Author: JennyTrout

When my tweep ‘Ro Mania from Ramblin’ Ro’s tweeted about a book called Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever, of course I immediately needed to get the scoop on it. Here’s the review, and it’s about 100% more professional than anything else you’ll ever see on this blog. Much thanks to ‘Ro for making it through what sounds like a thoroughly frustrating book.

It’s been a year packed with blockbuster novels, from 50 Shades of Grey to The Casual Vacancy, and Gone Girl, but I think that so often the commercial success of a great (or gallingly mediocre) novel can sometimes bury the true artist, and their masterworks can be woefully ignored.

This year, no book was so tragically left by the wayside as Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine by Catherine Devore.

I know what you’re thinking. “This is a cheap money grab on the part of the author to cash in on the success of properties like Spielberg’s Lincoln and that really shitty movie that blamed vampires for slavery.”

“Do you know why they call me Baberaham Lincoln?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Well, you’re about to find out.” With those words, I unbuttoned my pants and produced my throbbing, erect cock.

I have always been a tall man, and I take no false pride in saying that my prick stands tall as well. It is fully nine inches long and as thick and hard as a birch rod.

Subtle period details are always a necessity when writing historical fiction.

Abe and Martha the serving girl proceed to engage in behavior that got a later president impeached, with Martha performing oral sex on Abe while he enjoys his breakfast. No, seriously, he just casually eats breakfast while she sucks him off and fingers herself. I guess when you’re the most powerful man in the country, shit like that happens all the time, and you just have to work it into your schedule. Because being the commander-in-chief is a busy job, evidenced by the fact that the servant just barely has time to lick her fingers clean before William Seward and Charles Sumner come in.

Rather than responding to my plight or alleviating my pain, Takayoshi dropped to the floor and covered his head. If I had been in my right mind, I might have wondered at this strange behavior, but it was at that moment that my body was wracked with a final shock and my true power manifested. I bellowed mightily as I ejaculated with the force of a thunderclap. The spunk I released was no ordinary spunk. It burst forth from my prick like a jet of hot magma and seared a hole through the exterior wall. I stared out the window in amazement as my sperm burned across the sky like a falling star, before finally disappearing over the horizon. Many men claim they saw a comet that day; few, if any, would believe the truth of the matter. 

The only way to celebrate finding out that you have super cosmic cum is, of course, to engage in anal sex with a stranger. In front of the secretary of state and the leader of Massachusetts’s anti-slavery movement:

He was just removing his pants when Seward and Sumner strode back in. “Excuse the intrusion, Mr. President. We were just… wondering… how… the negotiations…”

When Seward surveyed the illicit tableau before him, he slowed down like a train pulling into the station. Sumner’s eyes were as wide as saucers.

Rather than risk embarrassment, I chose to brush off their incredulity and continue where I left off. I said: “Now that you two are here, you can learn why they call me Gaybraham Lincoln.

If there’s one major complaint I have with this book, it’s that two of its most prominent jokes are straight up ripped off. “Baberaham Lincoln,” is the title Garth gives to Cassandra in Wayne’s World, and “Gaybraham Lincoln” is a recurring sketch on TGS, the fictional comedy show on 30 Rock.

I assume everyone reading this has seen a porno before, and therefore understands the unspoken rule of sex scenes: if someone comes in during, they at least have to jack off while watching, or join in. In this scene, Sumner inhabits the role of the voyeur at first, then performs fellatio on Takayoshi, while Seward climbs on Abe’s desk to get a bj with some finger action while the president buggers the ninja envoy.

Here’s the point in the book when I realized something was wrong. The page counter on my Nook app said there were only thirty-four pages, and I was on page thirty. I thought maybe the download was incomplete or something, but no. The story ends super abruptly:

And so began the first of several weeks of intense training. For hours at a time, Takayoshi would teach me exercises to control the power of my cock. Eventually, I could flex my muscles and shoot a stream of hot spunk with the accuracy of a bullet through a bulls-eye.

One day he came to me after a particularly intense lesson with a gleam in his eye. “You are ready,” he said.

And then that’s it. After that, it’s just a plug for the sequel, Abraham Lincoln: Ninja Fuck Master.

Okay, listen. This book is thirty-four pages long, and I paid three dollars for it. That’s like… ninety cents a page. You’d think I would be furious that the story wasn’t wrapped up entirely. And I see this for what it is. This is crack dealer shenanigans right here. Giving me a little, but high is over all too soon, and I’m right back at B&N.com, scratching and panting and begging to waste three more dollars. That kind of thing should make a principled person like me absolutely furious.

But it doesn’t. Because as ridiculous as the overall plot is, as simplistic and sometimes blatantly unsexy as the writing is, this thing is fucking clever. The historical details, like Komei’s disagreement with the Shogunate and America’s wary surveillance of a foreign situation they couldn’t expend the resources to even attempt to control, are all surprisingly accurate and only serve to highlight the absurdity of a plot that involves one of our most revered Americans shooting lava jizz into the brisk April morning. And that’s worth more than money, friends. That’s worth the glittering golden tears of a weeping bald eagle.

Maybe it doesn’t surprise you to learn that I will be buying and reading the hell out of the forthcoming Abraham Lincoln: Ninja Fuck Master. I mean, I really, really hope it’s forthcoming. Otherwise, how will I know if he manages to stop the emperor from blowing up the moon? And yes, I’m aware that I’m falling for the afore labelled “crack dealer shenanigans,” but I’m actually a bit jealous that I didn’t think up this scheme myself. That alone is worth the admission price.

I think you’re doing yourself a great disservice by not picking up Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine. Do it for America. Abe certainly is.

Oh, and I just wanted to add, thank you to Katiebabs for bringing this book to my attention, though I’m sure she thoroughly regrets it now.

Roadhouse, Episode 10, “Episode 420”

Since YouTube is a ball of flaming wreckage right now, we’ve moved the show to Dailymotion. I would complain about the upload speeds there, but considering it just took me two days to not upload a video at YouTube, I think Dailymotion wins this round.

This week’s episode is a serious look at marijuana prohibition in the United States, and we’re totally serious the whole time. I promise that won’t happen again. Also, you can see one of my dogs!

…today’s episode of Roadhouse is delayed until either I or Youtube get our collective shit together. Thanks for understanding, because I sure as hell don’t know what’s going on with this?

*runs away, handfuls of still sparking circuitry clutched in her enraged, white-knuckled fists, because she doesn’t do well with technology.*

By now everyone knows that a 50 Shades movie is something humanity is powerless to stop. Everyone is talking about who should be Christian, who should be Ana. If you are a young actor or actress in Hollywood, people have probably asked you if you would want a part in the movie. Hell, even if you’re way too old to play Christian Grey or Ana Steele (Michael Fassbender, as a for instance), people are still lobbying hard on your behalf for your casting.

But you know who hasn’t been asked for casting advice? A certain author/blogger who is, by all accounts, an expert in 50 Shadesology and who could easily teach an entire college course on the subject. Just as no one in Hollywood ever asked me before canceling The Adventures of Brisco County Jr., no has yet asked me to cast this damn movie. Well, I’m not going to wait to be asked, damnit. Here are my picks for the cast of 50 Shades of Grey the movie. Today, I’m going to concentrate on the characters who are, arguably, the most important:

A moment ago, I had a horrible epiphany.

Well, here we are, friends, at the end of another 50 Shades book. I would feel relieved, if I wasn’t aware that there was another book right around the corner, waiting for me with fresh horrors. God help me if she finishes Midnight Sun or whatever before I finish recapping the third book.

Someone sent me this link via twitter, and I’m a fool and didn’t write down who sent it. But hopefully you’re seeing this, because thank you, this is just about the most awesome thing to have come out of all this mess: Canadian 50 Shades of Abuse flyer.

Let’s get right into this recap. As you may recall, the last chapter ended with Kate finding out about the sex contract, and confronting Christian. With a juicy set up like that, there’s bound to be a huge pay-off, right? Let’s watch.

All the color drains from my face as my blood turns to ice and fear lances through my body. Instinctively I step between her and Christian.

All through the book, color has drained from Ana’s face, her blood has turned to ice, fear has lanced through her, but I think this is the first time we’ve seen it happen all at once. So, you know she’s super afraid for Christian’s… safety? From Kate? What reason would she have to believe she needs to bodily protect Christian from her friend?

“Kate! This has nothing to do with you.” I glare venomously at her, anger replacing my fear. How dare she do this? Not now, not today. Not on Christian’s birthday.

Thanksgiving, fine. Christmas day, go to town, Kate, I’m not stopping you. But you ruin what is, by my count, the fourth celebration of his birthday in two days, and that’s it. Ana is not having it.

Kate admits to having found the email in the pocket of a jacket in Ana’s room. Look, remember what I said earlier, about how I hate when people start to infer things about an author based on something she’s written? I take it back, because now I’m operating under a personal certainty of about 94.8% that E.L. James is one of those people who thinks it’s acceptable and productive to print out emails.

She’s a beacon of hostility in a slinky, bright red dress. She looks magnificent. But why the hell is she going through my clothes? Usually it’s the other way around.

Ana borrowed Kate’s clothes, sometimes without asking, all through the first book and the beginning of this one, but how dare that bitch borrow the jacket Ana left in her room she hasn’t been back to for like, weeks.

Christian sets fire to the email and drops it in the fireplace, while Kate assures the two of them that she hasn’t told anyone the scandalous contents. She just wants to know that Ana is okay, and that Christian hasn’t done anything weird to her.

So, obviously this is going to be the underlying plot of the entire next novel, and it’s being set up in this last chapter. I must say, I’m looking forward to the struggle between Kate and Ana, and how Kate’s disapproval of Christian affects their friendship:

“Ana has consented to be my wife, Katherine,” he says quietly.

“Wife!” Kate squeaks, her eyes widening in disbelief.

“We’re getting married. We’re going to announce our engagement this evening,” he says.

“Oh!” Kate gapes at me. She’s stunned. “I leave you alone for sixteen days, and this happens? It’s very sudden. So yesterday, when I said – ” She gazes at me, lost. “Where does that email fit into all this?”

“It doesn’t, Kate. Forget it – please. I love him and he loves me. Don’t do this. Don’t ruin his party and our night,” I whisper. She blinks and unexpectedly her eyes are shining with tears.

“No, of course I won’t. You’re okay?” She wants reassurance.

“I’ve never been happier,” I whisper. She reaches forward and grabs my hand regardless of Christian’s arm wrapped around me.

“You really are okay?” she asks hopefully.

“Yes.” I grin at her, my joy returning. She’s back onside.

Oh. So… you mean that entire dramatic set up led to nothing, and now it’s over? You know, if I had expected more from this book, I would be really disappointed right now.

Kate asks Ana to explain what happened, and Ana says she will, just not, you know, right now in his parent’s house with a party going on and stuff.

“Good. I won’t tell anyone. I love you so much, Ana, like my own sister. I just thought… I didn’t know what to think. I’m sorry. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” She looks directly at Christian and repeats her apology. He nods at her, his eyes glacial, and his expression does not change. Oh shit, he’s still mad.

One thing this book does really well is encapsulate all of its terribleness into convenient chunks, like that one right there. In one paragraph, we have nonsensical writing (she repeats her apology? So she tells Christian she loves him like a sister?), abusive dickhole behavior (he’s mad because his girlfriend’s friends care about her too much?), and battered woman syndrome (she takes responsibility for him being mad about Kate’s actions?). That just about puts the button on our read, doesn’t it? And here we were thinking E.L. wouldn’t tie anything up.

Grace comes in to remind the three of them that, hey, there’s a party going on in the other room and maybe since Christian is the guest of honor he might want to make an appearance. But she does it with less sarcasm than I just did, because she’s classy. Christian tells Ana that he already told his mother about their engagement:

“Oh.” And to think our evening could have been derailed by the tenacious Miss Kavanagh. I shudder at the thought – the rammifications of Christian’s lifestyle revealed to all.

I love how Ana is so sure everyone would be scandalized to find out that a rich young dude was into kinky sex with women he didn’t have romantic feelings for. Like that has never, ever happened before. But then again, I’m forgetting that in the framework of this universe, the BDSM Christian is into is super hardcore, what with the butt plugs and nipple clamps. I truly hope Ana never becomes technologically savvy enough to find out what real hardcore BDSM fetishists are getting up to.

They go out to the party, which is actually kind of a sad gathering, when you take into account that these people are the only friends Christian has in the entire world, and if they’re not directly related to him, they work for him:

I scan the room quickly; all the Greys, Ethan with Mia, Dr. Flynn and his wife, I assume. There’s Mac from the boat, a tall, handsome African American – I remember seeing him in Christian’s office the first time I met Christian – Mia’s bitchy friend Lily, two women I don’t recognize at all, and… oh no. My heart sinks. That woman… Mrs. Robinson.

Leaving aside the fact that this is the least surprising surprise in the history of fiction, this party reminds me a lot of the Republican National Convention. Gay people and black people don’t get representation. BAM.

See, I say that because the two women who aren’t named are Ros and her partner, and… oh, fuck it, never mind.

Ana is momentarily distracted from her hatred of Mrs. Robinson by the appearance of Gretchen, the other obligatory evil!blonde in the story:

Gretchen materializes with a tray of champagne. She’s wearing a low-cut black dress, hair in an updo instead of pigtails, flushing and fluttering her eyelashes at Christian.

No one gets to flush in this book except Ana, damnit! Learn your place.

This party reads kind of like a curtain call, what with even minor characters no one cared about, like Mac and the nameless black guy from Christian’s office, standing in the background. They actually applauded when Christian and Ana entered the room… which kind of reminds me of…

Christian shifts uncomfortably and pulls me closer, putting his arm around me. His face remains impassive as he regards Elena. She can no longer ignore me, so she nods politely in my direction.

“Ana,” she purrs. “You look lovely, dear.”

“Elena,” I purr back. “Thank you.”

“So I’m especially glad to be here today to share with all of you my very good news. This beautiful woman” – he glances down at me – “Miss Anastasia Rose Steele, has consented to be my wife, and I’d like you all to be the first to know.”

That’s twice now that he’s said she “consented.” That would mean something, if he ever actually appeared to care about her consent in anything.

There are general gasps of astonishment, the odd cheer, and then a round of applause! Jeez – this is really happening. I think I am the color of Kate’s dress.

Damn, she even has to borrow Kate’s dress color.

Now, in case you were worried that we weren’t going to get to see the jealous reactions of all the women in the room, worry no longer. It’s almost the first thing Ana notices:

Lily, who is standing beside Mia, looks crestfallen; Gretchen looks like she’s eaten something nasty and bitter. As I glance anxiously around at the assembled crowd, I catch sight of Elena. Her mouth is open. She’s stunned – horrified even, and I can’t help a small but intense feeling of satisfaction to see her dumbstruck.

Uh-oh, ladies. You know what this means? If Ana is going to marry Christian Grey, then she wins. She wins at being a woman, because she got the very best man. We might as well all sew our vaginas up, because the game is over.

You just lost the game.

Mia asks to see the ring, and of course, it’s a big drama:

“Um…” A ring! Jeez. I hadn’t even thought about a ring. I glance up at Christian.

“We’re going to choose one together,” Christian glowers at her.

They’re going to choose one together, in exactly the same way Ana has chosen her wardrobe, her computer, her car, any meal at any restaurant in the entire time she’s known him, whether or not she’ll associate with certain friends…

Then Mia asks when the wedding will be and if they’ve set the date:

He shakes his head, his exasperation palpable. “No idea, and no we haven’t. Ana and I need to discuss all that,” he says irritably.

You probably should have discussed all that before announcing your engagement, since this is basic shit most people ask about when you say, “Hey, I’m getting married.”

“I hope you have a big wedding – here,” she beams enthusiastically, ignoring his caustic tone.

Maybe we can invite the local werewolves in a gesture of unity and harmony, too.

The response from the room is overwhelming, and it’s a few minutes before I find myself back beside Christian with Dr. Flynn. Elena seems to have disappeared, and Gretchen is sullenly refilling champagne glasses.

Beside Dr. Flynn is a striking young woman with long, dark, almost black hair, impressive cleavage, and lovely hazel eyes.

“Christian,” says Flynn, holding out his hand. Christian shakes it gladly.

“John. Rhian.” He kisses the dark-haired woman on her cheek.

Does she instantly climax?

“Glad you’re still with us, Christian. My life would be most dull – and penurious – without you.”

You have to be kidding me. “Penurious” in dialogue? In a contemporary erotic romance? And I’m supposed to take this shit seriously? Pfff.

“That was one googly you bowled there, Christian,” Dr. Flynn shakes his head in amused disbelief. Christian frowns at him.

“John – you and your cricket metaphors.” Rhian rolls her eyes.

Well, I think that solves the mystery of whether or not E.L. James writes stilted dialogue because she doesn’t understand the way Americans talk. She just doesn’t understand the way humans talk. We finally have our answer!

“Ana, I need some advice. And I can’t ask Lily – she’s so judgmental about everything.” Mia rolls her eyes then grins at me. “She is so jealous of you. I think she was hoping one day that she and Christian might get together.” Mia bursts out laughing at the absurdity, and I quail inside.

No female in this story can respect or even like their female friends. Either that, or Mia is going to get tired of Lily and go for Ana, who is far more superior and desirable when compared to every other woman on the planet.

This is something I will have to contend with for a long time – other women wanting my man.

But that number will drop drastically once they read these books.

Mia wants Ana’s advice on how to deal with Ethan. He doesn’t want to date her, since her brother is dating his sister. Which I get, because that happened in my family and then some other stuff happened and when the dust cleared, someone’s brother was his father-in-law and someone else was his own uncle. Shit can get weird when siblings date another set of siblings, is all I’m saying.

Anyway, Ana has some sage advice:

What can I say? “Can you agree to be friends and give it some time? I mean you’ve only just met him.”

“I mean you’ve only just met him.”

“I mean you’ve only just met him.”

“I mean you’ve only just met him.”

“I mean you’ve only just met him.”

Luckily, Mia ain’t having that shit:

She cocks her eyebrow.

“Look, I know I’ve only really just met Christian but…” I frown, not sure what I want to say.

The good news is, she doesn’t go on to lecture Mia about her love for Christian being pure and true and the most important thing in the world, whereas Mia’s attraction to Ethan means nothing to her because it has nothing to do with Christian. She advises they try friendship, and suggests Mia talk to Kate.

Mia leaves the dining room, and must bump asses with Elena on the way out, because suddenly she’s got Ana cornered.

I summon all my self-possession, slightly fuzzy from two glasses of champagne and the lethal cocktail I hold in my hand. I think the blood has drained from my face, but I marshal both my subconscious and my inner goddess in order to appear as calm and as unflappable as I can.

By their powers combined, they become… I don’t know, some kind of Voltron of emotional instability and pathological insecurity?

She arches an eyebrow. I think she’s impressed.

“I wouldn’t have thought of you as a worthy adversary, Anastasia. But you surprise me at every turn.”

Even the fucking villains are always complimenting Ana. Have you noticed that? It’s like she’s so amazing, even the people who hate her are forced to admit that she’s perfect. And what do we call that, boys and girls? Say it with me now:

“He has needs – needs you cannot possibly begin to satisfy,” she gloats.

“What do you know of his needs?” I snarl. My sense of indignation flares brightly, burning inside me as adrenaline surges through my body. How dare this fucking bitch preach to me? “You’re nothing but a sick child molester, and if it were up to me, I’d toss you into the seventh circle of hell and walk way smiling. Now get out of my way – or do I have to make you?”

I’m pretty sure at this point, they’re both wearing bejeweled scrunchies and fucking enormous shoulder pads.

“You’re making a big mistake here, lady.” She shakes a long, skinny, finely manicured finger at me. “How dare you judge our lifestyle? You know nothing, and you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. And if you think he’s going to be happy with a mousy little gold digger like you…”

That’s it! I throw the rest of my lemon martini in her face, drenching her.

“She’s not right for you, Christian,” she whispers.

“What?” He shouts, startling both of us. I can’t see his face but his whole body has tensed, and he radiates animosity.

“How the fuck do you know what’s right for me?”

“You have needs, Christian,” she says her voice softer.

That missing comma? Not a typo. And how does her voice get softer than a whisper? I’m assuming the copy editor was found hanging from a light fixture in his or her office before they got to this page.

“I’ve told you before – this is none of your fucking business,” he roars. Oh crap – Very Angry Christian has reared his not-so-ugly head. People are going to hear.

Oooh, he’s gonna make a sceeeeeene!

Christian and Elena continue to fight in overwrought dialogue that no one on the planet would actually speak out loud. Check out this gem:

“I was the best thing that ever happened to you,” she hisses arrogantly at him. “Look at you now. One of the richest, most successful entrepreneurs in the United States – controlled, driven – you need nothing. You are master of your universe.”

And:

“You taught me how to fuck, Elena. But it’s empty, like you. No wonder Linc left.”

And then, from out of left field, what is possibly the most intriguing, most promising line, plot-wise, in the entire book:

“You never once held me,” Christian whispers. “you never once said you loved me.”

Now, this is some deep shit that we need to explore, right? Like maybe from the beginning of this book? I would read an entire book of Christian Grey working out that Elena took advantage of him, and him becoming a whole man through that healing process. But no, instead I got to read a whole book of Christian Grey’s emotionally immature girlfriend running all over town going, “tee hee, everyone wants my boyfriend, tee hee, I’m so skinny!”

“Get out of my house.” Grace’s implacable, furious voice startles us. Three heads swing rapidly to where Grace stands on the threshold of the room. She is glaring at Elena, who pales beneath her Saint-Tropez tan.

That tan detail makes me think this scene recycled a confrontation with Kate, since she just got back from vacation, but that it was rewritten as an Elena scene when the author realized she could get a lot of mileage out of Ana hating her maid of honor.

Elena’s eyes widen in alarm, and Grace slaps her hard across the face, the sound of the impact resounding off the walls of the dining room.

“Take your filthy paws off my son, you whore, and get out of my house – now!” she hisses through gritted teeth.

Elena leaves, and Grace asks Ana for a moment alone with her son. Which Ana obviously respects and gives them space for:

In the hallway I am momentarily lost. My heart pounds and my blood races through my veins… I feel panicked and out of my depth. Holy fuck, that was heavy and now Grace knows. I can’t think what she’s going to say to Christian, and I know it’s wrong, but I lean against the door trying to list.

It’s okay, guys. She knows it’s wrong, and besides, she got all sorts of confused in the hallway, so she has an excuse. Hallways are hard.

Ana listens, but only hears Grace asking how old Christian was when the affair started before Ros catches her eavesdropping on her way to have a cigarette. The club can’t even handle this right now, so Ana goes upstairs to Christian’s bedroom so she can correctly prioritize the trauma:

That has to be, without doubt, one of the most excruciating confrontations I’ve ever had to endure, and now I feel numb. My fiance and his ex-lover – no would-be bride should have to see that. Having said that, part of me is glad she’s revealed her true self, and that I was there to bear witness.

My thoughts turn to Grace. Poor Grace, to hear all that.

So, the order of importance here is:

1. Victimize self for role as mere bystander in future husband’s past psychological trauma.
2. Congratulate self for victory over evil other woman.
3. Oh yeah, and his mom is probably tore up about it or something.

What am I doing? Perhaps the evil witch had a point.

No, I refuse to believe that. She’s so cold and cruel. I shake my head. She’s wrong. I am right for Christian. I am what he needs. And in a moment of stunning clarity, I don’t question how he’s lived his life until recently, but why. His reasons for doing what he’s done to countless girls – I don’t even want to know how many.  The how isn’t wrong. They were all adults. They were all – how did Flynn put it? – in safe, sane, consensual relationships. It’s the why. The why  was wrong. The why was from his place of darkness.

See, it doesn’t matter how he treated those other girls, who were all supposedly in safe, sane, consensual relationships despite the fact that we’ve seen total evidence to the contrary and one of the subs actually became unhinged to the point that she tried to kill him. But all of that doesn’t matter, because Mrs. Robinson was “cold and cruel” and that automatically invalidates anything she might have to say.

Now, I’m not saying Christian should spend his life doing what Elena wants him to, and clearly Elena has unresolved issues of her own, but cheesy dialogue aside, I’m having a hard time painting her as this huge villain when she’s basically arguing the same point that I am. Christian isn’t miraculously healed. He’s only been with Ana a month, tops. No one goes from “I have to whip women who look like my mom who died in front of me when I was four,” to, “I’m totally normal and well adjusted now, thanks,” in a few weeks. Granted, Elena is arguing that Christian will NEVER be cured and rise above that need, so he shouldn’t even try, and I’m clearly not agreeing with her there.

But now he’s moved on, left it behind, and we are both in the light. I’m dazzled by him, and he by me.

The photos of young Christian are all still there – more poignant than ever, as I think of the spectacle I’ve just witnessed between him and Mrs. Robinson. And there in the corner is the small black-and-white photo – his mother, the crack whore.

 Ana looks at the picture and realizes that she doesn’t look very much like his mom at all, and his mom’s hair was lighter than Ana’s. Okay, then! Problem obviously solved!

 My subconscious tuts at me, arms crossed, glaring over her half-moon glasses. Why are you torturing yourself? You’ve said yes. You’ve made your bed. I purse my lips at her. Yes I have, gladly so. I want to lie in that bed with Christian for the rest of my life. My inner goddess, sitting in the lotus position, smiles serenely. Yes, I’ve made the right decision.

Don’t listen to that daffy bitch! Listen to your subconscious! We’re always saying – perhaps unfairly – that men make all their decisions with their “little brain?” This is the female equivalent of that.

Christian comes into the room and hugs her, and she smells his body wash and thinks about how good he smells, and I’m thinking that if he ever changes brands, Ana is going to have some olfactory meltdown or something.

“I’m sorry you had to endure all that.”

“It’s not your fault, Christian. Why was she here?” He gazes down at me, and his mouth curls apologetically.

“She’s a family friend.”

I try not to react. “Not anymore. How’s your mom?”

“Mom is pretty fucking mad at me right now. I’m really glad you’re here, and that we’re in the middle of a party. Otherwise I might be breathing my last.”

“That bad, huh?”

He nods, his eyes serious, and I sense his bewilderment at her reaction.

“Can you blame her?” My voice is quiet, cajoling.

Yeah, I can blame her, Ana. Can you sense MY bewilderment? Let me tell you something, if one of my friends, one who was close enough to be deemed family, slept with my teenaged son, I would not be mad at him. He’s not the one who breached the trust. He’s a kid, with no possible idea of what kind of trouble this is all going to cause. The adult friend? Should fucking well know better. There would be blood and hair all over the place, I don’t care if there’s a party going on. It would end like… well…

“Really?” I beam back. Wow, I’d crawl over broken glass for that smile.

Healthy!

He also tells Ana that his business relationship with Elena is over. He’s going to cut the salons loose and gift them to her. Then Ana and Christian talk about getting drunk, and he tells her she has to eat:

“No arguing, Anastasia. If you’re going to drink – and toss alcohol on my exes – you need to eat. It’s rule number one. I believe we’ve already had that discussion after our first night together.”

Oh yes. The Heathman.

Back in the hallway, he pauses to caress my face, his fingers skimming my jaw.

“I lay awake for hours and watched you sleep,” he murmurs. “I might have loved you even then.”

Remember that time when Ana got blackout drunk and he took her back to his hotel room without her permission, but it was okay with her because he was a gentleman enough to not rape her? That’s the time he’s talking about. At that point, she’d interviewed him, gone to a photo shoot with him, and then gotten coffee. They weren’t even dating. They barely knew each other. And he not only abducted her, but he lay awake that night just staring at her while she was passed out drunk. That’s so fucking romantic, it’s practically the spaghetti date scene from Lady and The Tramp.

Here’s the thing. A lot of people have been saying, “It’s just fiction, you’re assuming this book was intended as a how-to book or that people are going to decide that every woman wants this kind of relationship because of this book, and that’s not true.” Well, look what I found in my fucking December 2012 copy of Maxim:

Yes, I have a subscription to Maxim. I don’t want it. I didn’t ask for it, and I’ve never paid for it. It just randomly shows up in my mailbox and has for the past three years. But that’s not the point. The point is, while all the defenders of this book are saying over and over again, “This is not a how-to book, and it was never intended to be, you’re acting like the author/publisher is blatantly telling people to live their lives according to this book,” blah blah, right there is an advertisement blatantly suggesting that men should buy the book and “share the experience,” because it’s “what every woman wants.” Considering that this ad is running in a men’s magazine that routinely tells guys how to get women into bed without resorting to date rape (but they never entirely rule it out), well… what the fuck do you think that ad is trying to say? A reader sent me a picture they took of a similar ad on a subway train. And it’s not like these ads weren’t taken out by the publisher, or their hands are somehow clean in this. There is no shadow council of advertisers running ads that companies don’t approve of in order to discredit their products. This is an ad paid for by the publisher – although I’m not sure why they think the best selling book of all time (I’m sorry, I just gagged on some bile, give me a second) needs advertising. But it’s clear that they’re marketing this as a sex/relationship game changer. So this book is absolutely being touted as containing relationship secrets that will please women.

I just want to suggest that perhaps the way to a modern woman’s heart is not to abduct her while she’s drunk and later confess to watching her sleep. That is some creepy, creepy shit.

Cut to the end of the night, and Grace is super drunk, singing karaoke with Kate and Mia. Look, I’m not going to judge her grieving process. If I found out one of my friends slept with my son, I’d probably grab the Gin and do a mean rendition of Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Know” just to amp me up before I head over to set her house on fire.

“It’s been quite a day.”

“Christian, recently, every day with you has been quite a day.” My voice is sardonic.

 He shakes his head. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Come – I want to show you something.”

Every time he says, “Come,” when he should be saying “Come on,” I just imagine her having this loud, uncontrollable orgasm in front of everyone. And that is more arousing to me than anything E.L. has written in these fucking books so far.

As we make our way up the steps to the lawn, I take off my shoes. The half moon shines brightly over the bay. It’s brilliant, casting everything in myriad shades of gray as the lights of Seattle twinkle in the distance.

“Christian, I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“I prayed you’d come back alive and you did. It’s the least I could do.”

No, technically the least you could do was pray. I’ve never liked Ana, so I’m not entirely surprised to see that she’s one of those Christians, who goes to church like she’s applying for a cosmic mortgage. Either believe or don’t, but for fuck’s sake, commit. There is no Christian religion I can think of that asks you to come to church only if God is doing stuff for you.

Christian tells Ana he bought that house they looked at, and he’s not going to knock it down. Then he takes her to the boathouse.

My mouth drops to the floor. The attic is unrecognizable. The room is filled with flowers… there are flowers everywhere. Someone has created a magical bower of beautiful wild meadow flowers mixed with glowing Christmas lights and miniature lanterns that glow soft and pale all around the room.

 Tugging my hand, he pulls me into the room, and before I know it, he’s sinking to one knee in front of me. Holy hell… I did not expect this. I stop breathing.

Do me a favor and don’t start again.

 From inside his jacket pocket he produces a ring and gazes up at me, his eyes bright gray and raw, full of emotion.

Told you she wouldn’t get to pick her own ring.

“Anastasia Steele. I love you. I want to love, cherish, and protect you for the rest of my life. Be mine. Always. Share my life with me. Marry me.”

Didn’t he already ask her to marry him? Is there a gas leak in my office?

I blink down at him as my tears fall. My Fifty, my man. I love him so, and all I can say as the tidal wave of emotion hits me is, “Yes.”

He grins, relieved, and slowly slides the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful, an oval diamond in a platinum ring. Whoa – it’s big…  Big, yet simple and stunning in its simplicity.

So much is wrong here. Just… a lot. A lot of this doesn’t make sense. Why is he relieved? She already said yes. Also, is her finger an oval diamond? And I thought Christian was all about caring about people in developing nations… so why is he buying diamonds? Doesn’t that support the colonial oppression of the underpaid gem miners working in dangerous conditions? Aren’t diamonds like, one step above heroin on the scale of shit you shouldn’t buy because you’re pouring money into an industry that literally destroys lives and rapes the Earth? Maybe he should give her a big spool of copper wire for Christmas, damn.

I know deep down I will always be his, and he will always be mine. We’ve come so far together, we have so far to go, but we are made for each other. We are meant to be.

You’d think the book ends there, or even the series, but oh no. No, no, no. We have, for no reason I can fathom besides, “I want to milk another book out of this because I’m too personally invested in the characters and I can’t let them go,” a third-person present-tense pov scene tacked on, in which a shadowy figure drinks cheap booze and smokes cigarettes as he conveniently thinks in blatant exposition about how he sabotaged Christian Grey’s helicopter. I think it’s supposed to be a mystery or something, but surprise, it’s Jack Hyde:

It had been the same all his life. People constantly underestimating him – just a man who reads books. Fuck that! A man with a photographic memory who reads books. Oh, the things he’s learned, the things he knows. He snorts again. Yeah, about you, Grey. The things I know about you.

What books has he read? Because I know he’s supposed to be a villain, but if he’s read these books and is burdened with a photographic memory, I feel really bad for him.

Not bad for a kid from the gutter end of Detroit.

I hate that Detroit has become lazy author shorthand for “this person had a rough upbringing.” Not every part of Detroit is 8 Mile in an Eminem song, you fuckers.

We also find out that Jack Hyde went to Princeton on scholarship, he blames Ana for him sexually assaulting his way through the publishing industry, and he’s out for revenge. As in, literally out, because he’s sitting in front of the Chevalier-Grey manse as we speak. Also, we get our last Taylor of the book:

He chuckles mirthlessly, then winces. Fuck, his ribs. Still sore from the swift kicking Grey’s henchman delivered.

He replays the scene in his mind. “You fucking touch Miss Steele again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU TAYLOR IS IN LOVE WITH ANA!

And with that, we’ve reached the end.

I’m going to take a minute off from recaps, because there are other things I’d like to talk about, 50 Shades and otherwise, so let’s say if the world doesn’t really end, you’ll get a new recap December 22nd when I start recapping 50 Shades Freed. That way, I don’t spend what could be the last days of humanity with E.L. James and her misogynistic fantasies.

Since so many of you sent me this story, I feel like I can’t go into the weekend without commenting on it. I guess Universal is all upset because the plagiarized book they bought the film rights for is getting ripped off by a porn studio that I guess makes boring sex movies for stupid people, and I feel like none of this really matters, because this is truly the end of days.

Read the story at the hive of misogyny that always has their finger on the pulse of what’s important to women who like to bitch about other women’s parenting choices and how they’re not as good as their own.

I feel like anything I say in the matter will just be one solitary cry lost under a landside of hypocrisy, so have a gander at my post about the first time something like this went down. I feel basically the same.

I apologize for the lateness of this recap, but yesterday I had a truly fucking amazing day that interrupted my planned schedule. Bear with me here, this is important. Two years ago, I went to the ER for a really, really bad headache. They did a CT of my head and neck, and then the doctor came in and said, “There’s a 10mm mass on your pituitary, you’re going to need some follow up care.” The only problem is, I live in America. I had no idea how I was going to pay the ER bill (and I only went in the first place because I crossed the threshold of “fiscal responsibility” into “Oh god I think this was what Brett Michaels was talking about when his head exploded”) and I knew for sure that I couldn’t afford to see a doctor. For those of you following this blog from other countries, yes, in the United States we will happily let people wander around with untreated, potentially fatal diseases and conditions because I don’t know. Something to do with bootstraps.  Anyway, I couldn’t afford follow up care for TWO YEARS, and I walked around that entire time thinking, “Oh my God, I have a brain tumor. What is it doing in there? Is it getting bigger? Will it get to the size that it makes my head go all misshapen? Will it kill me?”

Turns out, no. Because there never was any brain tumor. It was a big misunderstanding and, in the most likely scenario, just came down to a tired doctor saying “Pituitary” instead of “Thyroid,” which is where the mass actually is.

That’s some pretty great news, right? That I don’t have a brain tumor? Well, hold onto your socks, because I’m about to blow them off. I went out to dinner with some family at a local pizza place, and suddenly there is this woman there, and she’s waving to me to come closer. And I’m thinking, “Whaaaat?” So I went over to her and she said, “I had to come back in to tell you that I’m sorry for being so mean to you in school.” Yup, on the same day I found out that I do NOT have a brain tumor, I ran into a girl who picked on me quite a lot in middle school, and she apologized for being mean.

So, of course I bought a lottery ticket. Because holy damn, guys, what an incredible day.

And that’s why the recap didn’t get finished, because I was celebrating the fact that I’m not going to die or get brain surgery or get really tall.

Well, here we are, at the second to last chapter of 50 Shades Darker. Which means the author will be wrapping up all the plot points and subplots and putting a button on the whole kit and caboodle, so that the arc of the individual book fits like a puzzle piece in the greater whole of the series.

Pfff, I’m not serious. What, are you new here?

When last we saw Christian and Ana, they were going to the playroom, because they’re at that phase of their relationship where sex as a birthday present is still a thing. There is definitely an expiration date on that whole shebang, by the way. And when you breeze past it and don’t notice. Awwwwwkward. You do not want to be standing in line at Best Buy naked under you trenchcoat, hoping you’re buying the right Call of Duty, is all I’m going to say.

Christian asks Ana if there’s anything she doesn’t want to do, which is weird, because in the last chapter she told him what she didn’t want to do. But he has to ask her now, so she can say that she doesn’t want him to take photos of her, and that can be brought up later. He doesn’t take it as a hint that she’s seen his photos, though, so we can go right into the sex scene.

Placing the gift box on the chest of drawers, he takes out the iPod, switches it on, then waves at the music center on the wall so that the smoked glass doors glide silently open.

Because he’s a Jedi. And raise your hand if your iPod has a switch to turn it on. No, not the lock at the top. I mean, a switch that makes the music go. It’s a button. It’s always been a button.

He presses some buttons, and the sound of a subway train echoes around the room. he turns it down so that the slow, hypnotic electronic beat that follows becomes ambient. A woman starts to sing, I don’t know who she is but her voice is soft yet rasping and the beat is measured, deliberate… erotic. Oh my. It’s music to make love to.

Let me tell you, nothing gets me hotter than the sound of a subway commute. Someone figure out what this song is. I couldn’t figure it out from the 50 Shades of Grey playlists on Spotify and also I lost interest and wandered away and started listening to Iggy Pop instead.

Christian turns to face me as I stand in the middle of the room, my heart pounding, my blood singing in my veins, pulsing – or so it feels – in time to the music’s seductive beat.

No… it’s really pulsing. Or should be. Otherwise you’d be dead, Ana, and if that were the case I imagined a lot more confetti and party hats would be littering my office. I like that her blood is actually singing, that part is fine, but her blood only feels like it could be pulsing. The metaphor would be fine if she’d just swapped them around. But hey, I’m talking like someone actually cared about the product here.

Christian asks if the reason they’re in the playroom is because she thinks he wants to be there. Isn’t that how birthdays work? You give someone something they want, or do something nice that would benefit them? What would the point be if he didn’t want to be in there? She specifies that she wants to be in the playroom, too, and once they have that good and settled, he tells her to strip.

My inner goddess is stripped and standing in line, ready and waiting and begging me to play catch-up.

Standing in a line? With who? The other characters Ana has rattling around in her head?

She’s only wearing her robe and a nightgown, so getting undressed is pretty easy, and then Christian takes his silver tie from the cover of the first book and ties it around her neck:

He places the tie around my neck, and slowly but dexterously ties it in what I assume is a fine Windsor knot. As he tightens the knot, his fingers brush the base of my throat and electricity shoots through me, making me gasp. He leaves the wide end of the tie long, long enough so the tip skims my pubic hair.

What she’s not telling you is that she’s wearing the tie like a goddamned Snuggie because she’s so thin.

 “You look mighty fine now, Miss Steele,” he says and bends to kiss my gently on my lips.

When he pulls away, he’s panting too and gazing down at me, his eyes molten gray;

That’s all we need from that sentence. Here’s what bothers me about the descriptions of Christian’s eyes “blazing” and being “molten.” They’re gray. Gray is a cool color, not a warm one. I guess “molten gray like melted pencil lead” might work, but still, blazing, etc. just doesn’t seem like it belongs with gray. But maybe that’s the kind of thing a person who can’t even correctly describe fire does with words these days.

Christian braids Ana’s hair and reminds us how beautiful it is, and then tells her she just has to ask him to stop and he will. At this point, Ana still believes that, after every time he has failed to stop doing something she’s asked him to.

“Anastasia, these objects.” He holds up the butt plug. “This is a size too big. As an anal virgin, you don’t want to start with this. We want to start with this.” He holds up his pinkie finger, and I gasp, shocked. Fingers… there? He smirks at me, and the unpleasant thought of anal fisting mentioned in the contract comes to mind.

What a weird leap in reasoning. Did vaginal fisting come to mind when he fingered your v all those times? And why is it that a butt plug is no big whoop, but sticking a finger in your pooper is shocking?

The nipple clamps she selected are also too hardcore, so he gets some pretty ones with dangly jewels for her to wear.

I blink up at him, wide-eyed. Christian, my sexual mentor. He knows so much more about all of this than I do. I’ll never catch up. I frown. He knows more than me about most things… except cooking.

Just in case you’re wondering why that ham-fisted reference to Ana’s skill in the kitchen has been clumsily stuffed into the middle of a sex scene, I assure you, it comes up in a few pages.

Ana asks Christian if he’s going to tell her what he’s going to do to her, and he reminds her that this isn’t like before:

“I’m your lover, Anastasia, not your Dom. I love to hear your laugh and your girlish giggle. I like you relaxed and happy, like you are in Jose’s photos. That’s the girl that fell into my office. That’s the girl I fell in love with.”

There’s a lot going on here, but I think I have it sorted out:

1. Doms don’t love their subs.
2. Lovers like it when their partners enjoy themselves, Doms don’t.
3. Christian wants Ana to be happy, like she is with Jose, so Ana should go fuck Jose
4. This entire book is bullshit.

I’m so furious at that comment. He’s her lover, so he doesn’t have to tell her what he’s going to do to her? Look, my husband is my lover, but I would still get super turned on if he was like, “This is what I’m going to do to you.” It doesn’t make it kinkybadweirdpervert sex. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me.

And it only gets worse from there:

“But having said all that, I also like to do rude things to you, Miss Steele, and my alter ego knows a trick or two. So, do as you’re told and turn around.” His eyes glint wickedly, and the joy moves sharply south, seizing me tightly and gripping every sinew below my waist.” 

Then homegirl needs to stretch, because she doesn’t want to blow her Achilles while they’re fucking. Seriously, sinews? The connective tissue that keeps your muscles attached to your bones? How is that erotic in any way? And remember before, when we talked about Britishisms? “Rude” doesn’t mean to Americans what it means to Brits, at least in this sense. When he says, “‘I also like to do rude things to you,'” he could mean he’s just not going to hold the elevator door when he can clearly see she’s trying to catch it. Americans don’t use “rude” to mean raunchy or racy, the way it’s used there.

Ana notices that Christian has taken all the canes out of the room. So, phew, I guess that means he’s been cured by the power of love, or something. Christian asks her kneel on a table.

Oh, okay. What does he have in mind? My inner goddess can’t wait to find out – she’s already scissor-kicked onto the table and is watching him in adoration.

Your inner goddess scissor-kicked a table? What? I’m trying to get a mental picture of how one scissor-kicks onto something. Is anyone out there a martial arts expert? Seriously, we need help over here.

Christian gets out some leather cuffs:

His proximity is intoxicating. This man is going to be my husband. Can one lust after one’s husband like this? I don’t remember reading about that anywhere.

Then it must not be possible, Ana, because you’re so fucking well-read. But thanks for reinforcing the myth that sex after marriage is a chore to be endured, not a healthy, vital part of the relationship to be enjoyed. Everything about this book is just sadness and spaghetti left in a strainer in the sink to harden.

I can’t resist him, and I run my parted lips along his jaw, feeling the stubble, a heady combination of prickly and soft, under my tongue. He stills and closes his eyes. His breathing falters and he pulls back.

“Stop. Or this will be over far quicker than either of us wants,” he warns.

He seems to say this a lot. I think he might have a problem.

“I don’t want to ruin my favorite tie,” he murmurs. It slowly unravels as he undoes it.

So… it’s ruined?

His hand flexes over my neck, and it’s slick with sweet-smelling oil so his hand glides smoothly down my throat, across my clavicle, and up to my shoulder, his fingers kneading gently as they go. Oh, I’m getting a massage. Not what I expected.

He places his other hand on my other shoulder and begins another slow teasing journey across my clavicle.

Clavicle is one of those “stand out” words that you can’t repeat too often in a single scene. In two consecutive paragraphs? Definitely not.

“And soon you’ll be my wife to have and to hold,” he whispers.

Oh my.

“To love and to cherish.”

Jeez.

“With my body, I will worship you.”

Those are going to be really touching wedding vows. I just wish she could work “Holy crap!” in there somewhere. “I, Anastasia Rose Steele, HOLY CRAP!, pledge my troth and my inner goddess, etc. nipple clamps and stuff. Jeez, I’m flushing!” I now pronounce you dumb and dumber.

“Mrs. Grey,” he whispers as his palm works against me.

So… probably no chance of keeping her own name, then?

My mouth is already open from panting. I open wider, and he slips a large cool metal object between my lips. Shaped like an oversized baby’s pacifier, it has small grooves or carvings, what feels like a chain at the end. It’s big.

He’s reoiled his hands. They glide around to my backside.

I gasp. What’s he going to do?

He’s going to dive into your ass, Ana.

“I’m going to put this inside you,” he murmurs. “Not here.” His fingers trail between my buttocks, spreading oil. “But here.” He moves his fingers around and around, in and out, hitting the front wall of my vagina. I moan and my restrained nipples swell.

Not here, but here. We have to be very specific.

Honestly, I couldn’t tell whose fingers were where when I first read this scene, because of the author’s stubborn refusal to use words to distinguish one anatomical part from another. And it just gets more confusing:

Christian removes his fingers and slides the object into me. He cups my face and kisses me, his mouth invading mine, and I hear a very faint click. Instantly the plug inside me starts to vibrate – down there! I gasp. The feeling is extraordinary – beyond anything I’ve felt before.

Nothing says “totally sexually naive” like a heroine who is surprised to learn that vibrators exist. By the way, the plug is in her vagina. I had to go back and reread several times to get that even though he put his hand between her buttcheeks before, he’s not diving into her ass. He put the vibrating plug in her cooch. You know, not there, but there.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs and suddenly he gently pushes an anointed finger inside me… there! Into my backside.

At least she lets us know which there there is this time. Why is it every time I read any other hero say something like, “So beautiful” in a sex scene, I think, “Oh man, that’s hot, he’s telling her she’s beautiful,” but if Chedward does it I’m like, “Now assign her a monetary value!” It always seems like he’s congratulating himself when he compliments Ana.

So, he fingers her booty and she comes like crazy and all the adjectives you’ve come to expect are in there. Then he uncuffs her and takes the mask off and she says:

“I think you’re trying to kill me,” I mutter.

She has this mind-blowing orgasm, which is, by the way, the most selfish birthday present I’ve ever heard of anyone giving – “For your birthday, you may drive me to heights of pleasure I have never before experienced, you’re welcome,” – and then she complains about it!

“Death by orgasm.” He smirks. “There are worse ways to go,” he says but then frowns ever so slightly as an unpleasant thought crosses his mind. It distresses me. I reach up and caress his face. 

“You can kill me like this anytime,” I whisper.

I will just assume the handcuffs on the cover of book three allude to the fact that he will murder Ana in a snuff video and get caught by the FBI.

“I want to make love to you,” he says, gazing down at me, his gray eyes burning with bright, loving sincerity. Softly in the background, a familiar voice starts to sing “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” And his lips find mine.

As I tighten around him, finding my release once more, Christian unravels in my arms, his head thrown back as he calls out my name. He clasps me tightly to his chest as we sit nose to nose in the middle of his vast bed, me astride him. And in this moment – this moment of joy with this man to this music – the intensity of my experience this morning in here with him and all that has occurred during the past week overwhelms me anew, not just physically but emotionally. I am completely overcome with all these feelings. I am so deeply in love with him. For the first time I’m offered a glimmer of understanding as to how he feels about my safety.

Aaaand there it is. There had to be a reason for her to go into the playroom again, right? Now we have it. Ana’s character arc – which is really more like a wavy line with a lot of disconnected bits at this point – had to take her back to the playroom so she could realize that Christian only wants what’s best for her, when he’s not wanting to beat the shit out of her. So, it’s okay for him to keep her in a virtual prison and isolate her from friends and family, because he really does care. Good thing he faked a helicopter accident to teach her that lesson.

So many sides of Christian – his sweet, gentle persona and his rugged, I-can-do-what-I-fucking-well-like-to-you-and-you’ll-come-like-a-train Dominant side – his fifty shades – all of him. All spectacular. All mine.

Stand back ladies, he’s taken.

Do trains orgasm? Or do trains just really get Ana off? Before, she thought the sound of a subway train was good to fuck to, and now she’s comparing her orgasms to the kinds of orgasms trains have. Maybe Christian was working the wrong angle, trying to impress her with his helicopter.

And I’m aware we don’t know each other well, and we have a mountain of issues to overcome, but I know for each other, we will – and we’ll have a lifetime to do it.

Yeah, so just start marrying guys you don’t know real well, ladies. Especially if they’re controlling and maybe one time beat the shit out of you with a belt until you broke up with them. All that stuff can get worked out later.

He kisses me gently as Roberta Flack finishes her song.

That song is only like four minutes long, guys. This is not really recommending Christian Grey as the sex god he’s supposed to be.

There is a section break, and then:

We have talked and talked and talked, sitting upright together on the bed in the playroom, me in his lap, our legs curled around each other. The red satin sheet is draped around us like a royal cocoon, and I have no idea how much time has passed. Christian is laughing at my impersonation of Kate during the photo shoot at the Heathman.

“To think it could have been her who came to interview me. Thank the Lord for the common cold,” he murmurs and kisses my nose.

“I believe she had the flu, Christian,” I scold him,

I’m glad E.L. skipped all the boring part where the two of them actually talked and maybe worked out some of the relationship problems that might have given a reader reason to pause over the whole engagement thing, and just skipped right ahead to bashing Kate again. Because who wants to listen to character development and other pointless shit like that, when we can just prove how much the hero loves the heroine by having a scene where they make fun of one of the heroine’s friends?

Chedward doesn’t, however, thank the Lord for influenza, because that’s what ended up getting him turned into a tortured vampire in the first place.

The constant reminders that Christian likes Ana better than Kate are something I would expect out of a fanfic written by a sixteen-year-old. The fact that this is the work of a grown woman makes me die inside.

They talk about how Christian got rid of the canes, and what else he can get rid of. He doesn’t need that stuff anymore because he’s been cured with the power of love. Then Ana lists off the things she loves about him, and she says he’s compassionate, and I spit my coffee directly into the book. Nothing says compassion like beating a woman with a belt and then wondering why she’s so upset with you. Then there is implied sex, and then she decides she’s going to cook for him, since it’s his birthday, and for what seems like the first time ever, they mention being hungry without tacking on, “but not for food.” I wept with joy, dear reader. Actual, salty tears of joy.

After a paragraph break, we FINALLY get a little Taylor action:

Christian is in his study on the phone. Taylor is with him, looking serious but casual in jeans and a tight black t-shirt.

I’m biting my lip, Taylor.

Ana is making poached salmon and baby potatoes, and she asks Taylor how his daughter is (because a couple chapters ago he mentioned something was wrong with her). Now, please brace yourselves, dear reader. Because your lovely image of Taylor is about to be shattered:

“Yes, thanks. My ex-wife thought she had appendicitis, but she was overreacting as usual.” Taylor rolls his eyes, surprising me. “Sophie’s fine, though she has a nasty stomach bug.”

I flush… will I ever get used to Taylor calling me Ma’am? It makes me feel so old, at least thirty.

I’ve made a watercress, cilantro, and sour cream dip to accompany the salmon, and I’ve set the breakfast bar.

I’ve stolen Mrs. Jone’s job.

Ana goes into Christian’s home office to tell him his lunch is ready. And Christian repays this gesture how?

“That dress is very short,” he adds.

“You like it?” I give him a quick twirl. It’s one of Caroline Acton’s purchases. A soft turquoise sundress, probably more suitable for the beach, but it’s such a lovely day on so many levels. He frowns and my face falls.

“You look fantastic in it, Ana. I just don’t want anyone else to see you like that.” 

Christian is going to make one more call before lunch. Turns out, it’s to Ana’s dad. Remember when she told him not to call and ask for her hand, because that whole thing is old fashioned? I think you know why Ray is on the phone. Cause and effect, folks. She wore a dress Christian didn’t approve of, so he’s going to call her father and tell him that she’s gone and got engaged, whether she wants him to or not.

Ana talks to her dad, who thinks it’s not so great that she’s going to marry a dude that she just met. Thank god she has a strong role model in her life who can talk some sense into her:

“Annie… I know he’s all kinds of rich and eligible, but marriage? It’s such a big step. You’re sure?”

“He’s my happily ever after,” I whisper.

“Whoa,” Ray says after a moment, his tone softer.

“He’s everything.”

“Annie, Annie, Annie. You’re such a headstrong young woman. I hope to God you know what you’re doing. Hand me back to him, will you?”

“I think you’re making a huge mistake, and as your father, I – what? Oh, you’re going to use a cliche platitude to express why this is a good idea? Then by the rules set forth by the council of rarely-seen book dads, I hereby declare this bridge open!” Way to save the fucking day, Ray. You’re as useless as Charlie. Probably more so, because at least Charlie was trying to correct that thinking while Bella was still technically a child.

Christian talks to Ray more, only after smirking at Ana because isn’t it funny how he’s dictating her life even when she doesn’t want him to?

“I have your stepfather’s begrudging blessing,” he says proudly, so proudly, in fact, that it makes me giggle, and he grins at me. He’s acting like he’s just negotiated a major new merger or acquisition, which I suppose on one level, he has.

Gosh, Ana, when you put it like that, it sounds like you’re some piece of property he just owns. I’m sure that’s not what the author meant to convey, considering how forward-thinking and female-positive this entire thing is.

Then they eat lunch, and this happens:

“Ana?” He interrupts my thoughts. “Why did you ask me not to take your photo?” His question startles me all the more because his voice is deceptively soft.

Oh… shit.  The photos. I stare down at my empty plate, twisting my fingers in my lap. What can I say? I’d promised myself not to mention that I’d found his version of Penthouse Pets.

It’s just Penthouse, Ana. The girls in the magazine are the pets. The title of the magazine isn’t Penthouse Pets.

“Ana,” he snaps. “What is it?” He makes me jump, and his voice commands me to look at him. When did I think he didn’t intimidate me?

“I found your photos,” I whisper.

His eyes widen in shock. “you’ve been in the safe?” he asks, incredulous.

Whoa, Bluebeard much, Chedward? What’s in the safe, that you’re so worried about her getting in there? Besides the severed and preserved heads of the other subs, I mean.

Christian tells Ana that the photos were supposed to be in the safe, and explains that he’s not keeping them for the reason she thinks:

“This is going to sound cold, but – they’re an insurance policy,” he whispers, steeling himself for my response.

“Insurance policy?”

“Against exposure.”

The penny drops and rattles uncomfortably around and around in my empty head.

Yes, it’s probably quite uncomfortable to have something in there if you’re not used to it.

Ana is as skeeved out by the idea of keeping pictures for blackmailing old sex partners as I am, but don’t worry, she gets over it fast:

“Do they know? The girls… the subs?”

He frowns. “Of course they know.”

Oh, well, that’s something. He reaches out, grabbing me and pulling me to him.

No, it really isn’t something, you twit. Because you were going to be a sub. There wasn’t anything about those photos in the contract. No where in the NDA did it say, “I will take pictures of you in sexual situations so that you have to do whatever I tell you to.” Ana, you stupid, stupid, stupid person, he would have done the same thing to you.

Christian believes Leila got the pictures out of his safe. How? I’m going to warn you now, do not read the following excerpt while drinking anything, eating anything, smoking, don’t do anything you could choke or spit or burn yourself with reading Christian’s following explanation:

He shrugs. “It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s a very long combination, and I use it so rarely. It’s the one number I have written down and haven’t changed.”

Emphasis mine. Okay, so Christian has these pictures of his subs in compromising, “you will never be President of the United States,” type situations. Where does he keep them? In his safe, the combination to which he has written down, clearly in a place where just anyone could find it. The guy with the security team who does “sweeps” of every location he visits like they’re the goddamned secret service, and he has not only an unlocked filing cabinet full of everyone’s personal data, but he has a safe with a combination that is too hard to remember, so he just keeps it written down where someone can easily access it.

We have been told over and over that this man is intelligent. That means this book is a fucking liar.

Christian says he’ll shred the photos, and Ana decides she’s going to back a chocolate cake for Christian for his birthday. So, if you’re having trouble following along, the chapter thus far has gone:

• “Your dress is too short! I will punish you by calling your father and asking for your hand.”
• “You kept sexually explicit photos of your ex-lovers as potential blackmail material! I will make you a cake!”

“You’re not pregnant, are you, Ana?” she whispers in horror.

“No no no, nothing like that.” Disappointment slices through my heart, and I’m saddened that she would think that of me. But then I remember with an ever-sinking feeling that she was pregnant when she married my father.

You know what? Fuck you, Ana. “‘saddened that she would think that of me?'” Like it’s some horrible thing to think that a woman might get pregnant from regular sexual intercourse? Like you don’t want to be thought of as the kind of slut who gets pregnant, because only bad girls get pregnant, and good girls’ bodies have “ways to try to shut that whole thing down?”

E.L. James, you have gotten on my last fucking nerve. SEX, which your heroine has in abundance, causes PREGNANCY. It’s not something to be saddened about. It’s biology. I got pregnant with my son before I got married. What does that make me? I’m serious, E.L. James, if you are out there and you ever see this, I DEMAND you explain to me why Ana should be “saddened” that her mom thinks she got pregnant. Look me in the fucking eye and try to claim that what you wrote there doesn’t put down women who get pregnant outside of marriage, which, by the by, isn’t the prerequisite to bearing a goddamned baby. Sperm. meeting. Egg. is how babies happen and guess what? Your airhead hypocrite insecure misogyny spewing heroine has been having PLENTY of sex. Take your massive lack of writing skill, build an island with it, and take all your little slut-shaming groupies there with you. Leave the rest of the world out of it, because we don’t want your landslide of outdated notions further burying us here.

Ana gets off the phone with her mom and thinks that she doesn’t want a big wedding, so lets all look forward the huge wedding Chedward will ultimately force her to have, and which she will love and think, “I was so wrong,” about because Chedward knows best.

Christian’s kitchen is a dream to work in. For a man who knows nothing about cooking, he seems to have everything. I suspect Mrs. Jones loves to cook, too.

I suspect it’s her job.

Ana needs to go pick up some ingredients for baking the cake, and Christian asks her to change out of the short dress before leaving the house. Ana asks him if he would object to her wearing the dress at the beach, and he says no, so she tells him to pretend they’re at the beach and leaves. So, good for Ana, right? Until she gets in the elevator and decides that her skirt is too short, and he’s completely right, but at least she doesn’t go change.

I stare at my receipt from the ATM: $51,689.16. That’s $50,000 too much! Anastasia, you’re going to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes. And so it begins.

He did it again. Hey, E.L. here’s something you might not know. If you wire $50,000.00 into someone’s American bank account, and they usually only have about $1,000 in there, the FBI could investigate them for terrorism. Seriously. When you get a bank account in the US, you have to sign a little waiver thing saying you’re not going to use the account to take funds from terrorist organizations and drug dealers. Our government can monitor our accounts to see if that’s happening. I believe they have the authority to investigate any deposit over $10k, but I could be wrong. Suddenly, Christian Grey – who is doing a lot of stuff with technology in other countries – puts $50k in your bank account, and you’re both going to be investigated. Not to mention the tax nightmare of someone just handing you that $50k in unearned income. Guess what, you’re going to have to pay taxes on that, Anastasia Rose Steele. Hope you guys don’t break up before April.

Ana’s more worried about her dress and the fallout from disobeying Christian, though:

I head straight to the kitchen when I arrive back, and I can’t help feeling a frisson of alarm. Christian is still in his study. Jeez, that’s most of the afternoon. I decide my best option is to face him and see how much damage I’ve done.

Remember, this is the damage she’s done by wearing a dress she chose that he did not like. So we’re all on the same page as to how silly/creepy this “fight” is going to be.

“Hi,” I whisper. He says nothing, and my heart free-falls into my stomach, Gingerly I walk into his study and around his desk to where he’s sitting. He still says nothing, his eyes never leaving mine. I stand in front of him, feeling fifty shades of foolish.

I used to love it when movies/books/shows referenced the title in them. But not like this. This is like if John McClane had looked over the side of the building after Hans fell to his death and said, “Looks like he just died… hard,” and then winked directly into the camera.

“I’m back. Are you mad at me?”

He sighs, reaches out for my hand, and pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me. He buries his nose in my hair.

“yes,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” I curl up in his lap, inhaling his heavenly Christian smell, feeling safe regardless of the fact that he’s mad.

I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me for wearing whatever I damn well please on the body that belongs to me and not you, honey. I won’t do it again.

It’s okay, though, because Christian isn’t super mad. He actually likes the dress, because it means he can fuck Ana in the desk chair. So, I guess she’s allowed to wear whatever she likes provided it makes her vagina easy to access.

After the sex, Ana gives Christian his birthday cake:

And I laugh with relief… he likes it.

Well, thank god, because the suspense was killing me.

Then there is a section break, and Ana and Christian have just arrived at Christian’s parents house for his birthday party.

Before we can set foot in the living room, Kate comes barreling down the hallway toward the two of us. She looks furious.

Kate forces Christian and Ana into the dining room.

“What the fuck is this?” she hisses and waves a piece of paper at me. Completely at a loss, I take it from her and scan it quickly. My mouth dries. Holy shit. It’s my e-mail response to Christian, discussing the contract.

Thank god! Someone is going to finally see how fucked up this entire relationship is and get Ana into some counseling!

Or probably not. And that’s the end of the chapter.