment, when so much intimacy had already passed between them. To fear his infirmity would be an insult, but she could not help but recoil at the sight of the stump, reddened from the cup of the iron leg, knotted with scarred flesh. He raised up to discard the bandage, and fell back heavily.

When he rolled the iron to the floor, she looked up to find him watching her. He searched for disgust in her expression, and likely he found it. But she could not have him believe her repulsed by him. What was a leg, when compared to the rest of him, as perfect as any man she could have imagined? Words would not do, so she leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his thigh, near his hip. She did not touch the raw, ruined end of that mangled leg, but she kissed him, and those kisses moved from his thigh to the slight ridges of his stomach, to his chest like stone and the hard bunches of muscle beneath the skin of his arms. She slid her body over his, reveling in the meshing of their skin, the tickle of crisp hair against her breasts.

Raf threaded his fingers in her hair again, pulling to tilt her face toward him. She met his gaze, full of self-loathing and expectation of rejection, and watched it melt into one of wonder. He kissed her, all of the tenderness gone out of him, making way for a brutal passion that she did not resist.

Rolling her to his side, his mouth found her neck, her throat, and she writhed against him, gasping for breath beneath his lips and tongue. His arm around her back held her, though she needed no restraint to keep her at his side. His lips traveled lower, to her breasts, where he sucked one nipple into his mouth. She did arch away from him then, but his grip did not release, and her gasps grew to cries, the fire in her burning harder, heat thrumming through her veins as his tongue swirled over the hard nub.

She hooked her leg over his waist, grinding her hips against his thigh, and he groaned, slipping a hand between them to venture between her legs. When his fingers touched the slick flesh there, another guttural noise sounded from his throat, and she laid back, her legs falling open. He leaned over her, kissing her shoulder, her breast as one rough finger slipped through her cleft. His fingertip brushed the very center of the desire that had been building in her, and she cried out, bucking her hips as he rubbed over and over it. The sensation tightened her muscles, dug her toes into the straw mattress beneath her as she lifted her hips higher.

“Wait,” he whispered, his voice ragged. He pulled her astride him again, and she moaned in despair at the loss of his touch. The tip of his cock touched her, and she rose up on her knees in surprise. He coaxed her down with whispered words, helped her to position herself above him. The head of him brushed her, and she shivered at the ghost of the feeling his finger had roused.

Still, at the very precipice of this intimate mystery, she felt fear. She whimpered as he pushed up, though her body opened to accept him eagerly. Gently, he pulled her down, tearing the barrier of chastity in a moment of pain that clouded her desire. The moment passed, though the pain lingered, and she opened her tightly closed eyes to find him looking up at her, worry in his expression.

“It was nothing,” she managed, choking on a gasp as she slipped farther down, taking him inside of her completely.

“Nothing?” He gave a weary laugh. “That does much for my confidence.”

She wanted to laugh with him, but her body, aflame for so long she feared she might burn up entirely, dictated that she move. She rocked her hips, sobbing aloud at the delicious tug that answered deep within her.

“Perhaps more substantial than nothing?” he asked, and though he tried to sound light and teasing, the tremor in his voice betrayed him. He struggled, just as she did, beneath the relentless battering of need, of desire restrained, and she moved again, thrilling at his wordless exclamation that resulted.

Want to win a story about hot, one-legged werewolf? You know you do. Just leave a comment, with your email address, on this post before 6pm EST next Friday for a chance to win. I’m giving away one copy of BRIDE OF THE WOLF to the lucky winner, who will be drawn at random. If you’re reading this post at GoodReads.com, please click the “More at Jennifer Armintrout’s Website” link at the bottom of the post and leave your comment at my blogger site, because GoodReads sometimes loses comments for me, and I am just sick to my butt when that happens and you miss your chance at the prize.

And after you enter to win, go visit some of these other purveyors of fine booty, who have also posted sexy excerpts today:

Full disclosure? I’m eating an insane amount of candy right now.

Yesterday, this blog got 13,000 hits. I remember when I used to get excited to get fifty hits. So, thank you, whoever posted the link to reddit, which is yet another internet thing I do not understand.

On the other hand, now I know that many people are looking at this blog, and that means I’m under enormous pressure to perform. All this pressure, on the lady who can’t even self promote correctly. Oy.

Also, my dogs are really going to town on each other right now. The humping. Dear god, the humping.

So, with that image in mind, onto the recap.

Chapter eighteen begins with another evil blonde:

Dr. Greene is tall, blond, and immaculate, dressed in a royal blue suit. I’m reminded o the women who work in Christian’s office. She’s like an identikit model – another Stepford blond.

At this point, I’m not sure E.L. James isn’t an elaborate double life for Laurell K. Hamilton, because Ana hates on blondes the way Anita Blake hates on blondes. I’m waiting for Ana to say she doesn’t need to wear base, it’s getting to that point with the blonde comments. Look, we get it, Anata. Blondes are evil. Let’s move on.

We shake hands, and I know she’s one of those women who doesn’t tolerate fools gladly. Like Kate. I like her immediately.

I’m having a hard time with the prose here. Is Ana saying that Kate is a fool? Or that the doctor is like Kate? I’d believe the former before I’d believe the latter, because Ana doesn’t seem to like Kate much.  Doctor Greene examines her and gives her a prescription for the pill.

I love her no-nonsense attitude – she has lectured me until she’s as blue as her dress about taking it at the same time every day. And I can tell she’s burning with curiosity about my so-called relationship with Mr. Grey.

Or, she’s burning with curiosity as to how a woman gets to be twenty-one without ever seeing a gynecologist. Seriously, Ana, people are not as obsessed with your relationship as you are. They go downstairs to find Christian sitting in his living room, listening to an aria with his eyes closed. I bet Christian only does that shit when people are around, and when he’s by himself, he listens to Hot Chelle Rae.

“Are you done?” he asks as if he’s genuinely interested.

Why would he ask if he wasn’t interested?

 “Yes, Mr. Grey. Look after her; she’s a beautiful, bright young woman.” Christian is taken aback – as am I. What an inappropriate thing for a doctor to say.

Yes, that is an inappropriate thing for a doctor to say. It’s left me wondering what kind of spectacular vagina Ana must have, if the doctor could tell she was bright just from examining it. Is it full of brains and MENSA literature? Does a light bulb come on automatically when she uncrosses her legs?

Taylor appears from nowhere to escort her through the double doors and out to the elevator. How does he do that? Where does he lurk?

This brings up something I’ve been meaning to address for some time. I have the same questions about Taylor. Here’s the thing, Ana has walked around Christian’s house and cooked him bottomless breakfast. Christian intends to make Ana his sex slave, which I assume will entail some degree of sexual activity outside of the bedroom, possibly walking her on a leash, hell, I don’t know what he’s into. But I think I would be super uncomfortable if there was just some creepy Matrix guy who stepped out of seemingly no where at any time. What if Ana is getting rammed over a pool table, is he going to surreptitiously take a shot at the corner pocket? That’s not a sex euphemism, I’m just genuinely wondering how much of Christian’s sex life he watches, and possibly films.

He narrows his eyes, and I immediately stop laughing. In fact, he looks rather forbidding. Oh shit. My subconscious quails in the corner as all the blood drains from my face, and I imagine him putting me across his knee again.
“Gotcha!” he says and smirks.

Oh ho, what a jolly jape that fellow is having with a sex partner who fears his temper! La, what cheek, to jest with the lady about threats of physical violence! Encore! Encore!

Chedward decides that Ana needs to eat, because the reader isn’t yet tired of listening to them argue about whether or not she’s eaten enough. This happens often enough in the book that I’m pretty sure women aren’t actually fantasizing about the sex. I think it’s more like:

I step off the digital scale slowly. Jeez, my subconscious thinks, quite consciously. He looks so terrifyingly angry. Is it because I’m so much fatter and unfortunate looking than my roommate, Barbie? It must be, for I am so unworthy of this shimmering Adonis. Gazing at him, I open my mouth to apologize, when he picks up the scale and smashes it into the wall, breaking it. Holy crap! He walks over to me and kisses me, hard. Breathless in his arms, I hear his voice as if from far away. “I have ordered pizza for you, the cheese-and-meatiest my considerable fortune could procure. It is being flown directly from Chicago via Charlie Tango, my helicopter which you may have forgotten about. You don’t eat enough. I should know. I can drive a helicopter.”

Yeah, that’s pretty much the fantasy I think these books are inspiring. RPattz railing some woman as she’s bent over a kitchen counter strewn with pizza boxes, stuffing her face.

Christian gets out a salad and Ana admires his grace as he moves around the kitchen. Of course, grace is really in the eye of the beholder. I’m sure Ana finds anyone who can walk three consecutive steps without tripping “graceful”. Christian also gets out the wine, because it’s five o’clock somewhere, literally every hour of the day for these people. Christian asks what birth control method Ana opted for, and when she tells him, he frowns.

“And will you remember to take it regularly, at the right time, every day?” Jeez… of course I will. How does he know? I blush at the thought, probably from one or more of the fifteen.

Setting aside the massive amounts of clunk in that sentence, I’m actually surprised that Christian is okay with this method of birth control. A guy like this, with this amount of money, it seems like he’d wrap it the fuck up to avoid paying child support. He’s such a control freak, I’d think he’d want to know for sure and certain that he’s not going to be spawning any little Greys.

They eat their salads, and Christian asks Ana if she really wants to do this. When she points out that she hasn’t signed anything, he tells her it’s okay, because he’s breaking a lot of rules lately.

“Are you going to hit me?”
“Yes, but it won’t be to hurt you. I don’t want to punish you right now. If you’d caught me yesterday evening, well, that would have been a different story.” Holy cow. He wants to hurt me… how do I deal with this? I can’t hide the horror on my face.
“Don’t let anyone try and convince you otherwise, Anastasia. One of the reasons people like me do this is because we either like to give or receive pain. It’s very simple. You don’t, so I spent a great deal of time yesterday thinking about that.” He pulls me against him, and his erection presses into my belly. I should run, but I can’t. I’m drawn to him on some deep, elemental level, that I can’t begin to understand.

It’s “battered woman syndrome” according a commenter (thanks, commenter!) a few entries back. That’s the deep, elemental pull. Notice, she’s still saying “hit” instead of “spank” or “punish” or another one of those fun, tingly in the pants region BDSM words. And I take issue with Christian’s assessment that people involved in BDSM are in it for the pain. I hate pain, but I like being tied up and told what to do. Where is your God now, Christian Grey? WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW?

So, of course, he’s thought about the fact that she doesn’t like pain, but he hasn’t reached a conclusion either way about whether or not their relationship will include those elements. But there’s no time to talk about such trivial things now, for he must fuck her!

My heart starts pounding. This is it. I’m really going to do this. My inner goddess is spinning like a world-class ballerina, pirouette after pirouette. He opens the door to his playroom, standing back for me to walk through, and I am once more in the Red Room of Pain. It’s the same, the smell of leather, citrus, polish and dark wood, all very sensual. My blood is running heated and scared through my system – adrenaline mixed with lust and longing. It’s a heady, potent cocktail. Christian’s stance has changed completely, subtly altered, harder and meaner. He gazes down at me and his eyes are heated, lustful… hypnotic.

If this is not a BPAL perfume collection within six months, I’ll eat a vegetable. This would be a perfect excerpt to use as the description. It would just be followed by something like, “Lustful notes of leather, crisp citrus, feral musk and rich mahogany, blended together in an hypnotic, sensual dance.” There, BPAL, I just made you another $35 bucks, at least.

Christian reiterates that Ana is there for his enjoyment, to do whatever he wants. He gets her undressed, and tells her that her body is “a joy to behold.” If a dude said that to me, I would immediately take the awkward phrasing as a sign that he was being totally sarcastic. He wants Ana to be unembarrassed by her nakedness, which is easier said than done, when a fully dressed guy is just standing there, staring at you. She isn’t allowed to make a sound, unless he asks her to, and she has to call him “Sir”. She’s also supposed to keep her hair braided, and wear just her panties when she’s in the Red Room.

“Good girl.” His eyes burn into mine. “When I tell you to come in here, I expect you to kneel over there.” He points to a spot beside the door. “Do it now.” I blink processing his words, turn, and rather clumsily kneel as directed.
“You can sit back on your heels.”
I sit back.
“Place your hands and forearms flat on your thighs. Good. Now part your knees. Wider. Wider. Perfect. Look down at the floor.”

Not many people know this, but Chedward used to be a photographer at the Sears portrait studio.

“I’m going to chain you now, Anastasia. Give me your right hand.” I give him my hand. He turns it palm up, and before I know it, he swats the center with a riding crop I hadn’t even noticed is in his right hand. It happens so quickly that the surprise hardly registers. Even more astonishing – it doesn’t hurt. Well, not much, just a slight ringing sting.

This is one of those things that drives me crazy about this book. We’re supposed to believe that Ana notices his pants before she notices that he’s carrying a freaking riding crop? She’s so keyed up and fearful about being in the Red Room of Pain, she’s not going to notice when he’s holding an implement? The very implement she had a sex dream about? But she’ll notice, in no less than four adjectives, that his jeans are “older, ripped, soft, and over-washed”? I’m not buying it.

Christian tells her that what they’re going to do won’t hurt. I don’t know, being hit with a riding crop seems like it would hurt, but what do I know? He shackles Ana to the metal grid on the ceiling, and explains that he can move her around the room. I guess it’s like those tracks they put curtains on in the hospital, then.

I oblige immediately, feeling like I’m exiting my body – a casual observer of events as they unfold around me. This is beyond fascinating, beyond erotic. It’s singularly the most exciting and scary thing I’ve ever done. I’m entrusting myself to a beautiful man who, by his own admission, is fifty shades of fucked-up. I suppress the brief thrill of fear. Kate and Elliot, they know I’m here.

Nothing says “erotic” quite like, “My roommate knows my whereabouts, so if he murders me, at least he’ll get caught.” I’m surprised they didn’t just title the book “Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up,” since it fits a lot better.

Standing in front of me again, he hooks his fingers into my panties, and at a most unhurried pace, peels them down my legs, stripping me agonizingly slowly, so that he ends up kneeling in front of me. Not taking his eyes off mine, he scrunches my panties in his hand, holds them up to his nose, and inhales deeply. Holy fuck. Did he just do that? He grins wickedly at me and tucks them into the pocket of his jeans.

Keep in mind, she’s just had a gynecological exam. So, enjoy that whiff of KY and latex you’re getting, man.  I’m not sure why this shocks Ana. He sucked on her toes after she had gone running and sat around in her sweaty socks for literally hours. It’s not like he isn’t into her bodily aromas. Then, he starts hitting her in the vagina with the riding crop, and she loves it.

He comes to a stop… but I can no longer see him. My eyes are closed as I try to absorb the myriad of sensations coursing through my body. Very slowly, he rains small, biting licks of the crop down my belly, heading south. I know where this is leading, and I try and psyche myself up for it – but when he hits my clitoris, I cry out loudly.

 Jesus Christo, I would, too. Unfortunately, she’s not crying out the safe word, so the scene keeps going.

“See how wet you are for this, Anastasia. Open your eyes and your mouth.” I do as I’m told, completely seduced. He pushes the tip of the crop into my mouth, like my dream. Holy shit.

So, Ana finally acknowledges that this is exactly like the dream she had,  and Christian makes her come by twacking her in the clit with the riding crop. Then he pushes her up against the wooden cross on the wall and fucks her.

I feel so weak, but I do as he asks as he wraps my legs around his hips and positions himself beneath me. With one thrust, he’s inside me, and I cry out again, listening to his muffled moan at my ear. My arms are resting on his shoulders as he thrusts into me. Jeez, it’s deep this way. He thrusts again and again, his face at my neck, his harsh breathing at my throat. I feel the build up again. Jeeze no… not again… I don’t think my body will with-stand another earth-shattering moment. But I have no choice… and with an inevitability that’s becoming familiar, I let go and come again, and it’s sweet and agonizing and intense.

I think Ana might be the only person alive who doesn’t like orgasms. Seriously? “Jeez no… not again…?” It’s like, orgasm #2. I wonder if this is some symptom of our messed up culture, we can show the heroine of an erotic novel having orgasms, just so long as they’re portrayed as mildly unpleasant? I suppose only dirty, dirty sluts like Kate enjoy multiple orgasms.

Ana is all wore out from the sexing, but Christian has no refractory period, apparently, because he’s “not finished with you yet.”

Not finished with me yet. Holy Moses. There’s no way I can do any more. I am utterly spent and fighting an overwhelming desire to sleep. I’m leaning against his chest, my eyes are closed, and he’s wrapped around me – arms and legs – and I feel… safe, and oh so comfortable. Will he let me sleep, perchance to dream?

Will he murder you? Because that line is about dying, specifically, about whether or not you should kill yourself before your uncle-dad gets a crack at you. I have this crazy feeling that this does not apply to Ana’s situation.

I flush and look back at his chest in longing. I want to run my tongue through the hair, kiss him, and for the first time, I notice he has a few random and faint small, round scars dotted around his chest. Chicken pox? Measles? I think absently.

So, there you go. Christian has scars. He takes off the shackles and has her kneel by the door. Ana is so tired, her inner goddess has gone to sleep. I know you were dying to know what Ana’s inner goddess was doing. He ties Ana’s hands together with a cable tie.

Jeez… the plastic cable ties. Restocking at Clayton’s! It all becomes clear.

How was it unclear from the moment you found out about the BDSM? He’s a millionaire! Do you really think he’s going to do his own remodel? Are you serious with this? Christian tells her that he wants more (more cable ties?) but that he’ll make it quick, because he knows she’s tired. Where have heard this exchange before?

Because Ana’s business hours are over, Chedward settles for fucking her from behind while she holds onto the bed with wrists ziptied together.

I grip harder round the post and push back against him as he continues his merciless onslaught, again and again, his fingers digging into my hip. My arms are aching, my legs feel uncertain, my scalp is getting sore from his tugging on my hair… and I can feel a gathering deep inside me. Oh no… and for the first time, I fear my orgasm… if I come…

Are you kidding me? “For the first time?” Didn’t we already establish that WORDS MEAN THINGS? You feared the last one, you were all, “Oh jeezy crap, I’m going to come again,” and now suddenly it’s the first time you dread having an orgasm?

My body is responding… how? I feel a quickening.

He stoops to help me to my feet and leads me to the door, on the back of which hangs a grey waffle robe. He patiently dresses me as if I’m a small child.

And then Christian takes her to her bedroom and gets in bed with her, instead of going to his own room, because, you know, she’s healing him with her love or something. And the chapter ends.

Now, in an act of shameless self promotion, allow me to remind you that you still have a few hours to enter the Sex Saturday contest, which closes at 6pm EST: You could win a book.