Author: JennyTrout

Yesterday, I went to see the film version of Les Miserables for the second time. I went with my friends Bronwyn Green, Ginny (whose full name I won’t put here because I don’t know her pseudonym, but whose manuscript is currently under consideration at Astrea Press, so cross your fingers for her) and Temple Hogan (who is my pal and also my grandma, so you should buy her books about pirates getting down). I had seen it previously with my husband and my friend Jill, so seeing it a second time gave me a chance to notice some things I hadn’t noticed before:

1. The songs in the stage version are in the wrong order. In the play, the rousing number most associated with the show (and which should probably be adopted as the French national anthem) comes after “Red and Black” and before “A Heart Full of Love,” when Marius goes to meet Cossette for the first time. The first time I saw the movie, when “Red and Black” finished and “Do You Hear The People Sing” didn’t happen, my heart was broken. You see, some totally freak left the song off the soundtrack album. I don’t know who made that decision, but they’re stupid. Anyway, since it’s not on the album, I assumed it had been cut from the show. I fumed through “On My Own,” and “One Day More,” which were also in the wrong order, certain they had ruined the movie by leaving it out. But then, “Do You Hear The People Sing” happened. And it happened as an active part of the beginning of the protest. Holy balls, did that make the song more effective. The second time around, when I wasn’t furious at the apparent exclusion of the song, I was able to appreciate that the song was probably always in the wrong place in the musical. Another song whose order changed was “I Dreamed A Dream.” Again, the change made the song even more moving to the audience. Is it more effective to listen to Fantine lamenting the horror of her life after she’s lost her hair and her teeth and resorted to dangerous 19th century street prostitution to save her child, or right before that happens, as in the musical? Now, when I think of the musical, I think that the songs are in the wrong order, the correct order being the one presented in the movie.
2. Russell Crowe’s singing isn’t actually as bad as I thought it was. Okay, he’s no Phillip Quast or Norm Lewis. But the first time I saw the movie, I wanted to cry (not just from, you know, the unrelenting sadness of the narrative or the piercing hope that the human condition will somehow improve and we’ll all become Jean Valjean) because they fucked up the casting for Javert so badly. He couldn’t sing. He was wooden and unsure of himself. In the car on the ride home, my husband vehemently defended Crowe: “He knew he couldn’t sing! He knew he was the worst singer there, and it showed. And it made me like him, because he was trying to win me over.” When I watched it a second time, I realized that Crowe’s wooden, unsure acting was actually helpful the characterization. And his singing wasn’t as bad as I remembered. Yes, it was amateurish, but it was no where near as painful as listening to Hugh Jackman struggle through “Bring Him Home,” which brings me to…
3. They probably could have brought some of the vocals down a few keys. Back when Madonna was cast as Eva Peron in Evita, musical fans ripped her to shreds over the fact that she couldn’t handle the mezzo-soprano score, and some of the most famous numbers had been transposed down to accomodate her alto voice. Then the film came out, the changes were barely noticeable, and the adaptation was a critical success. The overall structure of the score wasn’t obliterated by the changes, and a lesson should have been learned by everyone: no one wants to listen to an Actor Who Sings trying (and failing) to hit notes that are out of their workable range. And yet there we are, watching Hugh Jackman visibly strain to hit the impossible counter-tenor notes in “Bring Him Home.” An apocryphal theatre story holds that the song, whose high A comes, brutally, midway through the second act of a three hours plus show, was originally written lower, but that Colm Wilkinson decided to take the song up just because he had the stamina. The school edition of the musical changes the key to accomodate the untried teen voice, so why not take it down a little bit for Jackman, rather than make us listen to him juuuuuust barely hit the notes in an uncomfortable, pinchy voice?
4. As an adult, I found it harder to have sympathy for the rebels when they’ve just ruined a funeral. Having been to more than one ruined funeral in my time, I have to say that my opinion on the rebels has changed. Did they really have to hijack a hearse? I get that Lamarque is a symbol of their cause, but what about his grieving family? And yes, this is exactly how the Parisian June Rebellion went down in 1832, but somehow reading about it in the novel or historical accounts makes it all seem rather grand and romantic, but seeing a bunch of handsome Hollywood types swarming over Lamarque’s cortege made me go, “Hey. That’s not nice. Bunch of jerks.” If you disagree, just imagine how you would feel if you were grieving a loved one, and some dude in an Adam Ant jacket up and hijacked his dead body while singing about politics and discontent due to a cholera epidemic.
5. WTF is that random cow doing? Shortly after the funeral ruiners make their move, we see the construction of barricades in the city streets. Common people throw furniture from their windows to aid the rebels, and in one shot, for some reason, hand to god, there is a fucking cow standing there. It actually appears to be a Red and White Holstein, and it looks super fucking confused. We never see it again. So, knowing the expense and danger of having an animal that big on a movie set… why was it included? Just to show us that someone owned a cow in the city? Why on earth was that cow there? Keep in mind, it’s highly unlikely that the cow just wandered into a movie set. Someone actually had to look at the sweeping epic of this musical and go, “You know what’s missing? Less than a full second of cow.”

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NaXGStuhh8o?list=UUvXmvayN9vgiTU8vjUhriCw]

We discuss the things we like/don’t like about the Jossverse, in the first part of a two part episode.

Previously, on 50 Shades Freed:

I gaze in horror at the red marks all over my breasts. Hickeys! I have hickeys! I am married to one of the most respected businessmen in the United States, and he’s given me goddamn hickeys.

So, yeah, she’s covered in hickeys. I don’t see what being married to a respected businessman has to do with it, other than Ana needing to remind us at every turn that she’s married a rich husband and it’s such a fucking hardship. Also, how is this guy a respected businessman, exactly? From everything we’ve seen of his company, he seems to run it with his dick. Ex-Domme wants a hair salon? Better buy it for her. New girlfriend has a job with a male boss? Not on my watch, pal, I’m buying the company. And then we’ll take the company jet on our honeymoon, naturally! How is this jerk even successful, let alone respected? He’s the CEO of a company that doesn’t even have a board of directors, and he runs the place like a fifth grader’s lemonade stand.

How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why – Mr. Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me.

What does that even mean? And also, bullshit. How do you not feel someone sucking on you hard enough to give you a hickey, a bunch of times, all over your body? This is first person POV here, and the only time she mentions sucking in the last sex scene is when he’s trying to make her come from playing with her tits. Plus, she was blindfolded, so the only things she could really describe to us were what she heard and what she felt. I’m so not buying any of this.

My subconcious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count.

I gape at my reflection. My wrists have red welts around them from the handcuffs. No doubt they’ll bruise. I examine my ankles – more welts. Holy hell, I look like I’ve been in some sort of accident. I gaze at myself, trying to absorb how I look.

So, she’s taken aback by how fucking beat up she is after sex with Chedward, when in the last chapter he was like, “I don’t want to hurt you, you’re my wife, not my sub, I’m not going to cause you pain, it’s just going to be intense.” Now she’s covered with hickeys (and you know what? Hickey is just another word for bruise. They’re the same thing, just one is caused by canoodling and the other by violent trauma. Both are sore.) and her arms and legs are all marked up from being handcuffed. So, of course this is the moment when Ana realizes that she’s made a huge mistake, that Christian will never change, and that she needs to get out before this possessive assholery escalates.

Nope, she talks about how skinny she is, instead:

My body is so different these days. It’s changed subtly since I’ve known him… I’ve become leaner and fitter, and my hair is glossy and well cut. My nails are manicured, my feet pedicured, my eyebrows threaded and beautifully shaped. For the first time in my life, I’m well groomed – except for these hideous love bites.

“Love” bites, whatever. The important thing is for the reader to know that, abusive tendencies aside,  fucking Christian Grey is like having an in-home stylist and a Bowflex. By the way, those last two excerpts? They’re in the same paragraph. It’s not like I cut out some part in the middle where she comes to grips with how awful it is that he did this to her. It’s literally, “I have bruises everywhere from sex, wow, look how great I look.” That’s Ana’s cognitive follow-through: “I’m skinny and hot, so that makes everything okay.”

No, that stunning leap of reasoning happens in the next paragraph:

I don’t want to think about grooming at the moment.

(But you did.)

I’m too mad. How dare he mark me like this, like some teenager. In the short time we’ve been together, he’s never given me hickeys. I look like hell. I know why he’s done this. Damn control freak. Right! My subconscious folds her arms beneath her small bosom – he’s gone too far this time.

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS DISAPPOINTING AND WRONG. Ana’s reaction hits all the crucial points on a 50 Shades bingo card. She’s talking about the short time they’ve been together while on their honeymoon. She’s just gone on at length about how hot she is, then claims to look like hell. Her subconscious objects, but ultimately it won’t count because she has small titties.

Ana sits down to brush her hair, because when you’re angry, ladies, nothing calms you down like a good hair brushing, am I right? Christian calls to her to see if she’s okay. She’s not okay:

I ignore him. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. After what he’s done to me, I doubt I’ll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive bikinis for the rest of our honeymoon.

I guess she “got used to it” then, huh?

I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an adolescent, too!

Yeah, that will definitely help things, you should go do that.

Ana goes into the bedroom and throws a hairbrush at Christian, then runs up on deck.

I need some space to calm down. It’s dark and the air is balmy. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bougainvillea from the shore. The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm cobalt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle.

“Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively as I recall.”

He shrugs minutely. “Well, you won’t take your top off again,” he murmurs petulantly.

 Ana says that hickeys are a hard limit for her, and Chedward says that her taking her clothes off in public is a hard limit for him. The next excerpt was honestly hard for me to read:

“Look at me!” I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my breasts. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face, his expression wary and uncertain. He’s not used to seeing me this mad. Can’t he see what he’s done? Can’t he see how ridiculous he is? I want to shout at him, but I refrain – I don’t want to push him too far. Heaven knows what he’d do.

A lot of people have left comments on my recap posts saying, “How can people not see that this is abuse?” Well, frankly, it’s because they’re willfully stupid. I’m not saying that every person who reads this book or likes it is stupid. I’m saying that the people out there who are defending this book and saying it doesn’t depict an abusive relationship are fucking stupid. There’s no other way to describe them. It’s like if you showed someone a picture of a duck, but they insisted it was a chicken, even after you explained all the ways that it’s, for real now, a fucking duck. The women who read this book and think Christian’s behavior makes him desirable? They want to be stupid. Yes, our society tells us that everything a rich man does is right, but at this point in our cultural evolution there are enough resources out there to educate people that the only reason anyone would want to defend this piece of shit book and its piece of shit hero against allegations of abuse is that it’s just more comfortable to be fucking ignorant. That excerpt above? That’s the picture of the duck that millions of really fucking stupid women insist is a chicken, because it’s more fun. No fucking wonder abused women and rape victims get blamed for the crimes perpetrated against them. It’s more fun if a privileged group (and yes, I’m blatantly stating that women who have not faced the realities of abuse and rape are a privileged group, if that’s a problem, oh fucking well) can cordone off a DMZ around their shallow, vapid little word view and shoot down any possible challenge to their outdated perceptions of the world before anything can get close enough to make them think for themselves for two seconds.

I realize that I’m coming off hostile here, but really, is there any other way to be at this point? When this piece of shit is the best selling ROMANCE of all time? When this relationship is the relationship that publishers are trying to sell to women as being the be all and end all, and we should all be sad about our marriages and how our husbands treat us with respect instead of as property? That’s it. After this chapter, I’m not pulling punches.

If you want to be in a relationship with Christian Grey, you’re fucking stupid.

Moving on.

Christian tells Ana that he gets it, and says he has a lot to learn. Dude, you’re almost thirty, if you haven’t learned that disfiguring another person isn’t okay, you’re probably not smart enough to figure it out.

Dr. Flynn’s words come back to me… Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. He’s channeled all his energies into succeeding in  the business world, and he has beyond all expectations. His emotional world has to play catch up.

Bullshit. Even adolescents are capable of understanding that hitting women, disfiguring them as punishment, etc. is wrong. And if he’s so amazing and adaptable that he’s been able to overcome this difficulty in order to become a success at business, why hasn’t he also been able to overcome it in personal relationships? The fact that he’s intelligent enough to recognize that he has to behave a certain way to be successful at business shows that he’s able to do the work. He’s just not willing to, because it doesn’t interest him the way business does.

But Ana’s a fucking idiot, so she thinks this explains everything, and in response to Christian’s assertion that he has a lot to learn, this happens:

My heart thaws a little.

“We both do.” I sigh and cautiously raise my hand, placing it over his heart.

What do you think you need to learn, Ana? Besides “how to not get beat up by your abusive asshole husband?”

“I’ve just learned that you’ve a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me.”

So, Christian compliments her, and the fight is over. She immediately responds with something about Ray teaching her how to shoot, and they tease each a little bit, then she falls into his arms and:

“Am I forgiven?”

“Am I?”

I feel his smile. “Yes,” he answers.

“Ditto.”

We stand holding each other, my pique forgotten. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him?

I would say that I hope you both get cancer, but that would be grossly unfair to cancer. Cancer shouldn’t have to put up with your bullshit. In this case, I’m Team Cancer.

Christian asks Ana if she’s hungry but not for food:

“Yes. Famished. All the… er… activity has given me an appetite. But I’m not dressed for dinner.” I’m sure my sweatpants and camisole would be frowned upon in the dining room.

WTF is this shit, Downton Boatsby?

I crack my spoon through the burned sugar crust of my dessert and shake my head. Will I ever understand this man? Hmm – this creme brulee is delicious.

Lack of accent marks on the creme brulee are my fault. I love how this line seems to indicate that Ana is moving from Anorexia Nervosa straight on to Bulimia town. She’s actually eating, and she’s turning her lack of control over her love life into an intense concentration on food. That’s going to be healthy in the long run.

There’s another section break, which is a damn shame, because I would rather hear about Ana eating creme brulee than Ana interacting with Chedward, but oh well. She asks him why she wasn’t allowed to pee earlier, and he tells her exactly what all you guys said in the comments, that it makes the orgasm more intense. You know, so does edging, and there’s less chance you’re going to get peed on by mistake.

Chedward wants to dance with Ana, so he puts on some music:

A slinky, cheesy melody starts. Is this a Latin rhythm?

Latin music = cheesy?

“You dance so well,” I say. “It’s like I can dance.”

He gives me a sphinxlike smile but says nothing, and I wonder if it’s because he’s thinking of her… Mrs. Robinson, the woman who taught him how to dance – and how to fuck. She hasn’t crossed my mind for a while.

Yeah, for like, 46 whole pages so far. That’s a personal best.

 Christian has not mentioned her since his birthday, and as far as I’m aware, their business relationship is over. Reluctantly, though, I have to admit – she was some teacher.

I think we previous established that this is a woman who took sexual advantage of a teenager who was clearly emotionally troubled. But yeah, thank god she taught your husband to fuck, because it probably didn’t screw him up to be preyed upon by a sexual predator.

“Come to bed with me?” he whispers, and it’s a heartfelt plea that tugs at my heart.

Good job, copy editor, you’re definitely earning your keep.

Ana wakes up the next morning:

I marvel at what it is like to go to bed with two different men – angry Christian and sweet let-me-make-it-up-to-you-in-any-way-I-can Christian.

That’s not going to bed with two different men. That’s going to bed with one man and his personality disorder.

Ana finds Christian shaving:

I love watching him shave. He pulls up his chin and shaves beneath it, taking long, deliberate strokes, and I find myself unconsciously mirroring his actions. Pulling my upper lip down just as he does, to shave his philtrum. He turns and smirks at me, one half of his face still covered in shaving soap.”

“Enjoying the show?” he asks.

“Christian! You are not shaving me!”

He tilts his head to one side. “Why ever not?”

I flush… isn’t it obvious? “Because… It’s just too…”

“Intimate?” he whispers. “Ana, I crave intimacy with you – you know that. Besides, after some of the things we’ve done, don’t get all squeamish on me now. And I know this part of your body better than you do.”

I gape at him. Of all the arrogant… true, he does – but still. “It’s just wrong!” My voice is prissy and whiny.

Thank god, I thought I had been imagining her voice all wrong during the last two books. Fuck this guy, seriously? He knows her body better than she does? Fuck her, too, then. It’s her body. She’s in it all day, she knows it best, no matter how many women Christian Grey has beaten before.

And try to imagine an American man saying, “Why ever not?” Did you do it? Did he sound old? Because I can’t imagine an American man under seventy saying, “Why ever not?” It’s just not how like, 99% of young American men talk. They’d be like, “Why not?” or “Huh?”

Christian tells Ana that shaving a woman turns him on, so of course, she decides she’s got to do it. Because it doesn’t matter what turns her on, or what she’s comfortable with. The end goal is to please Christian Grey, He Who Must Be Pleased Above All Other Things. Ana makes a crack about how “kinky” it is, probably because she’s never, ever looked at the internet even once in her whole life.

So, then Christian shaves her and is just starting to finger her when we hit the paragraph break.  Back in the bathroom, Chedward is still shaving his face, and Ana is embarrassed about him shaving her that one time we just heard about, and THESE ARE THE PROBLEMS THESE PEOPLE HAVE.

Get your mind around that. In a world of crashing economies, record joblessness, women dying from gang rapes and denied abortions, children being murdered by drone strikes, the problems these idiots face? “Is letting my husband shave my beev too kinky?”

“Hey, I’m just teasing. Isn’t that what husbands who are hopelessly in love with their wives do?”

OTHER THINGS HUSBANDS WHO ARE HOPELESSLY IN LOVE WITH THEIR WIVES DO:

• Not disfigure her in a jealous rage.
• Not publicly shame their wives for sunbathing topless.
• Allows her to shop wherever she wants and buy what she wants to wear.
• Gets along with her friends.
• Refrains from incessantly calling his mother a crack whore after constantly telling his wife how much she looks like her.
• Does not buy her job.
• Does not seek to isolate her from her family.
• Does not follow her across the country when she needs space.

Holy shit, he’s going to let me shave him. Tentatively I slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still. He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales.

“I know nothing about art, Christian.”

Except for the part where she totally did, in the last two books. In fact, the first time she meets Christian, in the very first book, they talk about the art hanging in his office. She told us all about the styles of paintings in Christian’s apartment. One of her very best friends is an artist, and she and Christian went to his gallery opening together, where Ana told us all about the composition of the various photographs. A part of me thinks this is just inconsistency on the author’s part, another, meaner part of me thinks it’s intentional, to show that Ana doesn’t need to actually know anything as long as she has a man to form her opinions for her.

Christian tells her he wants to buy art for their new house, the plans for which they just saw a few days ago. You know, the plans for the house Ana asked him not to build, in favor of keeping the house they bought?

Oh, the architect. He had to remind me of her… Gia Matteo, a friend of Elliot’s who worked on Christian’s place in Aspen. During our meetings, she’d been all over Christian like a rash.

We’ve officially reached the inner circle of hell, folks. Ana doesn’t even need other women around to hate them anymore, she can do it via satellite.

How can I tell him that I don’t like Gia? My dislike is irrational. I don’t want to come across as a jealous wife.

But you are a jealous wife. And you were a jealous girlfriend. In fact, the only difference between you and Christian in terms of possessiveness is the fact that he’s aggressive about his jealousy and you’re passive about it. And no, it’s not irrational to dislike a woman who is really trying to break up your marriage, but since Ana isn’t the most reliable narrator when it comes to this kind of stuff (after all, she thinks her relationship with Christian is romantic and that he is desirable), I have to wonder if all these women really are into him, or she’s just imagining they are because she’s a freaking lunatic.

“You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” He sighs and nuzzles his face between my breasts.

No, you fool, how could she be? You graced her with the touch of your magnificent penis, it’s impossible that she might still be angry over you maliciously marking her body as a sign of ownership.

Christian takes Ana to Saint-Paul-De-Vence, a Medieval French city:

We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. It’s quite crowded with tourists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian’s arm.

God, I fucking hate it when I’m trying to be a tourist and there are too many tourists around. I’m just trying to watch these old men be stereotypically French for my amusement.

In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They are the work of Florence D’elle – naked women in various poses.

Those sound like some amazing sunglasses.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” I mumble disapprovingly.

“Good heavens, this art is full of naked people!” I absolutely love that Ana is jealous of naked women in photographs now. Is this like the Weeping Angels? A photographic representation of a naked woman actually becomes a naked woman, and if you blink she tackle-fucks your husband? This marriage has a rock solid foundation, y’all.

“Me neither,” Christian says, grinning down at me. He takes my hand, and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me.

Who, the next artist? Have we totally given up on subject/verb agreement here? Is it too hard? Also, LOL at the idea that if Christian wants nude artwork, she has to be the nude. Maybe Jose can photograph that. Of course, this is all because she feels the need to play keep up with the other subs that he photographed.

They find some paintings they like, and they discuss how much they cost and how Ana needs to get use to spending tons of money on stuff, because lord knows it’s practically sinful to have money and not throw it around. The best possible thing rich people can do with their money is, you know, let it trickle down.

After lunch, Ana and Christian are having coffee and talking again about why he braids her hair. You guess right if you speculated that it would have to do with his mother:

“The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”

Whoa! His birth mom.

He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?

I would go with, “Stop calling your mother a whore.”

Ana tells him she thinks he loved his mother, and he goes all mute and catatonic for a minute, then decides it’s time to go:

I exhale, relieved, and shrug. “I am just glad you’re still speaking to me.”

“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished,” he says quietly.

Um, you’re the one who brought it up this time, Chedward, so suck it.

No, Christian, it isn’t. The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished. He’ll always be Fifty Shades… my Fifty Shades. Do I want him to change? No, not really – only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty… and he’s mine. 

I would say, “maybe you should have thought of all of this before you got married,” but it’s clear that marriage, and ownership of Christian, was her end goal, no matter how fucked up he is. You know, because he’s pretty.

He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy, then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the tourists toward the spot where Philippe/Gaston has parked the roomy Mercedes.

There’s really no better vehicle for a Medieval walled city with roads designed for horse and foot traffic than a car as wide as a Mercedes. Good thinking, Chedward.

In the car, Christian looks at the bruises on Ana’s wrists, and she reassures him that she’s fine, he didn’t really hurt her, then immediately tells us about the expensive watch he bought her in London, and how romantic that is. Priorities, ladies. A man can do whatever he wants to you, so long as he buys you expensive jewelry. It’s not prostitution, it’s just the way things should be.

After a paragraph break, Chedward buys Ana more jewelry, a platinum bracelet that costs 30,000 euros. Remember those starving children he’s so worried about?

“There, that’s better,” he murmurs.

“Better,” I whisper, gazing into his luminous gray eyes, conscious that the stick-thin sales assistant is staring at us with a jealous and disapproving look.

Ana is going to make fun of someone for being too skinny?

I’m tired as fuck of “skinny” or “thin” being used as characterization shorthand for “evil bitch.” Especially when so much of the last two books concentrated on how Ana can’t/doesn’t eat and how she’s so thin every man wants to fuck her while simultaneously feeding her cookies for her own good. Plus, Ana, you moron, that sales assistant just sold a 30k bracelet. I’m sure she’s not disapproving. She’s probably not even paying attention to you. It might just be that she gets a disapproving look on her face when she’s doing the mental math to calculate her commission.

Christian has bought the bracelet, by the way, because he wants to cover up the bruise on her other wrist. I suppose when he gives her a black eye, he’ll buy her an eyepatch covered in Swarovski crystals, and all will be forgiven.

But when he says he needs to buy the bracelet, she says:

“No, Christian, you don’t. You’ve given me so much already. A magical honeymoon, London, Paris, the Cote D’Azur… and you. I’m a very lucky girl,”

Yeah, you’ve given her so much. Like hickeys all over her body out of anger, and bruises she didn’t ask for on her ankles and wrists because you’re not a very good Dom. You’ve given her a beating with a belt, a good thorough stalking, all your emotional baggage, and a free ride to your hotel room when she was passed out drunk and couldn’t say no. You’ve given her so much. What you haven’t given her is like, respect, personal agency, a healthy relationship, aftercare, the freedom to do simple stuff like have her own bank account and job, etc. Just little shit no one really cares about anyway.

I’m so glad someone is out there, training women to value the things that are really important. Like money, and letting rich men do whatever they want to women without any consequences.

Back in the car, Christian looks at Ana’s ankles, and the bruises he left there.

“Doesn’t hurt,” I murmur. He glances at me and his expression is sad, his mouth a thin line.

He’s probably thinking that he has to spend another 60,000 euros to cover those bruises, and wondering if it wouldn’t just be cheaper to dump your body overboard once you’re back on the boat. But good on you for trying to make your abuser feel bad for abusing you.

“I didn’t expect to feel like I do looking at these marks,” he says.

Oh! Reticent once minute and forthcoming the next? How… Fifty! How can I keep up with him?

“How do you feel?”

Bleak eyes gaze at me. “Uncomfortable,” he murmurs.

Oh no. 

Yeah, what a fucking shame that he feels bad for, at best, being an irresponsible Dom, at worst, being an abusive fuckwad who should have his balls smashed in a vise.

Ana tells him that aside from the hickeys, she liked everything else. Except, when she was first examining the marks on her body, she didn’t like the bruises left by the handcuffs. But I guess if it makes Chedward feel bad, she should just get over it and let him use cuffs that hurt her even if she doesn’t like it, because pleasing him is really the end goal.

Ana tells him the sex was mind-blowing:

He shifts in his seat. “Mind-blowing?” My inner goddess looks up, startled, from her Jackie Collins.

Get it? Women who don’t like sex are all nerdy prudes with small tits who read Dickens and lead bleak, horrible existences, and women who do like sex only read Jackie Collins, because it’s impossible to be smart enough to read literary fiction when you like sex. The best part of this is that a) Jackie Collins writes a much better book than E.L. James does, and b) E.L. just subtly insulted her readers by being dismissive of genre fiction. Which wouldn’t be the first time, since she blatantly used the Twihards to get famous and now shits on them every chance she gets.

E.L. James is a bad person, is what I’m saying here.

Christian gets a phone call, which sounds not great:

“Anyone injured? Damage? I see… When?” Christian glances at his watch again, then runs his fingers through his hair. “No. Not the fire department or the police. Not yet anyway.”

So, there was a fire at Christian’s office. As established in the last two books, Christian won’t call the police for any reason. Not even if his ex-girlfriend breaks into Ana’s apartment and holds her hostage at gunpoint. Now, there’s a fire in the server room at his office, and he doesn’t want to involve the fire department or the police? Exactly what is this guy doing, that he’s so afraid of the police coming anywhere near him?

Christian tells Ana that they’re not sure if it’s arson yet, but they decide to head back to the boat, and Ana wonders what more could possibly happen. The awesome part of that is, I really don’t give a fuck what happens to them, as long as it’s something tragic and violent, and then the chapter is over.

In this week’s more serious than usual episode, D-Rock, a gun enthusiast, talks about her changing stance on America’s failing gun laws.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fxCRp73ayJA]

Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and realized MY BOOK IS OUT!

I’m beyond excited, because I thought it wasn’t coming out until the 14th! And I guess that’s true, Amazon won’t release it until the 14th, but you can get it today (if you are so inclined) by going to Ellora’s Cave directly!

Plymouth, England, 1841Five days and nights of wicked pleasures and fulfilled fantasies, almost within Honoria’s grasp. All she needs now is the man she has chosen. 

Deaf from an illness in her infancy, Honoria knows that her life as a dormitory minder in a deaf school will be dull and lacking the opportunity to experience the kind of passion she has read about. With five days left until her ship sails from Plymouth to Calais, she has selected Esau Coal, a common dock worker, to be the man to introduce her to all the sensual delights she fears she’ll never have another chance to know. With the help of her tutor Jude, the man who has been her teacher, translator, friend and link to the hearing world, she arranges for Esau to spend five days and nights with her.

But five nights will not be enough—and neither will Esau, when Jude is also there to tempt her.

So, if you’re interested in some historical menage, you can find it HERE.

If you come to my blog only for the recaps (and that’s fine, I’m not going to force you to sign a sex contract wherein you’re obligated to read my blog) but I did post some pretty important info a few days ago, so please catch yourself up on it HERE.

A few links to get you going before the recap:

His eyes blaze with fury. He reaches down, scoops up my bikini top from his sun lounge, and tosses it at me.

I wish he would have tossed the sun lounge at her.

“Put this on!” He hisses.

“Christian, no one is looking.”

Because we’re in Europe, and there are sexy European girls on the beach, and they’re all topless as well.

“Trust me. They’re looking. I’m sure Taylor and the security crew are enjoying the show!” he snarls.

Then hire better employees, dick. Seriously, how can he trust them to protect him if he thinks they’re going to be constantly trying to steal his girl? It would be so easy, considering the number of people who (justifiably) seem to want Christian Grey dead, for Taylor to just stand back and let it happen, then swoop in and console Ana. And she’s so easily manipulated, he’d have no trouble convincing her that she should stay with him, because Christian would have wanted her to be safe.

Holy shit! Why do I keep forgetting about them? I grasp my breast in panic, hiding them. Ever since Charlie Tango’s sabotaged demise, we are constantly shadowed by damned security.

First of all, was it ever conclusively established in the previous book that Charlie Tango had been sabotaged, or that it wouldn’t be salvageable? And “sabotaged demise” sounds like the actual demise was sabotaged. The demise itself went according to plan, didn’t it? The helicopter did crash. I guess it didn’t work out the way Jack Handy or whoever the fuck that guy was had planned, because Christian didn’t die. But he did crash.

And hey, wait a minute… before the helicopter crash, they were “constantly shadowed by damned security.” Christian was having Taylor do sweeps of every place they went to, like he’s the goddamned president or something.

Christian tells Ana that “‘…some sleazy fucking paparazzi could get a shot of you, too.'” which hammers home the reality to Ana that her bare breasts should never be bare in public, even under appropriate circumstances. Because they belong to Christian, obvs. Apparently, after their engagement was announced, she was “besieged” by paparazzi outside her work. Because she’s Princess Di.

Christian puts his cut-offs on over his swim trunks, because he confused the French Riviera with a Texas water park. He also puts on a gray t-shirt, and then this happens:

Reluctantly, I wriggle into my turquoise sundress and step into my flip-flops. Once the waitress has left, Christian snatches up his book and BlackBerry and masks his fury behind mirrored aviator sunglasses.

And God help me, the first thing I thought of was:

Every other woman on the beach is topless – it’s not that big a crime. In fact, I look odd with my top on.

I totally know the feeling, Ana. I went to the south of France when I was eighteen, and when I stepped out in Nice in my one-piece, full body covering suit, I felt like I was an alien emerging onto a space planet or something.

I thought Christian would see the funny side… sort of… Maybe if I’d stayed on my front, but his sense of humor has evaporated.

But then it wouldn’t have been funny! Christian was never going to see the “funny” side of things, because he has no sense of humor. The only things he finds funny are terribly unfunny, like saying “fair point, well made, Miss Steele,” about a billion times.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” I whisper, taking his book and BlackBerry from him and placing them in my backpack.

“Too late for that,” he says quietly – too quietly.

I had so missed the romantic, not at all skeevy and abusive-sounding banter between these two wacky kids.

Taking my hand, he signals to Taylor and his two sidekicks, the French security officers Philippe and Gaston. Weirdly, they are identical twins.

Why is that weird? It’s rare, but not weird. Besides, I doubt they’re identical. Look at them, they don’t even look remotely alike:

 And not to get too far off track here, but I just noticed something… doesn’t Belle:

Why do I keep forgetting about them? How? Taylor is stony-faced behind his dark glasses. Shit, he’s mad at me, too. I’m still not used to seeing him so casually dressed, in shorts and a black polo shirt.

He’s probably not mad at you, Ana. He’s probably just unpleasant because he knows the punk little POS he works for is going to go full 1980’s Sean Penn on you and he’s going to be the cause of it. Remember, how Sean Penn used to beat up women before he got an Oscar and we all forgot about how he beat Madonna with a baseball bat?

Also, Ana, you forget about security being there because they aren’t Christian Grey. If Chedward’s security team was like, a clone army of other Chedwards, I bet you’d remember they were there. And I bet the real Chedward would be even more constantly jealous of them.

Christian and Ana head back to the marina, where they got on a jet ski. The security team will follow behind them in a boat, because everything E.L. James ever learned about water craft, she learned from chase scenes in James Bond movies. These two dingbats get on a jet ski fully dressed, shoes and all, and Taylor gives Ana a lifejacket.

“Here you go, Mrs. Grey.” Taylor passes me a life vest from the motorboat, and I dutifully put it on. Why am I the only one who has to wear a life jacket?

I propose Ana doesn’t wear a life jacket. All in favor?

Christian and Taylor exchange some kind of look. Jeez, is he angry with Taylor, too?

Yes, because Taylor looked at your perfect boobies, Ana, and therefore you committed some kind of  mental infidelity. Taylor looked upon you with lust in his heart, and according to Jimmy Carter in that Playboy interview, that’s just the same as shackin’ up.

But you know… I hesitate to point this out, but… okay, doesn’t Chedward kind of pay Taylor to look at Ana? Isn’t that the point? If Taylor saw some paparazzi, wouldn’t he probably spring into action and break the guy’s camera and/or neck? So, why is Christian all pissy about Taylor looking?

But if we reread those excerpts… maybe Taylor remembering the life jacket, then calling her Mrs. Grey, was a dig at Christian. Maybe it was his way of saying, “Yeah, you smug little prick, you may have money and jet skis, but I have a gun and I’ve killed men before. I could snap your spine with my little finger, because I’m Jason fucking Statham Taylor, and if I wanted your chick, she’d already be on my dick right now.”

Or something. Guys, these books are boring, I have to make my own fun.

“Hold on,” he orders, and I put my arms around him. This is my favorite part of travelling by Jet Ski. I hug him closely, my nose muzzling into his back, marveling that there was a time when he would not have tolerated me me touching him this way. He smells good… of Christian and the sea. Forgive me, Christian, please?

How depressing is this? They’re on their honeymoon. And she’s worried that he’ll never forgive her for taking her top off at a European beach.

I’ll be honest. I could sit here and point out how fucking awful this is, that his anger is stemming not from real concern for Ana, but from a feeling that she’s his property and she’s shown other people something that belongs to him, that he hasn’t given her permission to show, and like how in the context of a 24/7 D/s relationship that might be a very sexy situation but this is in the context of what is supposed to be a vanilla marriage, this shit isn’t okay, etc. But I’m too tired. Because I know that I’m going to have to give the exact same explanation in every chapter of this book, just like with every chapter of the two other books, and there are still going to be people trying to explain to me why it’s romantic and caring and sexy for Chedward to treat Ana like he owns her. So let’s just leave at: this guy. This fucking guy.

Anyway, this fucking guy takes them out on the jet ski fully dressed because they don’t understand how water works:

The sea spray is splashing us, the warm wind buffeting my face and flaying my ponytail crazily around me. This is so much fun. Maybe the thrill of this ride will dispel Christian’s bad mood. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s enjoying himself – carefree, acting his age for a change.

Well, thank god HE is having fun. Because that’s all that matters.

They head back to the Fair Lady. After the last recap, someone sent me a picture of a wooden toy boat and the words “The Queen of all the yachts in the harbor” on it, and I laughed uncontrollably for like two hours. I left the link open in my browser for daaaaays, thinking I would work it into this post. And then this morning I accidentally closed the window and now I can’t get it back. I’m so sad, I’m almost sick to my stomach.

Anyway, they’re back on the boat, and Christian asks Ana if she wants a drink. She asks if she needs one. I love that. “Hey, sweetie, do I need to start drinking so I can be partially anesthetized for whatever you’re going to do to me?” And no, I’m not reading into that, they actually have this conversation:

“You think I’m going to punish you?” Christian’s voice is silky.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

 “How?”

“I’ll think of something. Maybe when you’ve had your drink.” And it’s a sensual threat. I swallow, and my inner goddess squints from her sun lounge where she’s trying to catch rays with a silver reflector fanned out at her neck.

Ana’s inner goddess is now, officially, Miss Piggy in my mind:

“You want to be?”

How does he know? “Depends,” I mutter, flushing.

“On what?” He hides his smile.

“If you want to hurt me or not.”

His mouth presses into a hard line, humor forgotten. He leans forward and kisses my forehead.

“Anastasia, you’re my wife, not my sub. I don’t ever want to hurt you. You should know that by now. Just… just don’t take your clothes off in public. I don’t want you naked all over the tabloids. You don’t want that, and I’m sure your mom and Ray don’t want that, either.”

Bullet points are our friend:

• Wives can’t be subs.
• Even though he hurt her in the past and inspired this distrust, she should “know better,” without him having to earn back that trust.
• As an adult woman, she should be afraid of shaming her mother and father with her choices.

“Who owns this boat?” I ask.

“A British knight. Sir Somebody-orOther. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. His daughter’s married to one of the crown princes of Europe.”

Oh. “Super rich?”

No, Ana. He’s the kind of poor that owns a fucking yacht and gets knighted. WTF? The next time anyone calls Ana a smart heroine, I’m going to choke them with this page of the book. And how the hell do you borrow someone’s boat without knowing their name? I guess it’s conceivable that Christian has a boat guy who would like, broker the rental of a boat for him, but it seems somewhat unlikely that he wouldn’t have heard the boat’s entire pedigree as part of the selling point. Or that he wouldn’t have memorized it to impress everyone within earshot.

Ana asks Christian if Sir So-and-So is rich “‘Like you,'” and Christian says:

“And like you.” Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink rapidly… a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind… his eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding ceremony.

“All that is mine is now yours,” he says, his voice ringing out clearly, reciting his vows from memory.

All mine? “It’s odd. Going from nothing to – ” I wave my hand to indicate our opulent surroundings – “to everything.”

Wait. Wait a damn minute. Going from nothing? Readers, please remember that Ana admits to coming from a middle class family. She lived with her rich roommate all through college, and that rich roommate’s family paid for everything. Also, Ana had a job as an editor at a publishing house. Which isn’t rolling in lottery money, but it’s definitely more than “nothing,” especially when that income only has to provide for one person who doesn’t even pay rent. Maybe that’s “nothing” compared to what Christian has, but for many Americans, that’s more than “nothing.”

Which brings me to my next gripe:

“You’ll get used to it.”

No one should ever “get used” to being that super mega rich. They should be constantly aware of the tremendous privilege they have been afforded in life, and be thankful for it. The fact that Christian was able to go from being a drug-addict’s abused child to the richest, most powerful man in America and he can blithely “get used to it” means he’s an even bigger asshole than we previously suspected. I don’t care how much good he does or how much he gives to charity, when you’re sitting on a yacht in the south of France, chowing on olives a servant brought you and talking about how easy it is to “get used to” wealth like that, rather than saying, “You’re right, aren’t we lucky,” you’re an asshole.

Ana is just as bad, because she thinks:

I am rich… stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money… just married a rich man.

When she was living with Kate, did she ever think, “I have done nothing to earn this apartment… just moved in with a rich friend?” No, not that I can recall. She has pretty much always treated Kate’s family’s money as though she were entitled to it, even moving into another apartment paid for by Kate’s parents after college. But suddenly she’s all embarrassed to be a mooch? Come the fuck on, for real.

There’s a section break, and Ana drifts back in time – because again, this is a Pulp Fiction timeline – to when she was having breakfast at the Chevalier-Grey manse with the entire family, because remember, they’re all vampires who live together in a coven or something, and Mia read a gossip item saying that there must be a huge prenup.

As it turns out, Carrick had been pressuring his son to get Ana to sign a prenup, and Christian wanted no part of it.

“Christian,” I murmur. “I’ll sign anything you and Mr. Grey want.” Jeez, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s made me sign something.

You’re missing the point, Ana. A prenup isn’t always, “You leave with your stuff, I leave with mine.” A good prenup would also include provisions for what you get if the marriage dissolves based on the number of years you stay together, the circumstances of the separation (ie, if one parter cheats), how long you have to get your shit out of his house, or where you’re going to end up living. A good prenup can prevent a messy divorce and tons of wasted money in legal fees. Literally everyone should have one, and just thinking, “Oh, we don’t plan to get divorced because marriage is forever,” isn’t good enough, or realistic.

God, I hate this book more than the last two combined, and I’m only on page thirty-one.

“He has a point, Christian. You’re very wealthy, and I’m bringing nothing to our marriage but my student loans.”

Christian gazes at me, his eyes bleak. “Anastasia, if you leave me, you might as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels.

Holy fuck! “That was different,” I whisper, moved by his intensity. “But… you might want to leave me.” The thought makes me sick.

He snorts and shakes his head with mock disgust.

“Christian, you know I might do something exceptionally stupid – and you…” I glance down at my knotted hands, pain lancing through me, and I’m unable to finish my sentence.

So, the only way this marriage would fail would be if Ana did something stupid? I’m so glad that this book gives young women a heroine to look up to, so that they’ll later realize that every time a man fails them, it’s really their fault.

What is up with our culture’s notion that a prenup is somehow unromantic, or that getting a prenup means you’re setting your marriage up to fail? I would think it terribly romantic for my partner to go, “Okay, I don’t want this to end, but shit happens and if it does, I want to make sure that the person I love and respect comes away from this as smoothly as possible.” I mean, yes, there are prenups that are like, “Everything you own in the box to the left/in my closet, that’s my stuff/yes if I bought it, please don’t touch,” but that’s not every prenup.

This shit is unbearable, so allow me to skip forward, to the boat, where there still is no prenup, and Ana is complaining about being too rich:

I shudder as I recall the crazy shopping fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton – the personal shopper from Neiman Marcus – in preparation for this honeymoon. My bikini alone cost five hundred and forty dollars. I mean, it’s nice, but really – that’s a ridiculous amount of money for four triangular scraps of material.

Then why did you buy it, you daffy twat? Did Caroline Acton – the personal shopper from Neiman Marcus whom we’ve never met, but who for some reason needs a full fucking name – hold a gun to your head and demand you pay a ridiculous amount for a bikini? Just admit that you like being rich. Admit that you like having things, and that you don’t really care to work for them. Because all we’ve seen you do is mooch off Kate and then complain about working. There is nothing wrong with liking money. Everyone likes money. It’s when you reap the benefits of being super rich while bitching about how unfair it is to be super rich that you look like as big an asshole as Christian Grey.

Christian tells her to finish her drink, because they’re going to bed. And then…

“I’m going to make an example of you. Come. Don’t pee,” he whispers in my ear.

 I gasp. Don’t pee? How rude. My subconscious looks up from her book – The Complete Works of Charles Dickens, volume 1 – with alarm.

Fuck, now her subconscious has props, too? No wonder there’s no room in Ana’s head for like, thought.

“It’s not what you think,” Christian smirks, holding his hand out to me. “Trust me.”

No! I can’t trust you, Christian, because I have OCD and germ phobia. I wash my hands fifty thousand times a day. I cannot trust, after you yoinked her tampon out that one time, that you’re not going to do something with pee. And yes, I know that pee is sterile and everybody’s kind is okay, but OCD isn’t like, sensible. You can’t reason with it. It feels no pain.

Christian gets out two pairs of handcuffs and makes her pick a safeword. I wonder what happened to “love means never having to use safewords,” from the last book. He also gets out a blindfold, and then starts undressing Ana:

I turn, and he undoes my bikini top so that it falls to the floor.

 “Tomorrow, I will staple this to you,” he mutters and tugs on my hair tie, freeing my hair.

That’s not funny. Because he could probably do it, and she would probably be thinking the whole time about how much she deserves it. God, these two are perfect for each other.

Christian handcuffs her arms and legs together, right arm to right ankle, left arm to left ankle. I was about to call bullshit on handcuffs being big enough to go around an ankle, but then I remembered how very skinny Ana is. She’s like St. Agnes, the martyr who couldn’t be shackled because her wrists were too small.

This feels weird – being trussed up and helpless – on a boat.

DAMNIT WHY COULDN’T I HAVE SAVED THAT FUNNY BOAT PICTURE?

“Argh!” I cry.

I detonate around him, again and again, round and round, screaming loudly as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like a wildfire, consuming everything.

God, how I wish that were literal.

Then he uncuffs her, there’s a section break, and she wakes up having to pee really bad. So… that’s why he didn’t want her to pee? Because they needed her bladder for an alarm clock or something? Christian announces that they’re sailing to Cannes, and Ana goes into the bathroom:

I stare at myself in the mirror, shocked.

Holy fuck! What has he done to me?

I don’t care! I just want to know why he didn’t want you to pee! And how you managed to not pee all over him while having a huge g-spot orgasm while bent in half!

But none of these mysteries are wrapped up, and the chapter ends.

First of all, let me apologize profusely for not getting another 50 Shades recap up in 2012. Sometimes I plan to do things, and then I remember have kids and a job and shit. And while this blog is a part of my job, sometimes other aspects of the job jump up and overwhelm me. Marketing, for example.

You see, starting today, January 1, 2013, I am hereby rebranding myself. I will no longer be publishing or promoting myself under the name “Jennifer Armintrout.” Henceforth, I will be Jenny Trout.

You may be wondering why, after I suddenly gained a whole new following, I would do something to potentially confuse new readers. The problem I’m finding is that new readers are already getting confused, due to the similarity between my name and the name of an other author. In order to distinguish myself and my “brand” (I hate talking about myself in marketing terms), I’m changing my name. That will save both of us some grief, and save some tweeters and emailers embarrassment. Because they’re usually MORTIFIED when they find they’ve contacted the wrong Jennifer.

Also, when I got interested in writing erotic romance, that was sort of… all I did. I let Jennifer Armintrout drop off the face of the planet. As such, Jennifer Armintrout hasn’t sold a book in three years, even though she had a book come out in 2011. Jennifer Armintrout is, for all intents and purposes, out of the game. I’m looking at 2013 as the year I re-enter the realm of horror and urban fantasy, and it will just be easier to start fresh, with a new name.

Plus, let’s take a look at the photographic evidence:

 

See how up close that picture was? That’s not zoomed in, I actually get that close to wildlife. I clearly can’t be trusted with a name as long as Jennifer Armintrout.

Another big plus for me is that well-meaning racists won’t ask me if my name is Native American in origin. Which happens embarrassingly often. And I won’t be sharing a phonetic pronunciation with a character on Breaking Bad. And I already answer to Jenny Trout in most cases, because childhood friends always shortened my name to either Jenny or Trout.

So, what’s going to change, and what’s going to stay the same?

Changing:

• This blog’s address. Starting February 1st, the url for this blog will change. There will be many reminders, so that you can update your bookmarks and links and stuff.
• My author website is no longer jenniferarmintrout.com, but JennyTrout.com. You should go check it out, and bookmark it. It will be updated more often than the old site.
• My facebook page. I’ll be creating an author page for Jenny Trout. I hate to do that, because I know what a pain in the ass it is to go like another page or whatever. But Facebook won’t let me change the name on my Jennifer Armintrout page because I have more than 200 followers.  You can find me on Facebook now at facebook.com/JennyTroutAuthor.

If you are just tuning in, or if you tuned in before but lost your short term memory due to an eggnog related mishap, I am currently writing a book called The Boss. It’s my own entry into the contemporary erotic romance subgenre spawned by 50 Shades of Grey and the Crossfire series. But I’m pretty much just doing it for fun and to goof off, and to see if I can write a book in that genre without falling into the traps of misogyny and abuse we’ve seen in the 50 Shades series. Which is why I’m giving away The Boss for free, as a serial. You can get the rest of the details in this post.

Well, we’re back.

I hope you enjoy vague, deconstructed dream sequences, readers, because that is what the prologue and chapter one are all about.

The prologue is written in pseudo-child head pov:

My tummy hurts. It is hungry. He isn’t here. I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink and I have a drink. The water splashes over my blue sweater. Mommy is still asleep. Mommy wake up! She lies still. She is cold.

Can anyone else see a really pretentious theatre major acting this out in a workshop? Like, maybe the one who has an obvious crush on the professor, who is happily married and not interested? I can see that. I can see that with a clarity like unto the states of spiritual consciousness obtained by mountaintop gurus of yore.

Do children actually think that literally? “My tummy hurts. It is hungry.” “I am thirsty.” I get that he’s going through a traumatizing experience here, but I also remember being a kid. I don’t remember consciously walking through my day to day like a running monologue in my head. I said all that shit out loud, in a constant verbal barrage I unthinkingly unloaded onto anyone, even people slightly out of normal conversation distance. Maybe that’s why this is throwing me. He’s not narrating all this to himself aloud.

Anyway, you know how this goes down, Chedward is having a bad dream and Ana wakes him:

“Hush, I’m here.” She curls around him, her limbs cocooning him, her warmth leeching into his body, forcing back the shadows, forcing back the fear. She is sunshine, she is light… she is his.

 Is this a vampire book?

It is revealed that Christian and Ana fought about putting “obey” in their wedding vows. Oh, I really hope we get to see the fight where Ana gives in because of course she’s obeying him because this book was written by Don Draper.

I stare up through gaps in the sea-grass parasol at the bluest of skies, summer blue, Mediterranean blue, with a contented sigh.

Oh, some other douche is there with her, too:

My husband – my hot, beautiful husband, shirtless and in cut-off jeans – is reading a book predicting the collapse of the Western banking system.

Yeah. He’s reading that on the beach on their honeymoon. How is that for some serious romance. “Oh baby, reading about how the world economy is in the shitter gets me so hot. Let’s go spit on poor people!”

Ana and Christian are hanging out on a hotel beach in Monte Carlo, but Ana is quick to point out that they aren’t staying in some plebeian hotel:

 I open my eyes and gaze out at the Fair Lady anchored in the harbor. We are staying, of course, on board a luxury motor yacht. Built in 1928, she floats majestically on the water, queen of all the yachts in the harbor. She looks like a child’s wind-up toy. Christian loves her – I suspect he’s tempted to buy her. Honestly, boys and their toys.

 Looks like she got over that “uncomfortable with money” thing pretty quick. “Of course we’re not staying at some chintzy beachside Monte Carlo hotel! What are we? Paupers?”

Also, let me point out that this is the beginning of a book that, while it is a sequel, should probably provide a little background story for someone who picked this one up first. A reader who begins this with no prior knowledge of the other books is going to, after a thoroughly confusing prologue about child neglect, know more about the yacht the characters are vacationing on than the characters themselves.

Sitting back, I listen to the Christian Grey mix on my new iPod and doze in the late afternoon sun, idly remembering his proposal. Oh, his dreamy proposal in the boathouse… I can almost smell the scent of the meadow flowers…

Which new iPod? The new one that your husband got you when you first started dating? Does everyone get what I’m saying there? Because I don’t know if I can be any more sarcastic without straining a muscle.

A section break sends us back in time, to when Ana and Christian have just finished having sex in his parent’s boathouse. Again. For the second time. As they lay entwined in a bliss more perfect than anything you’ll ever know, a love deeper than you will ever be capable of surrendering to, they talk about where they want to have the wedding. Christian suggests eloping to Vegas,  but Ana wants an actual wedding. Christian figures Carlisle and Esme will let them have it at their place.

Hey, serious request here, can anyone who has retained more knowledge of Breaking Dawn or Twilight in general compare page 6 of 50 Shades Freed to the wedding nonsense in Twilight? It’s that page in particular that felt strongly ripped off, but I can’t put my finger on specific instances. Can someone either confirm my suspicion or tell me I’m crazy?

Christian tells Ana that he’ll agree to a one month engagement. Let’s try to do the math here. They knew each other for… two weeks? Three? And then they broke up for five days. And now they’ve been together… another two weeks? At most, these people will have known each other for NINE WEEKS before their WEDDING.

I cannot stress enough how fucked up I find this. In a completely judgmental way. People are going to leave comments saying, “How dare you, I got married to my SOUL MATE after NINE HOURS and we live in ETERNAL PARADISE!” and I’m going to say, “Yeah, well you made a chump bet that actually paid off. Congratulations, your marriage is successful, but it was still STUPID.”

Unless you needed to get married for a green card. In which case, 1990’s Gerard Depardieu was hot.

Flash forward, because E.L. James got her book confused with the narrative timeline from Pulp Fiction, and Christian is smoothing sunscreen over Ana’s magnificent body:

“You’ll burn,” Christian whispers in my ear, startling me from my doze.

“Only for you.”

Oh god, is this the vacation version of “I’m hungry but not for food?” Because I’ll drown myself if it is.

Smiling, I roll over, and he undoes the back strap of my hideously expensive bikini.

Oh my god, stahp. We get it. I promise, we all get it. You married a rich guy. You have the most expensive everything and you won. You are the Highlander of women.

My inner goddess purs. Maybe tonight we could do some kind of floor show for his eyes only. She smirks knowingly, arching a brow. I grin at the thought and drift back into my afternoon siesta.

Siesta is always in the afternoon, moron. Also, in my copy of the book, “siesta” is crossed out and replaced with “hallucination.”

Ana wakes to Christian speaking “fluent French.” How does E.L. demonstrate this fluency? What fascinating subject could Christian be talking about now?

“Mam’selle? un Perrier pour moi, un Coca-Cola light pour ma femme, s’il vous plait. Et quelque chose a manger… laissez-moi voir la carte.”

Wait, he ordered a Perrier, a Diet Coke, and asked for a menu? That’s not fluency. Anyone could do that. You get a cd or something right before you go on your trip, and you can manage that. You want fluency? Fluency is what Ana will need after she gets that sunburn, and then has to go to the pharmacy, and then when she draws the woman at the counter a picture like this:

His shorts fall a little and hang… in that way so his swim trunks are visible beneath.

You know, this is the third book and just another in a line of countless hours I have spent trying to deal with this nonsense, and I still have no idea what pants look like when they hang “in that way.” I’m going to strive to be that vague in my writing, because apparently that’s where all the profit is.

Christian wants Ana to come swimming with him, but she’s still sleepy and doesn’t immediately spring up from her lounge to join him. Obviously, he has to throw her over his shoulder and march her into that fucking ocean, because that’s how you show a woman who’s boss.

Several sunbathers on the beach watch with that bemused disinterest so typical, I now realize, of the French, as Christian carries me to the sea, laughing, and wades in.

Ana is alleging that French people are typically confused, but they don’t really give a shit? Is that what I’m grasping from that description?

“I know your game,” he whispers and slowly sinks into the cool, clear water, taking me with him as his lips find mine once more. The chill of the Mediterranean is soon forgotten as I wrap myself around my husband.

You guys remember that you’re on a hotel beach, right? People can see you. Also, what’s up with the cool water in the chill Mediterranean? They met in May, judging from the fact that Ana graduated the same week. Even being totally cautious with my estimate and giving them a generous three months instead of nine weeks, that would still put them in Monte Carlo in August. The water temps in Monte Carlo and August of this year were between 22 and 27 degrees celsius. For my fahrenheit friends, that means it’s between 70 and 80 degrees.

Research! That took me two entire minutes of my life.

Christian asks Ana, “‘Shall I take you in the sea?'” and I laughed out loud, because 1. He already took her in the sea, when he carried her into the water, and 2. who the fuck talks like that? Christian doesn’t want to do her in front of all the bemused Frenchies, so they just swim. My theory is that E.L. couldn’t write the part where they have sex in the drink because that scene faded to black in Twilight, thus obscuring her rip-off roadmap.

Ana swims to shore and wonders how to get Christian to come pay attention to her:

I shield my eyes from the sun as I watch him go. He’s such a tease… what can I do to get him back? While I swim to the shore, I contemplate my options. At the lounges our drinks have arrived, and I take a quick sip of Diet Coke. Christian is a faint speck in the distance.

I hope he gets decapitated by a passing jet ski.

Hmm… I lie down on my front and, fumbling with the straps, take my bikini top off and toss it casually onto Christian’s sun lounge. There… see how brazen I can be, Mr. Grey. Put this in your pipe and smoke it. I shut my eyes and let the sun warm my skin… warm my bones, and I drift away under its heat, my thoughts turning to my wedding day.

And the award for most artless flashback transition goes to…

There is nothing worse in real life than going to the wedding of someone you actually care about. Weddings are terrible. They are the worst, but you suffer through hot churches in uncomfortable clothes and weird food you can’t take reasonable portions of because you’re super conscious of heaping more debt on the happy couple, because you recognize that this is the most important day of this couple’s life so far and they invited you because they wanted you to be a part of it and that means something. But I don’t have even a casual fondness for the jerks in this book, so why am I being forced to go to their stupid, boring wedding?

“You may kiss the bride,” Reverend Walsh announces.

I beam at my husband.

“Finally, you’re mine,” he whispers and pulls me into his arms and kisses me chastely on the lips.

I know this is going to come as a shock to you, after we read the last two books and saw their super positive view of equality within relationships, but in this one, a wedding ring = contract of ownership.

“You look beautiful, Ana,” he murmurs and smiles, his eyes glowing with love… and something darker, something hot. “Don’t let anyone take that dress off but me, understand?” His smile heats a hundred degrees as his fingertips trail down my cheek, igniting my blood.

He just said all of that literally at the altar. In front of all his friends and family, who probably don’t care to hear it.

Jeez, I hope no one can hear us. Luckily Reverend Walsh has discreetly stepped back. I glance at the throng gathered in their wedding finery… My mom, Ray, Bob, and the Greys are all applauding – even Kate, my maid of honor, who looks stunning in pale pink as she stands beside Christian’s best man, his brother Elliot.

Every time the Greys throw a party (with the exception of the big, fancy fundraising ball), Ana is all, “There is a THRONG there, for real, y’all.” And then she describes maybe a dozen people. Also, check out the fact that Kate is wearing a pink dress and Ana isn’t complaining about it. Ana hated on Kate hardcore for wearing pink in the first book, but now it’s one of Ana’s wedding colors? What a pink-hating hypocrite.

I like pink. Hating pink doesn’t make you cool. Hating pink makes you a jerk, if those Pinkalicious books are accurate.

I hope Christian and I last longer. I don’t know what I’d do if he left me. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. The saying haunts me.

You don’t know what you’d do if he left you? Clean up in divorce court, for one thing. “He psychologically manipulated me into marrying him, your honor.”

“Ana, it’s obvious he adores you. I know you had an unconventional start to your relationship, but I can see how happy you’ve both been over the past month.” She grasps my hands, squeezing them. “Besides, it’s too late now,” she adds with a grin.

“I know you guys went really fast, but the good news is, you’re never going to get away from him now, even if you wanted to. Happy wedding!”

Christian comes over, probably because someone is talking to his property and he needs to shut that down. Ana observes that Christian is “still cool toward [Kate] even after six weeks.” Is anyone else getting the idea that time moves differently for E.L. James than it does for everyone else? Like, a day in E.L. Standard Time is a week in Earth time?

Christian tells Ana that he doesn’t want to share her with people anymore. Ana doesn’t want to leave, because “‘This is the first party I’ve been to where I don’t mind being the center of attention.'” I think she got “first” confused with “every,” because Ana has proven over and over that she thrives on attention. Even though she doesn’t want to go, she’s going to leave, because Christian told her to. But then his grandmother intercepts them and forces Christian to dance with her, leaving Ana time for the obligatory Jose moment of awkwardness.

“I won’t ask you for another dance. I think I monopolized too much of your time on the dance floor as it is… I’m happy to see you happy, but I’m serious, Ana. I’ll be here… if you need me.”

He gives me a lascivious grin. “But I’m not undressing you here. We wouldn’t leave until… I don’t know…”  He waves his long-fingered hand, leaving his sentence unfinished but his meaning quite clear.

Christian tells her to pack her going away clothes, and we learn that Christian won’t tell Ana where they’re going for their honeymoon. I’ll be straight up, I’ve known couples who have done this, and I thought it was super romantic. But coming from Chedward, it just seems like another creepy control bullshit thing. Also, she really shouldn’t go with him to a second location.

“I’m not changing.”

“What?” my mother says.

“Christian doesn’t want me to.” I shrug as if this should explain everything. Her brow furrows briefly.

“You didn’t promise to obey,” she reminds me tactfully. Kate tries to disguise her snort as a cough. I narrow my eyes at her. Neither she nor my mother have any idea of the fight Christian and I had about that. I don’t want to rehash that argument. Jeez, can my Fifty Shades sulk… and have nightmares. The memory is sobering.

We haven’t even read the “obey” fight, and I can tell you right now how it went down. Christian wants “obey” in the vows, Ana doesn’t, they fight, and Christian fakes a night terror to try and get his own way. But apparently he didn’t on this one.

It’s a good thing Ana has all these strong women around her to help her when she’s making bad choices, like just blindly doing whatever her husband tells her because he’s her husband and she thinks that’s the way it should be:

Carla gently tugs at a loose tendril of my hair and strokes my chin. “I am so proud of you, honey. You’re going to make Christian a very happy man.”

Oh. Well, I would have taken that in a different direction.

Ray comes in, and he and Carla have a big cry fest over their daughter. It’s a scene you’ve seen countless times in movies and books, so I won’t bore you with it, even though E.L. does. They do the traditional “run away from our guests” thing, Mia catches the bouquet, and Taylor whisks the couple away to an airfield, where a company jet is waiting. I love seeing happy couples mismanaging company funds for personal vacations.

Taylor halts the Audi at the foot of the steps leading up to the plane and leaps out to open Christian’s door. They have a brief discussion, then Christian opens my door – and rather than stepping back to give me room to climb out, he leans in and lifts me.

Whoa! “What are you doing?” I squeak.

“Carrying you over the threshold,” he says.

“Oh.” Isn’t that supposed to be at home?

He carries me effortlessly up the steps,

BULLSHIT! People can’t even walk effortlessly up those steps. If you’ve ever walked up a staircase to a plane, you know what I’m talking about. And it would have been hilarious if Christian was like, “This is home. Bad news. The company folded this morning. We’re paupers now. This plane is all we have left and we have to live in it.”

Because literally every character in this mess must have a name, no matter how small the role, we meet Stephan the pilot and First Officer Beighly, a homewrecker:

She blushes as Christian introduces her and blinks rapidly. I want to roll my eyes. Another female completely captivated by my too-handsome-for-his-own-good husband.

“Delighted to meet you,” gushes Beighly. I smile kindly at her. After all – he is mine.

Pack it up ladies, the game is over. Ana won the prize, we can all go home. At least she’ll deign to talk to us all from her lofty new position as supreme winner of all womanness.

Christian chats with the pilot, and Boston and Shannon both are mentioned, which makes Ana insane with curiosity. Since there is no other conflict in these books at all, the suspense gets dragged out a little longer while Ana gives us a description of the cabin:

The interior is all pale maple and pale cream leather. It’s lovely. Another young woman in uniform stands at the other end of the cabin – a very pretty brunette.

This is why I’m totally grossed out when people call this book a romance. Romance is a very specific genre, with very specific rules. No romance novel should ever allude to the heroine wondering if her new husband, the hero, has fucked this girl on the honeymoon getaway plane. Moments later, Christian glances at the pretty flight attendant and frowns, which is even more telling.

Taking my hand, he leads me to one of the sumptuous leather seats. There must be about twelve of them in total.

Have you guys noticed that in these books, the larger a number is, the more precise it is, but the smaller it is, the more often it’s estimated? Most adults could easily count that number of seats at a glance, so why does Ana have to guess at it?

Ana and Christian sip Bollinger champagne and reminisce about the time they drank it at Ana’s half-packed up apartment, oh so many, many, many days ago. Christian reveals that they’re going on a European honeymoon, since Ana has always wanted to go to there. They also get a wedding feast, courtesy of the ever present, constantly mentioned Natalia. Gosh, I wonder if Natalia will be a plot point later:

“Dessert, Mr. Grey?” she asks.

He shakes his head and runs his finger across his bottom lip as he looks questioningly at me, his expression dark and unreadable.

I can read it. He’s wondering if he can get a wedding night threesome out of his easily manipulated wife.

Ana finds out there’s a bedroom on the plane, because Christian wants dessert, just not food. It doesn’t actually say “Just not food” in there, but the sentiment was too close to pass it up.

“I thought we’d spend our wedding night at thirty-five thousand feet. It’s something I’ve never done before.”

Of course it isn’t. You’ve never been married before, nimrod.

On page twenty we start a sex scene that lasts five pages and in which Christian refers to his ownership of Ana ten times.

“I love you so much.” Trailing kisses from the nape of my neck to the edge of my shoulder. Between each kiss he murmurs, “I. Want. You. So. Much. I. Want. To. Be. Inside. You. You. Are. Mine.”

When people write dialogue like that, I always imagine a malfunctioning robot.

Gently he cups my breasts, toying with them, while his thumbs circle over my nipples so that they strain against the fabric of my corset.

“Mine,” he whispers.

And:

“Mine,” he breathes as his hands spread across my backside, the tips of his fingers brushing my sex.

And even more disturbingly given the time of year I’m presenting this to you:

“This is like unwrapping my Christmas presents.”

When the hero of a romance novel tells the heroine, “You are mine,” it’s often followed up by, “body and soul,” or some other declaration of how their souls are bonded together in passion for all eternity. While that kind of behavior would be creepily intense in real life, it tells the reader that this man is so consumed by his desire for every single facet of the heroine that he’s reverting to preschool possessiveness. He wants the heroine to love him, and only him, and he’s driven desperate with that need.

When Christian Grey does it, it’s like he’s cataloging all the stuff he just bought by getting married. “I own your bewbs. I own your hooey. Gee, this is fun, and literally, physically, owning a woman fulfills an emotional need in me.”

That’s gross. And did I mention it happens ten times in five pages?

The foreplay is so intense, Ana forgets a whole continent:

Oh my… I’d forgotten. Europe.

You know, I sometimes forget Europe, too. But not generally when I’m on a plane that’s actually going there.

The scene ends with Christian sinking into Ana and starting to move, so you know, basically copy/paste from every other sex scene in this series. Then there’s a section break, and we’re back in the present… or the future… or something. It’s like a fucking time travel story.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Christian shouts, waking me from my very pleasant dream. He’s standing all wet and beautiful at the end of my sun lounge and glaring down at me.

What have I done? Oh no… I’m lying on my back… Crap, crap, crap, and he’s mad. Shit. He’s really mad.

So… the honeymoon is over, then?

Expect recapping delays as Christmas barrels down upon us, but I’ll try to get another one in this year.

Twas the week before Christmas and the video was late.
For ’twas Jenny, personally, the entire world did hate.
They scheduled appointments, pageants, and things,
on top of the frenzy Christmas itself brings!

How could she edit, how could she cope,
when of finishing all the gifts she could have no hope?
And on top of that, a recap was due!
That meant she had two jobs… plus two!

One as an author, and one as a blogger!
One as a mom and professional kid schlogger.
(Kid schlogging is a type of a thing moms have to do for their broods,
such as schlogging kids to school and to go shopping for food.)

Besides all of that, she had crafting to do!
That made another job, two plus one, plus two!
So TV producer added too much to her plate,
which means she had to deliver the show… late.

Here’s the show, about the end of the world that wasn’t, and tune in tomorrow for the first chapter of Fifty Shades Freed.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFp191-C4kk]