Author: JennyTrout

When last we left Ana and Christian, they were going to make the security team wait in the other room while they had sex. Christian asks Ana if she wants “kinky fuckery.”

I nod, feeling my face flame. Why am I embarrassed by this? I have done all manner of kinky fuckery with this man. He’s my husband, damn it! Am I embarrassed because I want this and I’m ashamed to admit it? My subconscious glares at me. Stop over-thinking.

Ana, no one would ever acuse you of over thinking. But what really pisses me off about this paragraph is her assumption that because this man is her husband, she should be able to just give up her body and her desires to him without any reservation. The thing is, that kind of relationship requires trust, and there’s no trust between Ana and Christian except for the trust he’s forced her to put in him. And even then, she has doubts, so tell me again why she should be totally comfortable sharing anything personal with him at all?

Christian asks if he has “‘Carte blanche'” during this kinky fuckery:

Carte blanche? Holy fuck – what will that entail? “Yes,” I murmur nervously, as excitement blooms deep inside me.

You may remember that the last time she gave him “carte blanche,” he beat the ever living fuck out of her with a belt, and not in a sex game way. In a “I want to cause you as much pain as possible because your suffering gets me off even if your consent is dubious and uninformed,” kind of way.

They go into the “play room.” I guess that’s what we’re calling it now, instead of the Red Room of Pain, and thank god. Red Room of Pain sounds like a New Wave band or a Boston-based Irish rap group.

The playroom smells reassuringly familiar, of leather and wood and fresh polish. I blush, knowing that Mrs. Jones must have been in here cleaning while we were away on our honeymoon.

Why, was someone else using it while you were on your honeymoon? Why would it need to be cleaned?

What will he do? He locks the door and turns.

Again with the locking door. Like, dude, you live alone, with a highly trained security staff. Do you think the arsonist is going to drive his Dodge right through that door and interrupt your sex? What is the likelihood of someone busting in on them in the apartment where only they live? I know this is a small detail when compared to everything else in these books, but I’ve totally fixated on it.

Christian asks Ana what she wants, and she tells him to surprise her. With the exception of, “beat me as hard as you can with this belt so I can see if I can still love you after,” has Ana ever actually told Christian what she wanted? It seems like most of the time, she demurs and lets him take control. Which I get, she’s a submissive, but hell, he’s asking you.

So, read this excerpt, and I’ll ask you a question on the other side:

“Here,” I whisper, gazing nervously at him as I remove the hair tie from around my wrist and hold it up for him. He stills, and his eyes widen briefly but give nothing away. Finally, he takes the small band.

“Turn around,” he orders.

Relieved, I smile to myself and oblige immediately. Looks like we’ve overcome that little hurdle.

What hurdle? I re-read this part over and over, trying to figure out what all the drama was about, and the best I could come up with was that maybe he didn’t want to braid her hair like he did to his subs? Because she’s his wife now? Or something? But there’s no way to tell. All this tells me is that he’s somewhat reluctant to touch a hair tie, for no reason. Or they’ve overcome the hurdle of telepathic communication, since all she had to do was say, “Here, braid my hair.”

Now it’s time for bold that word rep! Obviously the emphasis is all mine:

“Now turn around and take your skirt off.  Let it fall to the floor.” He releases me and steps back as I turn to face him. Not taking my eyes of his, I unbutton the waistband of my skirt and ease the zipper down. The full skirt fans out and falls to the floor, pooling at my feet.

“Step out from your skirt,” he orders. As I step toward him, he kneels swiftly down in front of me and grasps my right ankle.

I get that sometimes, word rep can be sneaky and hard, even for copy editors. Sometimes, there’s no way to avoid it. But this is kind of inexcusable.

Suddenly he kneels up, grabs my hips, and pulls me forward, burying his nose in the apex of my thighs. “And you smell of you and me and sex,” he says, inhaling sharply. “It’s intoxicating.” He kisses me through my lace panties, while I gasp at his words – my insides liquefying.

You just fucked in the car, your “insides” are already sloshing with liquid. Pardon me while I imagine Christian getting a huge glob of his own gelled semen up his nose.

Christian tells her to face the wall, so she won’t know what he’s doing, and she listens while he opens drawers and thinks about how much she loves anticipation and how he’s going to do all this naughty stuff to her. Which would be hot, except it’s followed by this:

The subtle hiss of the sound system coming to life tells me it’s going to be a musical interlude. A lone piano starts, muted and soft, and mournful chords fill the room. It’s not a tune I know. The piano is joined by an electric guitar. What is this? A man’s voice speaks and I can just make out the words, something about not being frightened of dying.

Quick question, does anyone else get a murdery vibe from that? By the way, the song she’s describing is “The Great Gig In The Sky,” which is not music I would choose for a BDSM scene. Pink Floyd is definitely music to have sex to when you’re stoned and laying on the floor and you’ve already gotten tired of trying to match the lyrics up with Wizard of Oz, but the borderline screaming would make it super distracting if you weren’t high as absolute balls. Also, I refuse to believe Ana got through college in the Pacific Northwest without ever once hearing Dark Side of The Moon. Why can’t she just say, “Christian puts on a Pink Floyd song?” Why is E.L. so fucking coy about the music or naming songs if she’s just going to put the list of songs up on her website, anyway?

Oh, shit! I know why she’s coy about the songs, I’ll bet. Because back in the day, Fanfiction.net cracked the fuck down on “song fics,” fanfiction where the author would write stories based on popular songs, or built around the lyrics of popular songs. For a long while, they were super strict about this; one of my Phantom of The Opera fics got removed because I included the lyrics to an aria (which was in the public domain, but whatever, in the Pit of Voles, you get what you pay for). I wonder if that’s why songs aren’t mentioned by name. This is only speculation, of course, since 50 Shades is obviously not at all fanfiction of any type, right? It says so in the disclaimer in the front.

Maybe it’s a copyright thing? Like she was afraid someone was going to come after her from a legal standpoint if she used the titles of songs in her published work? Which is kind of… not seeing the forest for the trees, isn’t it, considering that her entire work is plagiarized?

Continuing with his theme of “love means never having to use a safeword,” Chedward tells Ana:

“You must tell me to stop if it’s too much. If you say stop, I will stop immediately. Do you understand?”

Look. My opinion of safewords is, you should probably use them. However, there are situations where people decide to not use safewords, or to just make the safeword, “Ouch, that hurts in the bad way.” To engage in safeword-less BDSM, you need a few things:

• A Dom/Domme who can tell the difference between “(don’t) stop!” and “Stop!” Christian has already proven that he can’t do this, when he beat the fuck out of Ana while she screamed her head off in a clear, “I’m not into this,” way. He was confused afterward, because he felt it was her responsibility to safeword, not his responsibility to monitor the scene (which he shouldn’t have engaged in, because she didn’t want to play, she wanted to test him on an emotional level.)
• Trust. Sure, Ana trusts Christian. But that’s because Ana is stuck in a loop of learned helplessness. She has to trust him, because she has no other choice. He’s broken that trust time and again (putting hickeys and bruises on her on their honeymoon, when she couldn’t see what he was doing and couldn’t object, for one), but since she doesn’t have any agency left, she can’t not trust him. That’s not trust, that’s brainwashing.
• Clear and open communication. These two do not communicate. They talk a lot, but not about anything important, until someone has a huge breakdown. And if Ana does try to communicate with Christian, he just manipulates her out of being concerned about whatever it was that bothered her in the first place.

I hear the quiet spurt of some liquid, presumably from a tube, then his fingers are massaging me there again. Lubricating me… there!

I’m so tired of “…there!” I’m so tired of it. I’m tired of “everything south of my waist” (which, by the by, is used in this scene as well). If you want to write a naughty book, write a naughty book. Just say that he put lube on your asshole, for fucks’ sake.

Also, Ana does a lot of hearing in this scene. She hears the drawer opening, she hears the “soft hiss” of the sound system (is he putting on a vinyl LP here? I haven’t heard a “soft hiss” since the 1980’s, and certainly not on a digital format), now she can tell that there is liquid coming out of a tube. Not a bottle, specifically a tube, and she can tell this because she’s fucking Daredevil.

“This is lube.” He spreads some more on me.

Thanks for mentioning it, because otherwise she might have thought it was salad dressing.

Oh god, I just pictured Ranch dressing on somebody’s asshole. There goes lunch.

I groan. And I feel something cool, metallically cool, run down my spine.

“I have a small present for you here,” Christian whispers.

An image from our show-and-tell springs to mind. Holy crap. A butt plug.

Anastasia Steele, Psychic Buttsecks Detective.

Are you ready for the most appallingly vague description of anal play you will ever read in a modern novel? Grab your ankles and brace yourselves, because this is happening:

And gently, while his fingers and thumb work their magic, he pushes the cold plug slowly into me.

“Ah!” I groan loudly at the unfamiliar sensation, my muscles protesting at the intrusion. He circles his thumb inside me and pushes the plug harder, and it slips in easily, and I don’t know if it’s because i”m so turned on or if he’s distracted me with his expert fingers, but my body seems to accept it. It’s heavy… and strange… there!

“Oh, baby.”

And I can feel it… where his thumb swirls inside me… and the plug presses against… oh, ah… He slowly twists the plug, eliciting a long, drawn-out moan from me.

“Ah!” I groan loudly at the supposedly kinky book. It’s not graphic… and it’s disappointing… and I have… feelings! I’ll use… ellipses… to… avoid… describing… anal… because I’m lacking experience or imagination or both.

Throughout this scene, Ana mentions being nervous, having anxiety. This does not a loose asshole make.  But there’s no discomfort at all? Not even like, “It’s a weird feeling like I’m accidentally shitting myself?” Just, “Oh, it’s all pleasure because I’m just soooo turned on, even though I’m nervous and I’ve never done this before and also I’m routinely terrified of the person who’s wielding the butt plut?”

I hesitated to add that part, because I know someone in the comments is going to be like, “Actually, I loved anal the first time I had it and it doesn’t hurt everyone and that’s not very sex-positive of you to say it does when it doesn’t for everyone,” and then I was like, fuck it. If you were an anal queen the first time out of the gate, good for you, but most people aren’t and this scene doesn’t add up to me, knowing everything we know about Ana and Christian. It’s just straight up unrealistic first time butt play. She’s nervous, a first-timer, and he does nothing to prepare her apart from squirting some lube on her butthole. She has never done butt stuff before. So, the first and most obvious choice would be to finger her asshole, right?  Nope, straight to the butt plug. Which I find really amusing, because he’s like, soooo concerned about rushing her into butt stuff, and they have to go super slow and it’s this long, intensive process to go through before he can put his wang in her butt, but then he skips the first and most obvious step. But whatever.

Then he has P-in-V with her while pulling the plug in and out, and we get this crazy-ass description:

And he picks up the pace, his breathing more labored, matching my own as he thrashes into me.

Thrashes? What an odd word choice. All I can imagine is Christian violently swinging his cock from side to side like the pendulum in a broken grandfather clock while he tries to penetrate her.

He moves one of his hands from my hips and twists the plug again, tugging it slowly, pulling it out and pushing it back in. The feeling is indescribable, and I think I’m going to pass out on the table.

I know sometimes authors (myself included) use “indescribable” to show the reader that this character is overwhelmed by something. But given the vague descriptions in this scene, I’m going to assume it’s just literally indescribable because the author isn’t skilled enough to describe it.

And then they come and it’s the most amazing orgasm ever and all sorts of trite descriptions, blah blah. Then there is a section break and they’re still listening to the same song. I’m like, “That song is about four minutes long, way to have staying power, Chedward,” until Ana clarifies that it’s on repeat. You know, I love Pink Floyd as much as the next person, but if someone blindfolded me and locked me in a room with “The Great Gig In The Sky” repeating,  I would consider that legitimate torture.

Then they have their usual post sex talk, all quiet and gentle with shy smiles and uncertainty, because nothing turns people on more than needless drama after sex. Christian starts gathering up their toys and says he’s going to go run them a bath.

“Who cleans these toys?” I ask as I follow him over to the chest.

He frowns at me as if not understanding the question. “Me. Mrs. Jones.”

WHAT? First of all, when frowned like he didn’t understand, I was like, “What, he doesn’t clean his buttplugs?” Then he said that his poor, sweet housekeeper Mrs. Jones cleans them, and I was like:

Taking my hand, he unlocks the playroom door, then leads me out and downstairs. I follow him meekly.

The anxiety, the bad mood, the thrill, fear, and excitement of the car chase have all gone. I’m relaxed – finally sated and calm. As we enter our bathroom, I yawn and loudly stretch… at ease with myself for a change.

Okay. There are people who are so into the submissive mindset that they do have mood swings or feel generally ooky if they haven’t been dominated in a while. I believe this is more common in 24/7 D/s relationships, but I don’t know that anyone has done a study on it or anything. HOWEVER, Ana and Christian are not representative of an actual D/s couple. Ana is now psychologically addicted to Christian’s brand of dominance (abuse), and though there was nothing technically abusive about that sex scene, I have to wonder if this isn’t a way to justify how Christian treats her even when they’re not having sex.

And then I got very sad, and I ate my feelings with a side of burritos.

Christian has noticed that she’s been out of sorts:

“Yes, you’ve been in a strange mood today, Mrs. Grey.” Standing, he pulls me into his arms. “I know you’re worrying about these recent events. I’m sorry you’re caught up in them. I don’t know if it’s a vendetta, an ex-employee, or a business rival. […]”

How incredibly artless. It’s all three, guys. Just a heads up here. She couldn’t even be bothered to throw a red herring into this “mystery”.

They take a bath together and Christian tries to get Ana to give up work. Because being a housewife with a live-in housekeeper and no children is going to be real fucking personally fulfilling to a woman, right? Because all we truly desire is to sit around being available for men. Then there’s a section break, and Ana goes downstairs and hears Christian giving Sawyer a different kind of ass reaming:

“Where the fuck were you?”

Oh shit. He’s shouting at Sawyer. Cringing, I dash upstairs to the playroom. I really don’t want to hear what he has to say to him – I still find shouty Christian intimidating.

So, Ana is still afraid of Christian. That’s a healthy marriage, right? Being afraid of someone? Also, fuck you Christian. Where was Sawyer? He was in the SUV behind you because you absolutely have to drive your own car. And then you made him wait for his dressing down while you had sex and a bath. So I really hope the answer is, “I was sitting in your study waiting for you to get concerned about the plot again.”

Taylor will be back tomorrow evening, and Christian is generally calmer when he’s around. Taylor is spending some quality time today and tomorrow with his daughter. I wonder idly if I’ll ever get to meet her.

Why would you? If Taylor is smart, he’ll keep his kid well away from the fucked up people he works for.

Ana decides to pull her own weight and clean the butt plug. She’s intercepted by Mrs. Jones as she tries to make it to the bathroom. Mrs. Jones now calls Ana “Mrs. Grey,” and when Ana tells her to use her first name, Mrs. Jones says she’s not comfortable with it. Now, Ana, the correct answer here is, “I pay your salary, get comfortable with it,” but instead she thinks:

Oh! Why must everything change just because I have a ring on my finger?

Because it’s a tiny shackle.

Mrs. Jones wants to look over the menus for the week with Ana, who is shocked at the idea. Probably because she never eats and has only heard of food when other people talk about it, or when her dreamy abusive husband force feeds her. After a brief description of Sawyer crossing the great room, Ana resumes her butt plug cleaning journey.

I dump Christian’s shoes on the floor and my clothes on the bed, and take the bowl with the butt plug into the bathroom. I eye it suspiciously. It looks innocuous enough, and surprisingly clean. I don’t want to dwell on that, and I wash it quickly with soap and water. Will that be enough? I’ll have to ask Mr. Sexpert if it should be sterilized or something. I shudder at the thought.

Why would you shudder at the thought of a sterile butt plug? You should shudder at the thought of a dirty one, really. And I love that she doesn’t want to dwell on the fact there’s no poop on the butt plug. How could there be? Ana doesn’t ingest any physical nourishment. I’m sure she only takes a crap biannually. But the time you don’t want to dwell on a butt plug is when there is poop on it.

Christian has given Ana the library to work in, so she goes there.

Part of me dreads going back to work, but I can never tell Christian that. He’d seize on the opportunity to make me quit. I remember Roach’s apoplectic reaction when I told him I was getting married and to whom, and how, shortly afterward, my position was confirmed. I realize now it was because I was marrying the boss. The thought is unwelcome. I am no longer acting editor – I am Anastasia Steele, editor.

If it’s unwelcome, why don’t you get a job and prove yourself somewhere else? Oh, that’s right, you can’t, Christian will just buy that company too, and make you the CEO.

I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling Ana’s “poor me” bullshit over getting promoted to editor within a week or two of working at SIP. Christian was supposed to stop steamrolling over her career. She was outraged when he bought SIP, and she was angry when she accused him of getting her promoted to acting editor in the first place. But now, she knows for a fact that she’s gotten promoted because she married him, and she’s fine with it? Whatever, we all know she’s not going to keep working there for long.

I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to tell Christian that I am not going to change my name at work. I think my reasons are solid.

“I don’t want to change my name.” There’s your solid reason. I absolutely fucking loathe that it’s still considered a given that a woman will change her name after she gets married. If you want to change it, change it. But the idea that society totally defends the right of a man to be angry about his wife not taking his name is just mind-boggling and infuriating.

Ana decides to get the honeymoon pictures off the digital camera, and then shit goes all One Hour Photo up in this bitch:

Picture after picture of me. Asleep, so many of me asleep, my hair over my face or fanned out across the pillow, lips parted… shit – sucking my thumb. I haven’t sucked my thumb for years!

Oh wow!  That’s totally not creepy or infantilizing at all! How romantic, that being with her husband makes her so vulnerable and child-like again!

Or not, because fuck this. Fuck all of this.

And there’s one of him and me on the bed in the master cabin that he took at arm’s length. I am cuddled on his chest and he gazes at the camera, young, wide-eyed… in love.

What a gentleman, he took a surreptitious selfie with the chick he just banged. Oh, shit, was that description not romantic enough? Sorry, I guess I recognize malignant narcissism when I see it.

Seeing the photos he creepily took of her while she was sleeping (look, I’ll give him one or two, but not “picture after picture”), she’s all, OMG I love him, I can’t believe someone would want to kill the most perfect and precious human being on the planet,” and she runs to his study. He’s on the phone with Barney, looking at something on his computer.

When I crawl onto his lap, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Do you suck your thumb, too, Ana? Look, I’m all for some age play, but this isn’t written as age play. It’s written as totally normal behavior, for a grown ass woman to lapse back into sucking her thumb and crawling into daddy’s lap. It’s gross, like E.L. is trying to make children or being child-like (without consciously choosing to engage in age play) sexy. And I’m sorry, but this book is fucked up enough.

Christian is looking at his computer, at images of the server room before the fire.

The picture blurs, then refocuses moderately sharper on the man consciously gazing down and avoiding the camera. As I stare at him, a chill of recognition sweeps up my spine. There is something familiar in the line of his jaw. He has scruffy short black hair that looks odd and unkempt… and in the newly sharpened picture, I see an earring, a small hoop.

Holy crap! I know who it is.

It’s Mister Clean.

“Christian,” I whisper. “That’s Jack Hyde.”

Or maybe it’s a pirate. Are you saying all guys with small hoop earrings look the same to you? That’s racist against pirates.

And then the chapter is over. I’m so glad it was only fifteen pages long, because damn.

“Tee hee, I’m sorry, but I’m such a grammar Nazi!”

Who has two thumbs and had the best weekend ever?

That’s right. I did. Oh, what was that? Your daughter had a baby? You found out your Leukemia is in remission? I STILL HAD AN AWESOMER WEEKEND THAN YOU.

Okay. Maybe not. I’m sorry I was aggressively competitive back there. Congrats on the baby and the cancer.

HOWEVER.

I did have a really big weekend.

First of all, can we all discuss Destiny’s Child for a second?

Are you fucking kidding me? Besides the fact that many of my tweeps were convinced only Bey’s mic was on (“Kelly, can you handle this? Michelle, can you handle this? I don’t think you can handle this. So we’re cutting your mics.”), OMFGWTFBBQ?! For real? Destiny’s Child, on stage, looking fanfuckingtastic, singing the classics, they even did the Charlie’s Angels thing at the end, like they were on purpose reminding us that their song will forever outlive and out shine the movie it was written for. Are you serious right now? How can the rest of 2013 deliver anything at this point? As far as I’m concerned, it blew its load right there, beginning of February. We’re all in a giant refractory period until 2014, at which point Beyonce will probably be the first diva in space or something.

Okay, this post isn’t chronologically correct, but if you follow me on Twitter, you may have noticed that on Friday I was all, “I have big news, but I don’t know if I can tell you or not!” And I’m sure you were like, “Yeah, whatever Jen. I bet you have real big news.” Well. I. Do. So. Nyah.

Early last year I was approached by Nick Harris of The Story Foundation about developing an idea he’d had for a Shakespearean-themed YA. The way my agent pitched it to me was, “It’s sort of like… Hamlet meets Ghostbusters.” And I was like, “I’m so in.”

Over the next few months and numerous phone calls and emails, Nick and I hammered out the details of the story, in which Hamlet, a paranoid recluse/ghost whisperer, meets Romeo, a young man of Verona who has recently botched a suicide attempt. Romeo is travelling the world on the advice of a soothsayer, trying to find someone who can help him restore the life of his tragically lost love, Juliet. Together, Hamlet and Romeo buddy cop their way through the afterlife looking for Juliet, while Hamlet is, you know. Trying to revenge his father’s murther. They run afoul of giants, trolls, valkyrie, serpents and grueling psychological traps on the way.

Well, I’m so happy to announce that this project. This amazing, quirky, unique project that I am SO pleased to have been asked to be a part of, has found a home. Entangled publishing has picked up Such Sweet Sorrow for their phenomenally successful Entangled Teen line.

I am over the moon about this. While I’m sure Shakespeare purists out there are sharpening pitchforks and lighting torches, let me express to you how big a Shakespeare geek I am, and how much care and love has been poured into developing this project. It’s going to be truly epic, and I can’t wait until you all can read it!

I’m asking you, 50 Shades of Grey reader and enthusiast, to come into this post with an open mind. In the past, I’ve said some pretty strong stuff about you, that was all coming from a place of frustration. Because I am frustrated. But now I’m having a moment of clarity, and I really hope that you give me a chance to explain to you why so many people are so angry about this book.

I know you’re not stupid. I know I can write these things, and you can read them and at least entertain the other side of the issue. Because that’s what intelligent people can do. And trust me, I’ve entertained your side a lot, in order to be able to write this post.

Let’s start with the most basic reaction I’m seeing from people defending 50 Shades of Grey.

It’s just fiction/entertainment! Why are you so mad?

You’re absolutely right. 50 Shades of Grey is just fiction, and as such, it’s totally open to interpretation. Some people are interpreting it as a touching love story. Others are interpreting it as story about an abusive relationship. And now, those two interpretations are clashing.

If you believe that 50 Shades is a love story, do me a favor and imagine this right now. I want you to imagine the worst thing that has happened to you in your entire life. This could be the death of a loved one, or getting cancer, or being dumped. You might be really lucky, maybe it’s just spilling coffee on an expensive shirt. But it’s still the worst thing that has ever happened to you, right? Now, imagine that someone writes a book, and in that book you see details of the very worst experience of your life. But the story isn’t portraying those events and feelings negatively. And everyone around you is reading the book and talking about how amazing it is, and they wish the things that happened to you would happen to them. Okay, maybe it’s not a serious wish. But that almost makes it worse. The people around you are now joking and laughing about how awesome it would be if the most painful, or one of the most painful, harrowing, scary experiences of you life would happen to them.

Dude. That would suck, right? You’d feel really lonely and probably angry. You’d probably be worried that somewhere, someone might think your experience was glamorous enough to try and reenact it for themselves. You don’t want anyone to experience what you did, so you feel like should step up and say something.

That’s why people who believe 50 Shades promotes abusive relationships get so furious about the subject. Many of them are either currently involved in an abusive relationship, or have escaped from one. Or they know someone who was harmed by an abusive partner, or who are in an abusive relationship and can’t leave. And when we hear someone else say, even in a joking way, “I wish my boyfriend was like Christian Grey,” all we’re hearing is, “If I had the experience that you or your loved one had, I would be happy, so what happened to you was okay.”

Okay, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad book. That doesn’t mean it’s responsible for Domestic Violence.

No, and I don’t think any sensible person would argue that it is. However, our ideas of what is and isn’t acceptable as a society are constantly present in our art. While our ideas and opinions shape what we see in our media, the reverse is also true. For example, we live in a culture where hyper-violent videogames are a normal, celebrated form of entertainment. Some have argued that living in a culture that glorifies violence has led to more real life violence. And while most people can sit down, play a violent game, and never have the urge to gun down someone in public, there are members of our society who can’t make that distinction, which is why it’s important to keep an open dialogue on the subject.

It’s the same thing with 50 Shades of Grey. Because of the way the book has been marketed, both by the author and by the publisher, people are looking to 50 Shades of Grey to fix their sex lives or help them understand their partner. An advertisement for the book ran in Maxim, a men’s magazine that gives its readers tips about, well. How to get laid. And the tag line they used for the advertisement was:

Some people do not see it as a fantasy. There are women out there who are absolutely looking for a literal Christian Grey. And those women aren’t going to find charming millionaires they can heal through the power of their love. They’re going to find sexual predators who will be more than willing to act like Christian Grey… with the caveat that there is no writer pulling the strings to keep these would-be Anas safe.

So, no one should ever write anything, because someone might emulate it and get hurt?

Not at all. But if someone does produce a work of fiction, be it a violent videogame, or a book with a relationship that could be construed as abusive, the creators and marketers absolutely must be clear that this is a work of fiction. They can’t flirt with the line between fiction or nonfiction, or make some outrageous claim about emulating the behaviors in the work being somehow beneficial. Can you imagine how furious people would be if that technique were to be used in marketing a book like American Psycho? Suggesting that people buy it for graduates, like it’s a real life How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying? People would utterly reject that. Serial murder is universally viewed as immoral and wrong. But since 50 Shades of Grey is being used to explore an often misrepresented sexual kink, many people don’t realize that the BDSM in these books is conducted in an unsafe way, and they don’t see anything wrong with using it as a guidebook.

It’s true, there are some people who want 50 Shades banned. I may have flippantly suggested such a thing once or twice during my other blog posts. But if someone is seriously calling for a ban on the book, I don’t support that. And I don’t think most smart people support banning books, or any form of artistic censorship. I want a person who enjoys 50 Shades of Grey to be able to continue enjoying it. I would rather that some of the themes I found present in the series not be so prevalent in our media, but I don’t think banning a single book or series is going to solve that problem as much as a healthy, unimpeded discussion would.

Well, what do you want, then?

I want, and I think most people who are frustrated with the phenomenon feel the same, just want E.L. James and Vintage Press to come out and say, “This book is not a self-help phenomenon, and we were wrong to hint that it was. Some of the behaviors exhibited by characters in the book are not behaviors we endorse, and we were wrong in the way we communicated with domestic violence survivors.” Or, you know. Something better than that.

But why? E.L. James doesn’t owe anyone anything, and it’s not her fault if someone reads her book and does something stupid. Besides, she wrote it for herself and for people who “get it.”

Part of being a creator is taking responsibility for your creation. Dr. Frankenstein didn’t do that, and look what happened to him. Whether or not E.L. James wrote 50 Shades for herself, when she posted it to FanFiction.net, she put it out into the world for consumption. Like Dr. Frankenstein and his monster, she’s responsible for what she created, no matter how out of control or huge it gets. By the way, I’m not using Frankenstein to be snarky here. It’s just a very easy analogy.

The fact that E.L. couldn’t have possibly known that selling her fanfiction to a small publisher would rocket her to superstardom actually works in her favor here. She could easily say that she was overwhelmed by the popularity of her books, and she didn’t respond to criticism well. I think most of us would forgive her, and be less hurt, if she just accepted responsibility for spreading a dangerous message by touting her books as being helpful to women.

It’s not abuse, it’s BDSM!  You just don’t understand kink!

Many people in the BDSM community – people who were into kink before these books came along – have found the portrayal of Dominance and submission unrealistic at best and downright dangerous at worst. In a book being sold as a work of fiction, this wouldn’t be a major problem, it would just mean that people who were familiar with the lifestyle would probably choose to read something else. However, the popularity of 50 Shades lies in the promise that readers will want to try out these new, exciting sexual scenarios in their own homes. The advertisement above, if not explicitly saying “DO try this at home,” is at least winking and nudging at the idea that buying this book will result in great sex.

So, the only thing you’re mad about is that E.L. James won’t tell people not to try this at home?

Well, it was the only thing I was mad about. But then someone sent me an article in which E.L. had this to say about the concerns over the content of her books:

James says she “freaks out when she hears people say that her book encourages domestic violence. “Nothing freaks me out more than people who say this is about domestic abuse,” she says. “Bringing up my book in this context trivializes the issues, doing women who actually go through it a huge disservice. It also demonizes loads of women who enjoy this lifestyle, and ignores the many, many women who tell me they’ve found the books sexually empowering.”

She leaps easily to the defense of the women who have enjoyed her books and offered her praise, women who have helped her attain her meteoric rise. But she doesn’t defend the women “who actually go through it.” She asks that people not discuss the subject with her, or in the same conversation as her creation. She doesn’t want to hear about abused women, because they’re not enjoying her book. Even more disturbing, she says that calling the relationship in her book abusive “demonizes” women who enjoy BDSM. She asserts in the wording of that statement that if you suggest someone is a battered woman, you are insulting or degrading them, because being a victim of abuse is something to be ashamed of.

You’re just putting words in her mouth! You don’t know if that’s what she meant. She could have just said it wrong.

I suggest that as a professional author, she should be perfectly capable of expressing herself with the appropriate words.

It’s not like she said that to a survivor directly. She probably does worry about those women.

If she does, she has an odd way of showing it. Many abuse survivors that have contacted her on twitter have been blocked. For example, Kody, whose account you can read at this link. When she saw E.L. James advised her fans not to “feed the trolls” in regards to discussions of domestic abuse,  Kody, a survivor herself, sent a single, civil tweet making reference to James’s earlier comment about trivializing domestic violence. James blocked her without a reply.

So, I want to ask you a question, 50 Shades of Grey and E.L. James defenders:

What do you get out of defending this woman and her books?

E.L. James has derailed discussions of domestic abuse, treated survivors who have approached her in good faith as trolls and nuisances, yet claims to care about the issue affecting them. When faced with either listening compassionately and accepting responsibility for the way she has behaved in the publicizing of her book, she chooses instead to throw her support behind women who, frankly, don’t need supporting. There is a far larger bias in our culture against women who “let” themselves be abused than there is against women who like to masturbate to mild erotica.

I would never, for one second, assume that if someone enjoyed 50 Shades of Grey, they supported and endorsed abuse. No more than I would suggest that my own enjoyment of horror movies meant that I support and endorse chainsaw murders. And no one wants to stop you from reading books you enjoy. But is your enjoyment really impeded by a contrary opinion? If you loved cookies, but I didn’t, would the cookies not taste as good to you? Of course not, that’s absurd. So where is the danger in me discussing my dislike of cookies?

When you say, “It’s only fiction, get over yourself,” you are endorsing abuse, because you’re trying to silence actual discussion of an important issue, and discussion is how we resolve these issues within our culture. You’re telling abuse survivors that the enjoyment you derived from the book is more important than their real life concerns over real life experiences; that you would rather they keep these experiences to themselves so you can continue to enjoy this book. Is that really how you feel? Are you defending the book, or yourself for choosing to read it?

No one wants to ban 50 Shades or tar and feather E.L. James. But it would be nice if she would accept the fact that she has written a book that has clearly hit a nerve for many women, and have the courtesy to not shut down the dialogue just because she doesn’t wish to speak about it.

If you have feels about The Boss, then you’re in luck! It’s time for the second Saturday Conversation about The Boss. This week’s theme is expectations, but feel free to also discuss the bathtub, the controversial cannabis, and how author mistakes can make you stare at your hand for half an hour: That’s What I’m Talking About

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QCdrfjlP_-w]

This week, we talk about Danny Trejo and the sacrifices we make for our friends on Anna Howard Shaw day.

Next week’s episode will be on the serious subject of stalking. If you’ve been stalked, and you want to share your story on the show, let us know. You can leave it anonymously, if you want.

Last night, this happened:

And I was like:

Dear Readers:

James says she “freaks out when she hears people say that her book encourages domestic violence. “Nothing freaks me out more than people who say this is about domestic abuse,” she says. “Bringing up my book in this context trivializes the issues, doing women who actually go through it a huge disservice. It also demonizes loads of women who enjoy this lifestyle, and ignores the many, many women who tell me they’ve found the books sexually empowering.”

1. No one is talking about BDSM being abusive, you fucking lunatic. The elements of the relationship that are abusive have nothing to do with the incredibly mild BDSM in the book. Even though the BDSM is shitty and unsafe and portrayed as a mental disease, the BDSM sequences aren’t really where the abuse happens. The abuse happens in all the places where Christian asserts his dominance over Ana outside of the bedroom, by stalking her (showing up at her work, following her across the country when she’s asked him for space, putting money into her bank account – the number for which he got through a private investigator), refusing her any agency (she must be followed by his “security team” – read: spies – anywhere she goes, her clothes are purchased for her by a shopper who knows Christian’s tastes, he even tells her when and what to eat and bought her job), and getting her drunk (read: drugging her) to get her to consent to shit she doesn’t want to do. All that stuff is abusive. Tying her up and making her listen to Medieval chant while he fucks her? No one thinks that’s abusive.
2. Bringing up the abuse in your book doesn’t trivialize the issue, you fucking lunatic. You know what does trivialize the issue? Ignoring very real concerns about the abuse in the book because you don’t want to admit you’re just a shitty writer or a shitty person and you don’t care about abused women at all because you’re making tons of money and omg, everyone is being so mean about the shitty book you wrote about a shitty guy who abuses a woman. Talking about an issue in a serious way doesn’t “trivialize” it. It brings awareness to people who might have been wrong in their thinking. The only problem is, the people – like E.L. James – who most need to listen and learn about why they’re propagating dangerous cultural stereotypes about what women need or want, refuse to listen. So, by dismissing the issue, E.L., you’re really the one doing the trivializing. 
3. Protecting women from abuse doesn’t endanger the sexual preferences of women who like BDSM. Look, I’m going to say it. I love to be submissive during sex. I love to get spanked, bitten, slapped, choked, I like to have my hair pulled, to get fucked hard, you name something perverted and I am into it, so long as the person doing it to me is calling me a cheap slut while he’s doing it (and also as long as it’s Safe, Sane, and Consensual). Do I realize that some people feel that’s dirty, bad, and wrong? Yeah, but fuck them. Because it doesn’t matter if other people think that I’m gross or depraved or fucked in the head, because I know that’s not the case. There’s no reason for anyone to try to protect me from what I want to do in the bedroom. And I don’t need E.L. James to defend my lifestyle choices, either, so she doesn’t need to be the champion for all the poor, repressed women out there who like BDSM. There is, however, lots of reasons that we need to protect women who are being abused from abuse, namely because our culture won’t. It’s not setting back the sexual revolution to call out Christian Grey as an abuser pretending to be a Dom. It’s not taking away the sexual agency of women who like to masturbate to 50 Shades. It’s not “either, or” here. We can say, “Yes, freedom of sexual exploration is amazing, and what you do in your bedroom is not anyone else’s business,” while acknowledging that if the “Dom” attitude turns into an excuse to victimize and control a woman who doesn’t want to be a 24/7 sub, it has crossed the line from sex play into abuse. People in the BDSM community WANT to talk about this type of thing, and they were talking about it at length BEFORE 50 Shades came along. Now, E.L. wants to shut down that whole conversation as a matter of feminism, or something? Why? Because women are too stupid to handle nuanced issues? Or just because we can’t care about more than one thing at a time, and naturally jilling off to this piece of shit book is the highest priority, and we’ll get to the abuse later?
4. Women going through, or who have gone through, domestic abuse are not fucking thrilled with 50 Shades. Before E.L. tries to stand up and say that she’s angry because highlighting the abuse in her books trivializes all those poor, battered women she supposedly cares so fucking much about, maybe she needs to talk to some of the women I’ve heard from. Maybe she needs to hear abuse victims saying, “You’re wrong,” so she could get it through her head. Oh, my bad. A lot of these same women HAVE tried to contact E.L. James, only to be blocked on twitter. That’s right. If you try to contact E.L. James with your heartfelt plea for understanding, based on your own personal experience at the hands of an abuser like Christian Grey, you’re going to find your twitter account blocked. Because she doesn’t want to hear it. The inability to listen to even the mildest criticism of her perfect, perfect hottie, Christian Grey, proves that E.L. James doesn’t get angry over those allegations on behalf of abused women. She doesn’t give enough of a shit about them to read 140 fucking characters, unless those characters are all glowing praise for her master work. Yeah, she really fucking cares about abused women, so much so that she sees their real-life experiences as an attack against her glorious creation (that’s making her so much money).

So, there you go. E.L. James cares so much about you, abuse survivors, that she’s willing to prioritize a woman’s right to be spanked over your right to not be stalked, intimidated, beaten, and controlled. She cares so much, that she won’t even listen to you when you try to tell her what’s wrong. And she’s so, so terribly concerned about you that she doesn’t want anyone to even talk about the abuse in her books or the potential for abuse in a BDSM relationship… because she doesn’t want to upset you, and she knows best. Or something. I don’t know, I’m honestly considering the possibility that this woman is gluing up before her public appearances.

Is E.L. James the real-life inspiration for Cheryl Tunt?

The bottom line is, this is a problem E.L. James could fix, easily. First of all, she has to drop this whole, “I want to protect abused women” bullshit line that is clearly not true at all. And she has to stop touting her books as some kind of sexual saving grace that women are learning and growing from. Then, when someone says, “Hey, Christian Grey is an abuser,” she can say, “You’re right. The relationship portrayed in my books is not a healthy one. However, as a fiction writer I am telling a story, not writing a how-to manual. If my books are encouraging women to be more open in their sexuality, I think that’s great, but I would advise them to seek out other, nonfiction resources for instruction in the BDSM lifestyle. And I would ask them not to hold up the relationship between Christian Grey and Ana Steele as one to aspire to.”

That’s all she has to do. But she won’t. Because at the end of the day, women, E.L. James doesn’t give a shit about you, or your experiences. And she was only writing this for school, anyway, so OMG SHE DOESN’T CARE IF YOU LIKE IT!

(The link to the original story I took E.L.’s quote from is here, but be warned there are two auto-play videos of the same commercial badly out of sync at the top and bottom of the pages)

Amy sent me a link to this chart about what to read this summer instead of 50 Shades of Grey. I know it’s not technically summer in my hemisphere, but still, it’s a pretty clever chart. Though I’m not entirely sure if someone looking for hot, sweaty, abusive naughty times is going to be that thrilled with Maus as an alternative.

@Aka_Kody suggests this horrible, and entirely true, lowering of the bar for love stories in a terrifying macro.

So, the false tension circus really comes to town in chapter five. Brace yourselves, there’s going to be a lot of drama with little payoff, for confusing reasons. Gird your loins.

After the nightmare Ana has for no reason in the end of chapter four – oh, silly me, of course there was a reason. She had the nightmare so it could be like Bella’s nightmare in the Twilight books – she wakes up to find Christian not there:

I stir, instinctively reaching for Christian only to feel his absence. Shit! I wake instantly and look anxiously around the cabin.

Is she worried that he escaped?

Not to worry, Christian is just creepily watching her from the chair across the room. And he’s wearing his cut-offs and a gray t-shirt. Raise your hand if the thought of a man in cut-offs only conjures up the most homoerotic beer commercial you’ve ever seen. E.L., you truly understand what straight women want to read about.

“Hey, don’t panic. Everything’s fine,” he says, his voice gentle and soothing – like he’s talking to a cornered wild animal.

Or the girl he has his in the pit in his basement.

“You’ve been so jumpy these last couple of days,” he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

Gosh, I wonder why she would be jumpy, Christian. You’re constantly telling her your lives are in danger and insisting she travel with an armed entourage to protect her. You think that might, you know, be getting to her a little?

This is the thing about abusers and paranoid people. They want to force the person they’re with to be as paranoid as they are. To be drawn into their delusion, so they have company in there. And as long as Christian can make Ana afraid and powerless in the face of some shadowy, ill-defined conspiracy  against her, she has to cleave unto him for protection. It effectively traps her, and now he also gets to show concern over the situation, making him her knight in shining armor! What’s wrong with that, besides the manipulation and control?

“I’m okay, Christian.” I give him my brightest smile because I don’t want him to know how worried I am about the arson incident.

WHAT ARSON INCIDENT WAS THERE SOME KIND OF FIRE I HADN’T HEARD.

“Were you watching me sleep?”

“Yes,” he says, gazing at me steadily, studying me. “You were talking.”

“Oh?” Shit! what was I saying?

You were saying something about how this was another thing plagiarized from Twilight. So, I’m going to assume Bella Ana said Edward Christian’s name while she was sleeping.

Why is she freaked out if her husband heard her talking in her sleep? Could it be because… they don’t really know each other? Because they’ve only been together like… three months and they’ve never had a real conversation because they’re both trying to be exactly what they think the other person wants, rather than having any genuine thoughts or feelings?

Despite constantly telling Ana to be terrified of everything and everyone, Christian doesn’t want her to be scared. But she’s not, see, she’s just scared for him:

“When you frown, a little V forms just here. IT’s soft to kiss. Don’t worry baby, I’ll look after you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you,” I grumble. “Who’s looking after you?”

He smiles indulgently at my tone. “I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself […]”

Yes, remember, everyone, how big and ugly Christian is? Despite us constantly being told how hot and elegant and charming he is, he’s also a bruiser who can look after himself, provided he has twin French dudes and a scary bodyguard following him around 24/7.

Christian tells Ana it’s time to get up, because there’s one last thing he wants to do on their honeymoon. She thinks:

We’ve had a blissful honeymoon. With a few ups and downs, I admit, but that’s normal for a newly married couple, surely?

Actually, I’m sure lots of domestic violence assaults take place on honeymoons. But that doesn’t make it okay. And it certainly doesn’t make this tripe readable.

The thing Christian wants to do before they head home from France is go on the jet ski with Ana driving. They have some of the most boring banter ever:

“Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey. Are we going to stand on this platform all day debating your driving skills or are we going to have some fun?”

“Fair point well made, Mr. Grey.” 

OMG DO YOU GET IT HE SAID THE THING AND THEN SHE SAID THE THING BACK TO HIM THE THING THEY ALWAYS SAY OMG THEIR RELATIONSHIP MUST BE SO EXCITING WITH THE WAY THEY CONSTANTLY REPEAT THEMSELVES OVER AND OVER IN EVERY CONVERSATION.

They get on the jet ski and oh my god, Chedward has to sit behind her with his thighs pressed to hers and it’s so exciting and thrilling that she has to go zipping off toward the seaside airport. Now, she’s aware it’s an airport, and mentions that she is specifically heading toward the airport, but for some reason, this happens:

As we zoom over the cool blue sea toward what looks like the end of the runway, the thundering roar of a jet overhead suddenly startles me as it comes in to land. It’s so loud I panic, swerving and hitting the throttle at the same time, mistaking it for a brake.

“Ana!” Christian shouts, but it’s too late. I’m catapulted off the side of the Jet Ski, arms and legs flailing, taking Christian with me in a spectacular splash.

Ana gets scared by a plane. Outside of an airport. Which she goes to great pains to describe to the reader in the preceding paragraphs.

Anyway, of course she falls off and Christian panics, but Ana is thinking:

See, Christian? That’s the worst that can happen on a Jet Ski!

I am so tired. Travelling is exhausting, even in first class. We’ve been up for more than eighteen hours straight.

I hear my door open, and Christian is leaning over me. He unbuckles my seat belt and lifts me into his arms, waking me.

So, not only wasn’t she awake for the paragraph before this one, but somehow narrating the events to us, but also it’s time to put your shoes on, sweetie, we’re at Grandma’s house.

I’m starting to agree with the pedophile analogy from the first set of recaps.

 Not only does Christian treat Ana like a child, there’s also this bullshit:

“Mrs. Grey, I am very pleased to announce that you’ve put on some weight.”

So, look, we all know she’s pregnant. It happened in Twilight, so it’s going to happen in here, too. But there are better ways to foreshadow that your heroine is pregnant. For example, she could think she had a stomach bug that turned out to be morning sickness, or she could get really busy with work and lose track of when her last period was. You know what’s not a good way for your heroine to notice she’s pregnant? By having the hero call her fat, when he’s completely aware that she’s got fucking food issues that he pretends to care about all the fucking time.

“What do you mean I’ve put on weight?” I glare at Christian. His grin broadens, and he clasps me closer to his chest as he carries me across the lobby.

“Not much,” he assures me, but his face darkens.

“What is it?” I try to keep the alarm in my voice under control.

“You’ve put on some of the weight you lost when you left me,” he says quietly as he summons the elevator.

Oh, that’s right, guys. Remember how dangerously thin Ana got in the five whole days she and Christian were broken up in book two? And lest we forget that Ana is suffering from anorexia nervosa with a heaping side of a narcissistic personality disorder,  she just described how hot her body is now two chapters ago. So, not only does it take next to no time for her to lose enough weight that people grow concerned about it, she also can gain weight and look totally hot. She’s the perfect woman, we all lose, pack it up and go home everyone.

Christian tells Ana how happy she’s made him, and she responds:

“Even though I’m fat?”

And he reassures her with:

“Even though you’re fat.”

Ah, romance. I hope there is time in this chapter to show her not eating, so he can tell her to eat, and then call her fat again, because I haven’t had anything really great to talk about in my therapy appointments lately.

Even though Ana is a land whale, they decide to have sex. I don’t know how they manage, what with Christian choking back his revulsion at bedding his fat wife, and Ana barely able to stay awake after a full eighteen fucking hours of consciousness broken up only by travel-induced naps, but the important thing is, we don’t have to read a fucking word of boring sex because it goes right to a section break and we pick up the next morning. Of course he’s still asleep, so Ana gets a chance to watch him and rehash all the fucking boring stuff we’ve already heard over and over again for the last two books:

So much has happened in the last three weeks – who am I kidding, the last three months – that I feel that my feet haven’t touched the ground. And now here I am, Mrs. Christian Grey, married to the most delicious, sexy, philanthropic, absurdly wealthy mogul a woman could meet. How did this all happen so fast?

He bought you, like he buys everything he wants. And when he gets bored with you, you’ll go into storage beside his glider and his broken helicopter and all the other stuff he used to like to ride. Congratulations on making the shitty life choices everyone tried to help you avoid.

Ana thinks about how crazy it is that she’s going to have to go back to work in the real world and spend time away from Christian, because it’s totally normal and healthy to want to be with another person nonstop without a break every moment of every day:

One would think that spending so much time together would be suffocating, but that’s just not the case. I’ve loved each and every minute, even our fighting. Every minute… except the news of the fire at Grey House.

I honestly can’t remember, can someone who has the poor fortune of owning these books on an e-reader do a search of them and tell me if his building has ever before been referred to as Grey House? It’s possible that the mind-wiping procedure I had done to try and Eternal Sunshine these books out of my head wasn’t entirely successful, but it definitely removed that detail.

My blood chills. Who could want to harm Christian?

Someone in his business? An ex? A disgruntled employee?

Someone who met him once, a person who has read this book, perhaps? How many people could possibly want to fucking murder this guy? EVERYONE.

Ana eventually stares at Christian so hard that he wakes up, and then they have sex. It’s off screen, though, so we can tag along with them to lunch at Christian’s parents’ house. It’s a lunch in their honor, to celebrate them coming back from their honeymoon. Christian and Ana are driving in the R8, and Ana feels pregnant out of sorts, so she picks a fight by asking if he would ever let her drive his precious Audi. His response is actually playful, instead of horrified:

“Of course,” Christian replies, smiling. “What’s mine is yours. If you dent it, though, I will take you into the Red Room of Pain.” He glances swiftly at me with a malicious grin.

Shit! I gape at him. Is this a joke?

So, Ana can’t tell if he’s joking or not, probably owing to Battered Woman Syndrome, but she appears to be in on the whole thing when she says:

“You’re kidding. You’d punish me for denting your car? You love your car more than you love me?” I tease.

So, she’s teasing him… that makes her in on the joke, right?

“It’s close,” he says and reaches across to squeeze my knee. “But she doesn’t keep me warm at night.”

“I’m sure it could be arranged. You could sleep in her,” I snap.

Okay, so wait, a minute ago you were teasing him, but now you’re offended?

I gaze at him and he gives me a face-splitting grin, and although I want to be mad at him, it’s impossible when he’s in this kind of mood. Now that I think about it, he’s been in a better frame of mind ever since he left his study this morning. And it dawns on me that I’m being petulant because we have to go back to reality, and I don’t know if he’s going to revert to the more closed pre-honeymoon Christian, or if I’ll get to keep the new improved version.

This entire scene in the car completely baffled me, and not in the cracked.com use of the word. Like, this entire exchange was legitimately confusing. At first, Ana is playfully teasing Chedward. Then, he gets in on the fun, and she gets mad. I was trying to figure out how this all fit into the dynamic of an abusive relationship. And then I remembered I wasn’t reading a book that depicted an abusive relationship on purpose, so it’s likely just bad writing. And then I realized what the real problem is:

“I’m kidding, Christian,” I mutter quickly, not wanting to kill his mood. It strikes me how unsure he is of himself sometimes. I suspect that he’s always been like this, but has just hidden his uncertainty beneath an intimidating exterior. He’s very easy to tease, probably because he’s not used to it. It’s a revelation, and I marvel again that we still have so much to learn about each other.

You guys. They don’t even like each other. They are totally incompatible. They do not belong together. They’re just two Barbies being smashed together and made to kiss. When we’re not watching, they’re just two actors without any chemistry pretending to be in love in a bad soap opera.

I have cracked the code.

At the Chevalier-Trevylan-Grey Manse, Carrick is grilling burgers in a stereotypical goofy dad uniform, and Ana is in a better mood until someone mentions a woman who isn’t her:

“Gia is due to come over to discuss the plans tomorrow evening,” replies Christian. “I hope we can finalize everything then.” He turns and looks expectantly at me.

Oh… this is news.

“Sure.” I smile at him, mostly for the benefit of his family, but my spirits take a nosedive again. Why does he make these decisions without telling me? Or is it the thought of Gia – all lush hips, full breasts, expensive designer clothes, and perfume – smiling too provocatively at my husband? My subconscious glares at me. He’s given you no reason to be jealous. Shit, I am up and down today. What’s wrong with me?

You’re pregnant. Also, I love the assertion that Christian has given her no reason to be jealous. For most of their very short relationship, he’s remained friends with an ex who openly admitted to trying to sabotage his love life. He keeps pictures of all the other women he’s fucked. He gave his ex-sub a bath in Ana’s tub, hell, he probably used her loofa to exfoliate Leila’ poor, crazy feet. There are all sorts of reasons for her to not trust him, but the biggest one is that he doesn’t trust her.

On the other hand, what are the chances that Ana has communicated anything about Gia to Christian? Slim to none, I would wager.

Everyone toasts the happy couple for their safe return, and Mia quickly slips in:

“And congratulations to Ethan for getting into the psych program at Seattle,”

That’s right. Kate’s brother got into a good school, but everyone is celebrating these two idiots managing to not drown themselves on their honeymoon. I mean, even Kate doesn’t bring it up, Mia is the one who has to remind everyone, “Hey, someone at this table actually achieved something of measurable value.” Jesus Christ, these people are horrible.

Ana sits sullenly through the meal:

I pick at my food. Christian said I was fat yesterday.

Do we really need further proof that she has an eating disorder?

Elliot accidentally knocks his glass onto the terrace, startling everyone, and there’s a sudden flurry of activity to get it cleaned up.

I was honestly expecting Ana to be involved in that flurry. Then she could cut herself and Jasper Ethan could try to eat her.

Christian uses the distraction to warn Ana that if she doesn’t knock off her snotty attitude, he’s going to take her to the boathouse to spank her. And this makes her feel better, because apparently she lives in a never-ending state of subdrop that can only be cured by being treated like shit? I don’t know, I’ve seriously given up trying to make sense of this shit as though their relationship were happening between two actual people and not their cardboard cut-out stand-ins.

After dinner, they go inside and Christian plays piano and sings, and everyone gets all flustered because oh my god, they’ve never heard Christian sing before. It’s this big, dramatic moment that I think is supposed to show the reader that he’s made all this progress, but he’s really just singing a shitty pop song, and nothing about him or his psyche have really changed. It’s another moment of false tension, false plot. His mom hugs Ana and cries, because that’s all Grace does. If you open up her day planner, it’s like this:

• 8:15PM marvel at Christian.
• 8:16PM cry and hug Ana
• 8:17PM say something crediting Ana with saving my son, even though I’m the one who adopted him and raised him and shit.
• 8:19PM ignore the fact that my son is still waaaaay fucked up.

“Here.” Christian throws me the keys to the R8. “Don’t bend it” – he ads in all seriousness – “or I will be fucking pissed.”

So, no pressure. Which is good, because Ana needs to be relaxed and at ease for THE MOST NEEDLESS AND BORING CAR CHASE OF ALL TIME.

Where do I start criticizing the car chase? First of all, it’s too goddamned long. It starts on page 96 – and this is trade-sized, not mass-market – and goes all the way to page 102. They realize they’re being followed by a Dodge with false license plates. How do they realize this? Oh, because their security detail is in an SUV behind them.

That’s right. This is a big, scary, freak out scene with a safety net, because if the “unsub” (as security refers to him throughout the sequence) does catch up with them, they have an SUV full of security guards right behind them. Immediately, this destroys the tension. It’s also kind of odd, because there is no mention of the security detail at all in this chapter until the chase is underway. It’s almost as if E.L. began writing the scene, thought, “You know, someone might wonder why they went somewhere without their ever-present security. I should put them into this scene,” without realizing that once your hero and heroine are backed up by people who can easily step in and save them, the tension is gone. They’re not in any real danger.

Well, at least, they’re not until Ana starts trying to outrun this Dodge. Except, we’re not sure what kind of Dodge it is. Is it a Dodge Dart? A Dodge Ram? A Dodge Charger? Dodge makes an insanely varied range of models. Some of them could keep up with an Audi R8, but without knowing which one is chasing them, the whole scene, again, feels like there isn’t much tension there. The first thought I had was that there was a guy chasing them in a Dodge Neon, and I thought to myself, “Oh, well, they should be fine. The Neon was mostly styrofoam and shook like it was going to come apart if you got it over 80 m.p.h.”

Author abandons continuity from the first book:

I touch eighty-five. I don’t think I have ever driven this fast. I was lucky if my Beetle ever hit fifty miles an hour.

She drove Kate’s Mercedes pretty fast on her way back from interviewing Christian Grey.

Ana does the driving for the chase, by default since she’s behind the wheel. But Christian and Sawyer (in the SUV) feed her information like this is a goddamn NASCAR race. At one point, Christian says:

“Where are the cops when you need them?”

Why not call them? Oh, that’s right, because staying on the cell to your security, who are following the follower, is more important.

Because they’re being chased, the obvious thing to do is to head straight home, so the pursuer will know where they live. They don’t go into the underground garage, though, they pull into a parking lot near the building and fuck. No, I’m not kidding. First, Ana has to wipe her nose on fucking everything in car, though:

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand and take a deep steadying breath.

“Use my shirt.” Christian kisses my temple.

“Sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed by my crying.

“What for? Don’t be.”

I wipe my nose again. He tips my chin up and plants a gentle kiss on my lips. “Your lips are so soft when you cry, my beautiful, brave girl,” he whispers.

Then, without any hand sanitizer or anything, they just start banging. Leaving aside the creepiness of complimenting how sexy your wife is when she’s crying because she was just the driver in a high-speed car chase, GET SOME FUCKING KLEENEX AND PUT IT IN THE FUCKING CAR. Seriously, the infantilization of Ana is gross at the best of times, but it’s especially disgusting when it involves wiping her snot on her hands like a fucking four-year-old.

What’s worse is, they get right to the making out and intercourse in the car. Seriously, there is now snot on everything. Is this another of Chedward’s fetishes? Or are we supposed to believe that they’re both so turned on and hot for each other that snot doesn’t matter? Because I can’t imagine any situation, not even a high speed car chase, in which I would be such an emotional wreck that I could move from snot to sex without a stop at wash your hands junction for a track change.

I won’t excerpt the car sex, because it’s basically the same thing from every other scene, but this time in a car. Then they get out and call Sawyer for information on the person who was following them.

“Her?” he gasps. “Stick with her.” Christian hangs up and gazes at me.

Her! The driver of the car? Who could that be – Elena? Leila?

“The driver of the Dodge is female?”

“So it would appear,” he says quietly.

Is this an elaborate set up for a joke about female drivers? Because if so, I’m not impressed.

Christian drives the car to the Escala, while Ana asks questions about Sawyer and tries to initiate road head or something by feeling up Chedward through his jeans. Apparently, Sawyer is ex-FBI. Considering what we’ve seen of Christian’s bang up security operation, I think I know why Sawyer is ex-FBI. If you know what I’m saying.

I’m saying Christian’s security people are incompetent. Is what I’m saying.

I mean, they don’t even ride in the same car as the bodies they’re supposed to be guarding.

Juuuuuuust saying.

When they get into the parking garage at Escala, Christian suggests they should have sex again, this time over the hood of the car. But then they are smacked by the mighty hammer of foreshadowing, when a BMW drives in and this guy gets out:

He’s young, casually dressed, with long, layered dark hair. He looks like he works in the media.

What, like, he’s got a face for radio? Could you make that more of a broad generalization for us, E.L.? “He looked like he had a job doing something.” I mean, I still kind of get a sense of this person being a human male, are you sure you don’t want to be less specific in your description?

The guy introduces himself as Noah Logan, a new neighbor.

Noah flushes a little as he gazes at me a fraction too long. I mirror his flush and Christian’s arm tightens around me.

“Hermit. Stuck in your ivory tower,” I state matter-of-factly.

You know those hermits. Always living in ivory towers.

So, as you are probably already aware, I try to post my 50 Shades posts on Monday or Tuesday. Because it starts the week off right. But stuff keeps derailing me, like yesterday’s combination snow day/neck injury-a-thon that laid me flat on the couch with screaming children swarming around me. I didn’t get the recap finished, hell, I didn’t even get the chapter annotated all the way. I thought, “No big, I’ll just post it on Wednesday.”