Author: JennyTrout

Hey there, everybody! I hope your turkey day was fabulous, if you were celebrating it, and I hope your weekend was rad. As you read this, I am hard at work on the next recap, which will post tomorrow. Today, I want to talk to you about something I’m really excited for.

And I’m going to give it away for free, because I just don’t see a market for a book like that.

Here, have a gander at the cover and blurb:

Sophie Scaife almost ran away once, trading her ticket to college for a ticket to Tokyo. But a delayed flight and one incredibly hot night with a stranger changed her mind, putting her firmly on track to a degree and a career at a New York fashion magazine.

Six years later, she’s shocked to find that irresistible stranger is now her boss, billionaire Neil Elwood. And Sophie can’t stop thinking about their one amazing night.

But Neil has eccentric tastes, and he wants to be sure Sophie can handle them. Sophie will have to prove she’s his match both at work and at play, and surrender to her Master’s every erotic whim.

Torn between their professional duties and their sensual desires, Sophie and Neil embark on a journey into their darkest sexual fantasies. But when Sophie gets the chance of a lifetime, will she follow her dreams, or her heart?

There will be more news to come as we get closer to roll out, so stay tuned, and come on back tomorrow for the recap, hear?

All the chatter on the last recap about whether or not Ros is a lesbian and if keychains do/don’t exist led to me having a dream about LED keychains that flashed the word “LESBIANS!!!” so good job, everyone. You’ve manipulated my subconscious. Achievement unlocked.

Look, I’m going to be straight with you. I really, really want to be in the woods with a gun right now. But that can’t happen until I get this post done. So lets all work together to make this the easiest, most pain-free recap possible, okay?

“Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He inhales sharply and moves suddenly, grabbing me and swinging me around in a most un-Fifty-like manner. He’s laughing, young and carefree, radiating joyful elation. I grab his arms to hold on, feeling his muscles ripple beneath my fingers, and his infections laughter sweeps me up – dizzy, addled, a girl totally and utterly smitten with her man.

If you took this paragraph and drank every time the author uses a clumsy synonym for happiness, you’d be dead from alcohol poisoning right now.

Really examine what Ana is saying there. She’s just agreed to marry a man who is characteristically unhappy. It is out of character for him to express joy. Why would anyone want to spend the rest of their life with someone like that?

There’s another round of Ana expressing how sad she would be if he were dead, and Christian replies:

“Baby, it will take more than a malfunctioning 135 to keep me away from you.”

Now, you might be thinking, “What a freaking dick, he can’t stop bragging about owning a helicopter for like, one second,” but this is actually going to be an important part of the story:

“Charlie Tango. She’s a Eurocopter EC135, the safest in its class.” Some unnamed but dark emotion crosses his face briefly, distracting me. What isn’t he saying?

He’s certainly not saying, “Look out, there’s a load of poorly executed foreshadowing barreling your way!” Note how once again, the author perfects little shitty details no one cares about, while abandoning any concept of plot or suspense. I feel like an old-timey sideshow barker. “Gaze in wonder upon God’s forgotten creature, the book with no plot! Marvel at the work put into insignificant detail for seemingly no reason because the target audience is just reading this to have a wank!”

But enough about the helicopter’s specific make and model number and how safe it should have been but isn’t it weird that it wasn’t, after all, because Christian remembers now that Ana gave him the keychain present before they went into see Dr. Flynn.

I shrug apologetically. “I wanted you to know that whatever Flynn said, it wouldn’t make a difference to me.”

But what if it had, Ana? What if you went in there and Dr. Flynn was like, “You know he collects cadaver nipples he buys from shady sources off Craigslist, right? And he keeps them pinned in frames like butterflies? And those frames are stored under the bed you’ve been sleeping in every night?” Maybe that would have changed your mind, and you would have to come up with some reason to take your present back.

You’d think that whole, “I love you exactly as you are, and this proves it,” sentiment would be seen as a romantic gesture right? Not to a control freak like Chedward:

Christian blinks at me in disbelief. “So all yesterday evening, when I was begging you for an answer, I had it already?” He’s dismayed. I nod again, trying desperately to gauge his reaction. He gazes at me in stupefied wonder, but then narrows his eyes and his mouth twists with amused irony.

“All that worry,” he whispers ominously. I grin at him and shrug once more. “Oh, don’t try and get cute with me, Miss Steele. Right now, I want… ” He runs his hand through his hair, then shakes his head and changes tack

That’s right. Rather than realizing, “Holy shit, she really does love me, she was going to say yes this whole time, I’m such a lucky man,” Chedward is all, “You should have told me yes when I was bullying you into it yesterday.” Ah, romance.

And to prove just how “romantic” this monumental love of theirs is:

“I believe some retribution is in order, Miss Steele,” he says softly.

Retribution? Oh shit! I know he’s playing – but I take a cautious step back from him anyway.

I know he’s playing, but I’m still deeply, deeply afraid of him.

I don’t know why they’re even making this crap into a movie. There’s already a movie exactly like this.

I can only imagine what I look like in the mirror from this angle.

That must be driving her crazy. She looks in the mirror and describes herself more than any other literary character I can think of, including the evil queen from Snow White.

I peek up at him, and he regards me with hooded eyes and sensual longing. Hmm… I like this look.

Why is it that during all the sex scenes, Ana comes off like an alien studying human sex. “Hmm… yes, the human subject responds as expected. I like that.”

Ana jerks Christian off with body wash suds (it’s implied, not specifically stated, but she was washing him and then she starts jerking him off so, hooray for soap all up in his urethra), then he’s all, “It’s Saturday,” which means he doesn’t have to use a condom, and we never again have to read a description of foil tearing.

I could have lost him… and I love him… I love him so much, and I’m suddenly overcome by the enormity of my love and the depth of my commitment to him. I will spend the rest of my life loving this man, and with that awe-inspiring thought, I detonate around him – a healing, cathartic orgasm, crying out his name as tears flow down my cheeks.

Yes, suddenly overcome by the enormity of his penis and the depth of his penis, Ana can’t have just any old orgasm. No, she has to have a healing orgasm. What is she healing from? One would presume from the horrors she’s already experienced in her relationship with Christian Grey.

After the sex, they just sit on the floor in the shower and talk about how he almost died and how scary that all was.

So much has happened this last week – enough for a lifetime of drama – and now I’m getting married.

It’s always “so much has happened.” Rather than invest in any character development or even a natural timeline for a relationship, it’s “so much has happened, so, just trust me, we’re in love.”

Don’t get me wrong. A lot of romance novels are like that. The plot of a romance novel is the relationship, and readers want the fantasy, not, “I’ve gone on a few dates with this guy and he seems okay, maybe I’ll sleep with him if we go to that Michigan game on Saturday.” So, when a romance reader picks up a contemporary romance, they’re going to expect the relationship to be signed, sealed and delivered over a timeline that will take a few days, maybe a month, maximum, unless we’re talking about an old school historical where the heroine will marry six different dudes and get abducted into a harem on her journey to endless love. It takes some skill to make people fall realistically into a forever love in that short of time. E.L. James doesn’t have that skill, so she substitutes her heroine saying, “So much has happened,” and constantly telling us that, don’t worry, she really loves this guy.

Let’s look at it this way, shall we? Everyone loves Pretty Woman. Except for some dumb bitch who gave a writing workshop I went to and insisted that the heroine of a romance novel could never be a prostitute, because then she would have had sex with other men and wouldn’t deserve the hero’s love. Seriously, that happened. And in reality, she went on to say that she loved Pretty Woman and I wanted to get up and storm out, but I wasn’t published yet and I was really intimidated by “real” writers.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. Okay, everyone loves Pretty Woman. Think about how great that movie was the first time you watched it, how funny and charming Julia Roberts was, how enigmatic and adorable Richard Gere was. The dialogue was sharp, the heroine was smart and feisty, it was just a really, really enjoyable movie.

Now think about how much you would have enjoyed it if it had just been a story someone flat out told you: “This guy hires a hooker and they have sex a lot and in the end they fall in love.” That doesn’t make it sound romantic. It makes it sound like a business transaction. An illegal business transaction, at that, since the movie takes place in California.

So, why doesn’t E.L. James just let us experience this whirlwind romance for ourselves, rather than having Ana tell the reader that “So much has happened?” We know what happened. We read it. We were right there with Ana the whole time, and yet some of us remain unconvinced that this is truly a romantic thing we’re reading. Slapping, “So much has happened,” or “I love him,” etc. in there to tell us, “Hey, just in case you’re still doubting, look at how in love they are,” is lazy and pointless. I know a lot has happened. The narrative has taken us from waking up to going to bed for nearly every day of Ana’s life since meeting Christian Grey. I saw it all, and none of it seems romantic to me. Stop telling me how to interpret your damned story, and write it to convey what you want it to convey in the first place.

After a moment, he shifts. “Come – let’s get you dry and into bed. I’m exhausted and you look beat.”

Rimshot.

I lean back and arch an eyebrow at his choice of words. He cocks his head to one side and smirks at me.

At least they can joke about that time he beat her so hard she broke up with him. Romance!

Note, there was a four page sex scene, and it’s only right there that any variation of “cock” shows up. Racy!

I am sitting up in bed. Christian insisted on drying my hair – he’s quite skilled at it. How that happened is an unpleasant thought, so I dismiss it immediately.

He owns a couple salons, you jealous nutjob. Jesus.

Christian tells Ana that her acceptance of his proposal is the best birthday present he’s ever gotten.

“I would have told you earlier, but since it was going to be your birthday… What do you give the man who has everything? I thought I’d give you… me.”

Who are you going to give him next year? I see this turning into multiple rape-conspiracy charges very quickly.

They talk some more about how much people love him, and then they go to sleep. After a section break, Ana wakes up suddenly from a nightmare. Christian is still asleep, so Ana has time to think some more about how much it would have sucked if he’d died and stuff. Also, that it’s his birthday:

He looks much younger when he’s asleep, and I grin because today he’s a whole year older.

Ugh, enough with telling us how young all the twenty-somethings look. We all know twenty-somethings are young. The media beats us over the head with it every day.

Ana gets up and plans on making Christian some breakfast, but there’s a complication:

I find Jose at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. I can’t help but flush when I see him. he knows I’ve spent the night with Christian. Why do I suddenly feel so shy? It’s not as if I’m naked or anything. I’m wearing my floor-length silk wrap.

“Morning, Jose.” I smile, brazening it out.

“Hey, Ana!” His face lights up, genuinely pleased to see me. There’s no hint of teasing or salacious contempt in his expression.

Because he’s an adult. With his own life. He is not as obsessed with your sex life as you are, Ana. Other adults – you know, that thing you’re supposed to be? – don’t give a shit about the sex other adults are having. Unless they’re some kind of fringe religious group that the rest of the world couldn’t give two shits about, anyway.

Ana tells Jose that she loves Christian, to which he replies:

“What’s not to love?” he asks, gesturing around the great room.

And a few lines later, Ana thinks:

Hmm… will I always have this leveled at me? That I’m marrying Christian for his money.

Yes. Yes, you absolutely will, and here is why: you lived with Kate rent-free all through college, in an apartment her rich family paid for. You did this without seeming to like her very much as a person, but you still claimed she was your very best friend. After graduation, you moved with Kate to another apartment her rich family paid for, so you could work at your new job with a suspiciously fast promotion after your boyfriend bought the company. Your boyfriend, by the way, who whisked you around in his private helicopter and yacht, who bought you not one, but two cars, and who you agreed to marry after knowing him for less than a month. You don’t come from a high-society background. You worked in a hardware store when the two of you met. You will always been seen as a gold digger, and if you don’t like it, you need to get out now. I’m not about to listen to you cry and bitch for a whole ‘nother book about how unfair it is that everyone thinks you’re marrying a dude for his money when he has all the money in the damn world and you could easily buy yourself a great big case of IDNGAF.

“Seriously, I’m kidding. You’ve never been that kind of girl.”

“Omlet good for you?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t want to argue.

Who was arguing? He was saying you’re NOT a gold digger.

Swaggering over, he wraps his arms around me, tilts my chin up, and plants a loud wet kiss on my lips. Very un-Fifty!

 I want to scowl at him and tell him to behave – but it’s his birthday. I flush. Why is he so territorial?

Get used to it, because once you’re married the patriarchal laws that govern our country will just reinforce his belief that you are, in fact, nothing more than a piece of his property. Also, I like that she won’t say anything about it because it’s his birthday. Was it his birthday allllllllllllll of the other days you’ve known him? It must have been, because you didn’t object to him treating you like he owned your ass then.

Jose mentions going to visit his dad and Ana’s dad, and Christian didn’t know that the two knew each other because he’s never read Twilight, either. Then he and Jose bond over fishing. But not, you know, really super hardcore bonding, because right after he leaves, Christian says:

“He still wants into your panties, Ana. But I can’t say I blame him.”

I think this might be the attitude that makes me hate Christian Grey the absolute most. He seems to believe that Ana really, truly is an object to possess, to the point that any other man coveting her doesn’t add to her worth, but detracts from it. Think about that a second. If you have a really, really rare baseball card and everyone wants it, that’s awesome, because it drives the value up. But in the case of women, if you have a wife or a girlfriend everyone wants, that somehow cheapens her. Rather than thinking, “I’m a lucky man, she could have chosen any of these other guys and she picked me,” Christian Grey seems to think, “I better make sure this stupid whore doesn’t unwittingly fuck someone else because she’s not intelligent enough to make the right decisions.”

This guy. This fucking guy.

What’s worse, Ana uses this conversation as a way to justify Christian’s bad past behavior:

I frown. “Christian, he’s just a friend, a good friend.” And I’m suddenly aware that I sound like Christian when he’s talking about Mrs. Robinson. The thought is unsettling.

Yeah, it really fucking is. Ana has never had a sexual relationship with Jose, nor has she ever expressed an interest in one. She hasn’t involved Jose in her current relationship, either. Christian has done all of that, up to and including having discussions with Mrs. Robinson about Ana while trying to legally assure that Ana couldn’t talk to anyone at all about her relationship with him. It’s not the fucking same, but of course it is, because Chedward is a portrait of stunning male perfection and everything he does is right.

Christian mentions that he should ask her father for permission, and Ana tells him it’s not the 18th century. Wow. She is such a feminist, guys. An example for all sisters, everywhere.

Ana gives Christian another birthday present, another little model kit, this one of a helicopter. Ah, a memory of the time you had a helicopter, before you crashed it in the fucking woods. Wait, did I pick out this present? It seems like something I would want to give him.

Ana asks him if Charlie Tango is salvageable:

“I don’t know. I hope so. I’ll miss her, otherwise.”

Her? I am shocked at myself for the small pang of jealousy I feel for an inanimate object. My subconscious snorts with derisive laughter.

Oh my god. Am I Ana’s subconscious? Is this like The Never Ending Story, but with 100% less sad horse death?

He tears through the pale blue tissue paper and fishes out an eye mask, some nipple clamps, a butt plug, his iPod, his silver gray tie – and last but by no means least – the key to his playroom.

She gives him the stipulation that he can’t use “‘whips and stuff'” and they go straight to the playroom.

Honestly, I thought she’d wait and give him her ass at Christmas.

It is I, your monster pal, lovable furry old Jen. Since I’m so excited about Christian Grey possibly being dead (spoiler alert: he isn’t), and since the next chapter is unusually short, I thought I’d give you a bonus recap this week.

I forgot to post this link last time, but a British domestic violence charity is recycling 50 Shades as turlet paper for wiping your butt on. Doing this as an objection to a kinky lifestyle is plain stupid, because consensual BDSM is not abuse. But I support their endeavor, because there is actual abuse in the book, even if they completely missed the part that was abuse.

Okay, so, we last left Ana gasping in horror about how her boyfriend’s helicopter is missing. Oh, and her boyfriend is also missing. But the helicopter! Oh, the humanity!

I stare at the flames, mesmerized. They dance and weave bright blazing orange with tips of cobalt blue in the fireplace in Christian’s apartment.

I bet Christian is doing the same thing right now, Ana. But you know, in the smoking wreckage of his deathcopter.

And despite the heat pumping out of the fire and the blanket draped around my shoulders, I’m cold. Bone-chillingly cold.

Is it because you’re too skinny? Because skinny people get really cold, or so I’ve heard. This might be a good opportunity to bring up how skinny you are.

Ana hears people talking, but she’s not listening, because she’s trapped in her beautiful, beautiful pain:

I’d like to make love with Christian in front of a real fire.

I’d like you to make love with Christian while you’re both on fire. Call me, let’s make this happen.

Anastasia, you’ve bewitched me.

He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed. Oh no…

I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness. The creeping emptiness inside expands some more. Charlie Tango is missing.

I love how the reader can’t quite figure out if it’s the helicopter or the boyfriend she’s more concerned about.

Mrs. Jones brings Ana some tea, and she manages a pitiable thank you, but when it comes to Christian’s actual relatives…

Mia sits across from me on the larger-than-large U-shaped couch, holding hands with Grace. They gaze at me, pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Grace looks older – a mother worried for her son. I blink dispassionately at them. I can’t offer a reassuring smile, a tear even – there’s nothing, just blankness and the growing emptiness.

BITCH THAT IS HER SON.

: not influenced by strong feeling; especially : not affected by personal or emotional involvement dispassionate

critic> dispassionate approach to an issue>

Anastasia Rose “sun shines right out my asshole” Steele is looking at a mother who thinks her child is dead and she’s feeling NO PERSONAL OR EMOTIONAL INVOLVEMENT.

Becauser HER pain is so great.

THIS IS NOT A HEROINE WOMEN SHOULD IDENTIFY WITH IF THEY ARE NOT HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE PEOPLE WHO ARE ALREADY DEAD INSIDE.

Elliot, Jose, Ethan, Kate, and Mrs. Jones are all there – the latter, I assume, is looking through the wanted ads already – but they’re not a threat to Ana being the most painfully affected in the room, so they get a pass, I guess. News of Christian’s disappearance is all over television, and one can only assume the entire nation has ground to a halt to form candlelight vigils all over the country.

The fact is, he’s missing. He’s been missing for eight hours. No sign, no word from him. The search has been called off – this much I do know. It’s just too dark.

That is not at all how things work when a rich white person goes missing in America. I don’t doubt that they started searching for him immediately, as soon as his helicopter lost radio contact, but seriously, when a rich person goes missing, the authorities work around the clock to find them. Poor people might not get that kind of treatment, but believe me, if Bill Gates wandered off into the woods and wasn’t seen again for eight hours, they’d still be looking for him seventeen days later, even if they knew they were just looking for a body. Too many millions of dollars are tied up in keeping these people alive or proving they’re really dead. And also, we have flashlights.

During these long, interminable eight hours of separation, Bella hears Edward’s voice in her mind. No, wait. Sorry, Ana hears Christian’s voice in her mind. I just thought I was reading New Moon there for a second. That’s the best of all the Twilight books, by the way. If you were thinking of actually reading 50 Shades Darker, I highly suggest you go and read New Moon instead. Anyway, Bella is hearing Edward’s voice in this scene:

“You’re my lifeline.”

Christian’s words come back to haunt me. Yes, there is always hope. I must not despair. His words echo through my mind.

“I am now a firm advocate of instant gratification. Carpe diem, Ana.” 

Do you get why he’s “missing” now? Just like that creepy, creepy Russian guy who faked his own death a few weeks ago, he’s showing Ana just how very much she needs to accept his proposal, for crying out loud.

It absolutely enrages me, by the way, that the first time Ana thinks of something Christian had said to her, it’s just plain italics, but now it’s suddenly italics with quotation marks around it. Make up your damned mind, pick a style and stick to it.

I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently. Please let the rest of his life not be this short. Please, please.

Whaaaat? I can’t believe a copy editor didn’t ding that for wonktacularosity. Shouldn’t it read, “Please don’t let the rest of his life be this short?” What the fuck is going on in that sentence?

Ana keeps thinking of stuff they’ve done together in their long, long, impossibly long and super romantic relationship, and then arrives at this entirely healthy conclusion:

Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing but a shadow – all the light eclipsed.

I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once more, memories of our time together flitting through my mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his sauve, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball; dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra, whirling around the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday at the house – that stunning view.

When recounting everything she has apparently lost, she does not forget to list the obvious material concerns, like the fact that she won’t get the house and the view.

Oh, please, let him be okay. He cannot be gone. He is the center of my universe.

He is my paycheck.

Really, though, the center of her universe? How is it considered, not just romantic, but even remotely okay to consider someone you’ve known a month to be the center of your universe? I can think of just two instances where that applies: infants and rescued shelter dogs.

Jose asks Ana if she wants to call her mom or dad, but she’s too emotionally fractured to do so. Grace leaves the living room – probably because she doesn’t want more dispassionate blinks – and Mia comes over to reassure Ana. After all, it’s just Mia’s brother, whom she’s known her entire life, grew up with, loves deeply, etc. She really should be making Ana feel better about losing the guy she’s known a whole month:

“He will come back,” she says, her voice initially determined, but cracking on the last word. Her eyes are wide and red-rimmed, her face pale and pinched from lack of sleep.

I can’t help but feel that Ana is describing the other women and their appearances, not to show us the enormity of the situation, but to let us know she’s still the prettiest.

I gaze up at Ethan, who is watching Mia and Elliot, who has his arms around Grace.

Is that a story problem? As in, “The Brown family made three cakes and three pies. The youngest members did not make cakes, but the oldest member did not make a pie,” etc? Because I can’t figure  out who has their arms around who.

Ana keeps thinking about Christian and how she’ll never love again. No, really, she says that:

I will always love him. There will never be anyone else. Ever.

He’s only been missing eight hours. Maybe wait until the funeral pyre is lit before you throw yourself on it, Khaleesi.

I remember sitting in Starbucks weighing up my Christian pros and cons. All those cons, even those photographs I found this morning, melt into insignificance now. There’s just him and whether he’ll come back. Oh please, Lord, bring him back, please, let him be okay. I’ll go to church… I’ll do anything. Oh, if I get him back, I shall seize the day. His voice echoes around in my head once more: “Carpe diem, Ana.”

If I were faking my death by helicopter accident, this would be the effect I was going for. I’m just saying.

I gaze deeper into the fire, the flames still licking and curling around each other, blazing brightly. Then Grace shrieks, and everything goes into slow motion.

“Christian!”

“I died a thousand deaths today,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, echoing my thoughts.

Except I’m sure Ana’s thoughts were more like, “I have died everyday/waiting for you/darling don’t be afraid/I have loved you/for a thousand years/I’ll love you for a thousand more,” or whichever new Christina Perri song they slap on the Breaking Dawn pt. II trailer.

Carrick gets there, and Mia hugs Christian, and everyone is hugging him except for Ana, who is probably just waiting to find out how badly damaged the helicopter is. Christian has no idea why everyone is standing around waiting for him to get back, but their obvious relief at his safety isn’t going to get in the way of his totally inexplicable jealousy:

He blinks and glances briefly at Jose, who lets go of my hand. Christian’s mouth tightens. I drink in the sight of him and relief courses through me, leaving me spent, exhausted, and completely elated. Yet my tears don’t stop. Christian turns his attention back to his mother.

“I see you’re visibly shaken by my disappearance, but how very dare you turn to a MALE friend for comfort? I will punish you by ignoring your pain.”

Grace asks Christian why he didn’t call, and he says his cell phone was dead. She asks why he didn’t stop to call collect, because she doesn’t realize pay phones are practically an endangered species these days. Elliot manfully welcomes his brother back to the land of the living, and Ana has a revelation:

As the tears stream down my face, I can see it all. The great room is bathed in it – unconditional love. He has it in spades; he’s just never accepted it before, and even now he’s at a total loss.

I have a different theory as to why he’s thrown by all the attention. We’ll get to that in a moment.

After the Christian Grey episode of It’s Your Life! winds down a bit, he gets to Ana:

He moves toward me, gray eyes bright though weary and still bemused. From somewhere deep inside, I find the strength to stagger to my feet and bolt into his open arms.

He was just missing for eight hours, he’s clearly tired and totally thrown, but she finds the strength, guys.

They cry and reunite, etc, the whole cheesy, “I thought you were dead” bullshit we’ve seen in a thousand movies/tv shows/Twilight novels, etc. Then Christian and Jose shake hands and stuff, because Christian being nearly dead is enough for them to bury the hatchet.

There’s a neat description of Mrs. Jones, too:

Her hair is loose, and she’s in soft gray leggings and a large gray sweatshirt with WSU Cougars emblazoned on the front that dwarfs her.

Leaving aside the fact that it’s the WSU Cougars logo that is dwarfing her in this sentence and not the shirt,  cougars, guys. Yeah she is.

And apparently, something happened to Taylor’s daughter:

He spies Taylor hovering at the entrance and nods. Taylor nods back.

“Your daughter?”

“She’s fine now. False alarm, sir.”

Daughter? What happened to Taylor’s daughter?

She was dating a vampire, but now she’s into werewolves. Or something. Probably.

Christian gets down to business to defeat the Huns explaining the extremely unlikely scenario that ended with him going missing for eight hours.

Christian launches into his story. He was flying in Charlie Tango with Ros, his number two, to deal with a funding issue at WSU in Vancouver. I can barely keep up, I’m so dazed.

Well, try, Ana. You’re our narrator, you have kind of a responsibility to keep up, for our sakes.

“Ros had never seen Mount Saint Helens, so on the way back as a celebration, we took a quick detour. I heard the temporary flight restriction was lifted a while back, and I wanted to take a look. Well, it’s fortunate that we did. We were flying low, about two hundred feet above ground level, when the instrument panel lit up. We had a fire in the tail – I had no choice but to cut all the electronics and land.” He shakes his head. “I set her down by Silver Lake, got Ros out, and managed to put the fire out.”

What was he celebrating? They were going to deal with a funding issue… are they celebrating getting more funds? Or are they celebrating the fact that they got it all cleared up? Either way, this guy celebrates more than any person I’ve ever heard of. “Let’s go celebrate your promotion, Ana! Let’s go celebrate that you signed my sex contract, Ana! Let’s go celebrate you celebrating me celebrating the celebration we had yesterday! BALLOONS AND CAKE FOR ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!”

I find it interesting (and this is that theory that I said we’d be getting back to) that the reason he’s been missing all started out with him taking a woman who is not Ana to look at a beautiful vista in his helicopter. I had gotten the impression from the story so far that going to look at romantic things women have never seen before is kind of his modus operandi in trying to get into their pants. And he took his assistant. And he was missing for eight hours. And he came home to find everyone he knows waiting for him, and he doesn’t know how to react to that.

Is it just me, or does this read like Christian Grey got caught cheating?

“How did you put the fire out?” asks Kate, her Carla Bernstein instincts kicking in. Jeez, she sounds terse sometimes.

First of all, I can only assume E.L. is trying to reference Carl “All The President’s Men” Bernstein. Maybe she feminized the name to be “clever.” But way to work in a reference that I can guarantee only about .5% of the people reading Twilight fanfic are going to get. Also, we’re right back to hating Kate again, so I feel like we’ve reached level ground.

His words from long ago circle my mind. I thank Divine Providence every day that it was you who came to interview me and not Katherine Kavanagh.

Remember, just in case you forgot, we all hate Kate. We have to, because she’s just unbearable, the way she cares about people and shows interest in stuff they have to say. Thank god Ana landed Christian, and not Kate. Really, the way they keep referring to this makes me think Christian already had his mind made up to fuck whoever came to interview him, and Ana won the prize just by showing up. They keep repeating this point over and over again, like he never would have met Ana any other way. But he does business with Kate’s family, so they’re still somewhat connected to each other, and Ana ended up getting a job at a company Chedward swears he would have bought whether she worked there or not. You and I both know that a load of horse shit, reader, but they can’t have it both ways. It can’t be destiny and fate and also they know a bunch of people in common.

Grace asks Christian why he couldn’t radio. Because the helicopter was on fire, moron, is not the answer Christian gives his mom. He tells her he didn’t want to chance starting the fire up again by turning on the electronics in the helicopter. They had no cell coverage, and he ran his battery out using GPS to get them out of the forrest, which took four hours.

So, how did they get back to Seattle?

“We hitched and pooled our resources. Between us, Ros and I had six hundred dollars, and we though we’d have to bribe someone to drive us back, but a truck driver stopped and agreed to bring us home. He refused money and shared his lunch with us.” Christian shakes his head in dismay at the memory. “Took forever. He didn’t have a cell – weird but true. I didn’t realize.” He stops, gazing at his family.

Bullshit. Long haul truck drivers in the US have cell phones. I consulted a former trucker for the very purpose of being able to call bullshit on this one, and he told m that it would be “extremely unlikely” for a truck driver to not have a phone. Another trucker I consulted said that his company sends him messages, etc. via cell instead of by radio, and that they have phones paid for by the company. This one doesn’t wash. They have satellite tv in those trucks, for fuck’s sake. Even if they didn’t, he couldn’t say, “Hey, we were just in a helicopter crash, could you radio the authorities?” Ros didn’t think of that?

Ana, listen to me. I’m sorry to tell you this, but the details of your boyfriend’s story are just way too specific. It took four hours to walk out of the forrest because Ros had heels on? He had six hundred dollars and he couldn’t buy a phone call at a gas station? He thought you were hanging out with Jose, and revenge cheated on you. He showed Ros the mountain, and then he set Charlie Tango down, all right. He set it down in her VAGINA. He didn’t realize anyone would notice he was gone. Maybe he forgot to file the change in his flight plan, and he had to come up with the story about backpacking across America and friendly truckers who don’t have phones.

Elliot points out that Christian made the news, and Christian says:

Christian rolls his eyes. “Yeah. I figured that much when I arrived to this reception and the handful of photographers outside. I’m sorry, Mom – I should have asked the driver to stop so I could phone. But I was anxious to be back.” He glances at Jose.

Oh, that’s why, because Jose is staying here. I frown at the thought. Jeez – all that worry.

What a family-sized bag of dicks this guy is. “Sorry you thought I was dead, mom, I just couldn’t stop my forward momentum for a single instant because I don’t trust my girlfriend.” Oh, shit, sorry, he trusts her, he just doesn’t trust her to not fuck literally every man alive.

There’s more, “Oh, we’re so glad you’re alive.” I wonder if anyone in the room has actually met this guy. Then, everyone starts to leave:

“Cary, my son is safe. You can take me home now.”

Cary? Grace looks adoringly at her husband.

Oh my god. Cary. Grace. The only reason I didn’t get it was that Carrick’s name isn’t Archibald. Cary Grant, Grace Kelly. How many other names in this book come from the cast of To Catch A Thief? Just think, if Mogambo had aired on cable that day, Chedwards parents would be just plain old Clark and Ava.

Meanwhile, it looks like there’s trouble in Wonderland (because she’s Alice, get it?):

Behind me, I’m aware that Mia and Ethan are having a heated whispered conversation, but I can’t hear it.

Mia is smiling shyly at Ethan, and he’s gaping at her and shaking his head. Suddenly she crosses her arms and turns on her heel. He rubs his forehead with one hand, obviously frustrated.

“Mom, Dad – wait for me,” Mia calls sullenly. Perhaps she’s as mercurial as her brother.

Kate says goodbye to Ana, and it’s probably my favorite line of the whole book:

“I can tell some serious shit’s been going down while I’ve been blissfully ignorant in Barbados. […]”

That’s it, just that line. The rest of what she says is just the same “you guys were meant for each other/you’re so perfect” bullshit tossed at the reader to try and force you to think, “Wow, these people are really in love,” and it’s so clumsy and obvious it doesn’t bear repeating here. But the line about how stuff has been going down while she was “blissfully ignorant” makes me almost weep with laughter. I just imagine her saying this and meaning, “I wish I was still on vacation and not about to have to listen to all the shit you did while I was gone.”

They talk about how it’s so funny they fell in love at the same time, because OMG TWINSIES! and then everyone is gone. Everyone, that is, except Jose, who was awkwardly supposed to be staying the night. Try to ignore the sounds of cracking whips and pirate aaaaarrrrghs! while they have “I’m so glad you’re not dead sex,” Jose!

Ana askes Jose if knows where he’s staying:

“Yeah, Mrs. Jones, she showed me earlier. Quite a place you have here, Christian.”

“Thank you,” Christian says politely as he comes to stand beside me, placing his arm around my shoulders. Leaning over, he kisses my hair.

And then he pees on my leg, because he is marking his territory.

Christian goes to get something to eat, and Ana and Jose say goodnight. Ana apologizes for the night being a disaster, because it’s apparently her fault that her manipulative asshole boyfriend goes missing on the one night in a month that she’s been allowed to go out with her friends. I’m just saying. There’s no need to apologize, anyway. It probably was an awesome night for Jose. He got to fantasize about Christian being dead, just like we were all doing.

Christian and Ana rehash the whole, “I’m so glad you’re not dead, I love you so much,” thing, and Ana decides she’s going to give Christian his birthday present. And in a scene the reminds me so much of Twilight, without ever actually representing anything from Twilight at all, the chapter hook we were all dreading happens:

With deft fingers, he unwraps and opens the box. His brow creases as he fishes out a small, rectangular, plastic key chain featuring a picture made up of tiny pixels that flash on and off like an LED screen. It depicts the Seattle skyline with the word SEATTLE written boldly across the landscape.

He stares at it for a minute and then gazes at me, bemused, a frown marring his lovely brow.

Turn it over,” I whisper, holding my breath.

He does, and his eyes shoot to mine, wide and gray, alive with wonder and joy. His lips part in disbelief.

The word YES flashes on and off on the key ring.

“Happy birthday,” I whisper.

In the immortal words of Brian Williams reading Donald Trump’s election night tweets, “So… that happened.”

Wearing headphones? Watch out at 9:29. For some reason the volume didn’t stay where I told it to after uploading.

Hey. There is this nifty book out, called 50 Writers on 50 Shades of Grey. You should probably buy it, I hear there is this really sexy author/blogger who wrote an essay in there.

In other news, a lot of people have sent me links to this horrifying trend. I’m going to go on the record here and say that if I see a child wearing this, I’m going to assume that their mother only conceived as a result of wanting to play out the “Christian and Ana have a baby” fantasy (spoiler alert) and I will immediately call CPS. If those aren’t bad enough for you, check out this offering from Oh Sew Glam Boutique. If an Etsy forums moderator doesn’t wander into the comments to “wrap this up,” I’ll be fucking shocked.

Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept clapboard houses where kids play basketball in their yards or cycle and run around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome with the houses nestling among the trees.

Here is another area where E.L. James needed to research American culture a little bit. “Clapboard” does not signify “affluent” in the US. It makes us think of farms and New England whaling shanties or something. Neither would children playing in the street make an American immediately think, “Wow, that’s a nice neighborhood.” And we don’t play basketball in our yards. We play basketball in our driveways.

A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we’re soon confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a six-foot-high sandstone wall.

That sounds like it fits into the described neighborhood… not at all.

We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two cars. On one side the trees ring a densely wooded area, and on the other there’s a vast area of grassland where a once-cultivated field has been left fallow. Grass and wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a rural idyll – a meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples through the grass and the evening sun gilds the wildflowers. It’s lovely, utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine myself lying in the grass and gazing up at a clear blue summer sky. The thought is tantalizing yet makes me feel homesick for some strange reason. How odd.

Oh, for Christ’s sake, we all know why it makes you feel homesick. You’re obviously about to go visit the house you’ll end up living in when you marry Christian Grey, because you’re going to say yes to his proposal no matter how long you hem and haw to draw out a longer word count. She feels homesick because she’s found her TRUE HOME and her TRUE LOVE and she’s going to be happy forever and ever lying in the grass, getting ticks all over herself. And I can say this about Ana, because she’s a fictional character, but I really, truly hope she gets Lyme disease.

But let’s focus on the description of the property. Trees “ring a  densely wooded area.” How is she differentiating the trees doing the ringing from the trees that are just, you know, densely wooded? And while her description of the fallow field being reclaimed by wildflowers is truly lovely imagery, how could Ana possibly know that it was “once-cultivated” if she’s never been there before?

The lane curves around and opens into a sweeping driveway in front of an impressive Mediterranean-style house of soft pink sandstone. It’s palatial.

So are psychiatry offices, in Ana’s estimation. So either Dr. Flynn’s office is really huge, or this house is really small.

Ana still doesn’t get what the trip is for. She must be so easy to take the vet. Christian asks her to keep an open mind, and she tells him that she’s had to have an open mind since the day she met him. Then he says, “‘Fair point well made, Miss Steele.'” and you can all take a drink, because I’m adding that to the drinking game, too.

The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark brown hair, a sincere smile, and a sharp lilac suit stands waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift dress to impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I’m not wearing killer heels like her – but still, I’m not in jeans.

Nothing exudes confidence and maturity more than a woman who can’t stand not being the prettiest girl in the fucking room.

Christian shakes the woman’s hand – and he knows her name, so Ana is obviously going to hate her:

She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I shake. Her isn’t-he-dreamily-gorgeous-wish-he-were-mine flush does not go unnoticed.

I maintain that this book is only so popular because it indulges the female fantasy of girl-on-girl competition. There is a certain, dumb subset of women who think that having a man other women want is the most important achievement one can attain. They’re driving the success of these books. And if you meet one of them, you’ll probably notice she’s as vapid and self-important as Anastasia Rose Steele. And she probably bought her baby one of those fucking stupid shirts.

“Olga Kelly,” she announces breezily.

“Ana Steele,” I mutter back at her. Who is this woman? She stands aside, welcoming us into the house.  It’s a shock when I step in. The place is empty – completely empty. We find ourselves in a large entrance hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with scuff marks where pictures must once have hung. All that reamins are the old-fashioned crystal light fixtures. The floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either side of us, but Christian gives me no time to assimilate what’s happening.

How is she still not getting this?

They walk through the house, which is huge, so that Christian can show her the view:

The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking – staggering even: twilight over the Sound. 

Pretty ballsy move to use that word, James. Well played.

In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and farther still on this crystal-clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly, glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic National Park. Vermillion hues bleed into the cerulean sky, with opals and aquamarines, and meld with the darker purples of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound.

Ana asks if he brought her there just to look at the view, because she has no critical thinking skills whatsoever, and then he utters what has to be the most unintentionally creepy piece of dialogue ever spoken by a fictional character, ever:

“How would you like to look at it for the rest of your life?” he breathes.

That sounds like some shit the Ice Truck Killer said to Deb before he tried to Dexter her.

What? I whip my face back to his, startled blue eyes to pensive gray.

POV skew. She can’t see her own eyes.

Christian tells Ana he’s planning to buy the house, demolish it, and build a new one there for them to live in. Ana thinks the place must be worth five or ten million dollars… way to pinpoint that estimate there, Ana. She asks him why he wants to demolish it and he says:

“I’d like to make a more sustainable home, using the latest ecological techniques. Elliot could build it.” 

Because that’s really the core of the environmental movement, isn’t it? Demolish existing things, wasting those resources, and then waste newer resources building something shinier. That’s why environmentalists are always so thrilled when one strip mall goes out of business and they put a new one up right behind it. Those signs and chants they’re doing are signs and chants of overwhelming support.

Ana finally gets that Olga Kelly (who has a full name despite that being totally unnecessary) is a realtor and not a predatory man-snatcher, and asks to look around the house.

The house is enormous: twelve-thousand square feet on six acres of land. As well as the main living room, there’s the eat-in – no, banquet-in – kitchen with family room attached – family! – a music room, a library, a study and, much to my amazement, an indoor pool and exercise suite with sauna and steam room attached. Downstairs in the basement there’s a cinema – jeez – and game room. Hmm… what sort of games could we play in here?

You could play a game I like to call “spot the run-on sentence with too goddamn many em dashes and hyphens in it.” Bring this paragraph to the table and you will clean up.

In case you were wondering how Ana is acclimating to the whole “being stupid rich” thing, I think she’s doing just fine:

It’s a little shabby now, but nothing that some TLC couldn’t cure.

Twelve thousand square feet, indoor pool, movie theatre, incredible view, shabby.

Even though the place is clearly a broken down shack on its last legs, Ana is so in love with its charms that she asks Christian if they could make the existing house “sustainable.” I think the fact that some dipshit billionaire hasn’t knocked it down already is proof that it’s still useful.

Miss Kelly leads us into the master suite, where full-height windows open onto a balcony, and the view is still spectacular. I could sit in bed and gaze out all day, watching the sailing boats and the changing weather.

There are five additional bedrooms on this floor. Kids!

I don’t think Ana has ever actually heard of children before. If she had, she would know that having kids is totally incompatible with sitting in bed all day, gazing at the weather.

We also find out that Ana hates horses, so she can’t possibly be a Mary Sue, right? Because Mary Sues love animals. So omg, stop being so mean about this fanfic E.L. James wrote. She had to write it for school, okay? And she doesn’t even care what you think, anyway.

That last part is probably true.

In the car, Christian and Ana talk about the house, and Christian says he’s going to buy it. Ana mentions putting Escala on the market, and he balks at that, saying that he can afford to keep them both. That should be your alarm bell, Ana. If your boyfriend doesn’t want to sell his apartment after moving in with you, he’s either not seriously committed or he wants a place to bang other chicks. “I’m working late, Anastasia,” he’ll tell her. “I’ll just sleep at Escala tonight. Good thing we never sold it.” And then it’s off to the playroom with the next unstable sub who’ll try to murder you. Enjoy your happy marriage.

“Anastasia, you’re going to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes,” he says softly.

She just called a “palatial” mansion with ocean views “shabby.” I think she’ll be fine.

Christian drives them to The Mile High Club at Columbia Tower. There is actually a real club, without a silly name, in the Columbia Tower. If you visit their website, they promise there will be a dramatic remodel in the future. Probably to make everything white sandstone and gray with ties and masks and handcuffs laying around because this book series is what is driving literally every marketing decision you will see in every singled industry on the planet for the next few years. This series is our culture now. Try to sleep tonight, knowing that. Sweet dreams.

They drink Cristal and then Christian tells Ana to go take off her panties, but on her way to the bathroom she accidentally walks into Architectural Digest:

The restrooms are the height of modern design – all dark wood, black granite, and pools of light from strategically placed halogens.

As opposed to the kind of halogens you just sort of slap up without any forethought?

I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I slightly resent how easily I fall under his spell. I know now that we won’t be spending the evening talking through all our issues and recent events… but how can I resist him?

“I know that he’s manipulating me with sex to avoid talking about our relationship troubles, of which we have many, but tee hee, I’m not wearing panties.” No, nothing problematic at all in that statement. On the other hand, who the fuck wants to read more about them working out their issues? Not me, that’s for damn sure and certain.

My inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and diamonds, strutting her stuff in fuck-me shoes.

 Ana gets back to the table to find that Christian has ordered for her. He says he hopes she doesn’t mind, but he’s never worried about that before, has he? She probably knows by now that if she marries you, she’ll never choose her own food again. He ordered oysters for their first course, which reminds her of the Heathman hotel. Remember, the night they talked about the sex contract for the first time, and he threatened to rape her a bunch? Ah, romance.

“I think you liked oysters last time you tried them.” His voice is low, seductive.

“And if you don’t,” he continues with a shrug, “It doesn’t matter. You’ll do whatever I want because I’m rich and used to controlling women.”

“Only time I’ve tried them.” I’m all breathy, my voice exposing me.

Uh… what? Her voice exposes her? Does the updraft from speaking blow her skirt up? I’m not getting what that means.

He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other hand from his thigh. I flinch in anticipation, but he reach for a slice of lemon.

That’s a pretty telling verb there. She “flinches” in anticipation because he moves his hand?

He feeds her oysters and won’t touch her, and it gets her all hot and bothered:

My inner goddess is on her knees, naked except for her panties – begging.

 Wait, you’re not wearing panties, but your Inner Goddess is? How does that work? I know she usually has props and shit that are unavailable to you, but this just confuses the hell out of me. Is she wearing the panties you took off? And if so, is she more conservative than you are? I don’t even know what’s happening anymore.

The main course comes, and it’s sea bass and asparagus, and Ana freaks the fuck out over the fact that it’s sea bass. Like, has she never even heard of rich people before? Everyone knows rich people love sea bass.

Christian still won’t touch her, and he points out that at the Heathman, they had cod:

“Happy days,” he says, smirking. “This time I hope to get to fuck you.” He moves his hand to pick up his knife.

I love how if you take literally any line out of this scene, it sounds like a serial killer mystery and not a romance. I mean, obviously these books are not really romances, but for the sake of argument, you get it. I also love how he thinks of that night at the Heathman, when he threatened to rape her, when he told her basically that if he wanted to have sex with her, it was going to happen whether she wanted it or not, he thinks of it as being “‘Happy days.'”

“Eat,” he orders. “I am not taking you home until you’ve finished your meal, and then we can really celebrate.” His expression is so heated, so raw, so commanding. I am melting.

“I’m not hungry. Not for food.”

AGAIN? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

“You really don’t eat enough. You’ve lost weight since I’ve known you.” His tone is gentle.

I don’t want to think about my weight; truth is, I like being this slim.

Remember when I said I thought it was just an unfortunate coincidence that Ana was Ana and Mia was Mia? I take that directly the fuck back. I feel skeevy for suggesting this, because I’m a big fan of not assuming that an author thinks/feels/acts a certain way based on what they write. Because trust me, I write about sex all day long, but I am the furthest thing from sexy most of the time. But I can’t help but wonder if this really isn’t a manifestation of an eating disorder the author is struggling with. Because she’s not a skilled enough writer to work “Ana has an eating disorder” into the plot this well. She’s just not. She’s clearly just hammering out clumsy sex and relationship-with-a-rich-guy fantasies here, and all this other shit, like the picture perfect abusive relationship and the eating disorder, those seem to be falling into place by accident. And it gives me a bad feeling in my tummy region.

He quizzes me about Ethan. As it turns out, Christian does business with Kate and Ethan’s father. Hmm… it’s a small world.

Almost unrealistically small, one might say.

They finish their meal and leave, and from the way the sexual tension is described throughout the scene, one can only assume they put on hip waders to get through the sheer volume of vaginal secretions flooding the place. Ana asks, “‘What now?'” and Christian answers:

“Now? We leave. I believe you have certain expectations, Miss Steele. Which I intend to fulfill to the best of my ability.”

Whoa!

“The best… of your a… bil… ity?” I stutter.

That isn’t a stutter. At least, that’s not how you write a stutter. A stutter isn’t just a bunch of pauses.

On the way out he murmurs something about the car to the maitre d’, but I’m not listening; my inner goddess is incandescent with anticipation.

I hope she is literally on fire.

Now, I hope you don’t feel cheated if I don’t excerpt this next part, which goes on for like two pages. He fingers her in the elevator when it’s full of people. Oh, and she thinks, “Oh, Christian, what you do to me,” which makes me think that the retelling of this series from Christian’s POV isn’t really going to be all that different from the original series. Then they go outside and Christian licks his fingers and tells her that she tastes “‘Mighty fine,'” because this chapter wasn’t actually written, but cobbled together from other lines in other chapters by a sophisticated software algorithm. Want proof? He calls her “Miss Steele” three times on a single page.

Ana is super hot and bothered, and she suggests they have sex in the car:

“I’ve never had sex in a car,” I mumble. Christian halts and places those same fingers under my chin, tipping my head back and glaring down at me.

“I’m very pleased to hear that. I have to say I’d be very surprised, not to say mad, if you had.”

I flush, blinking up at him. Of course; I’ve only had sex with him. I frown.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” His tone is unexpectedly harsh.

“Christian, it was just an expression.”

“The famous expression, ‘I’ve never had sex in a car.’ Yes, it just trips off the tongue.”

You know how people used to think that if you had sex with a woman, she would just mindlessly run around fucking everything in sight if you didn’t prevent that from happening? Like, we’re all robots on the verge of malfunction, and if you broke the factory seal, it’s up to you to stop us from fucking everything to death? I’m so glad to see that attitude making a comeback.

Ana distracts him from her alleged infidelities by asking him to take her home and fuck her. He mentions that he didn’t want to fuck her in a restroom, which is hilarious, because he totally does in the first book. Remember, the hotel room? Where he pulls her tampon out and flushes it before they have sex? But he won’t have sex with her in a public restroom, because he has class.

They get back to Escala, where Ana is still amped up for the lovin’:

With wanton anticipation, I glance at him, trying to contain my palpitating heart.

I feel like she’s just pulling words out of a hat at this point. How often can “wanton” be used in a book that isn’t a historical romance, I ask you?

It’s like he’s addressing me below the waist… my inner goddess performs four arabesques and a pas de basque.

Then in the elevator, this happens:

He grabs the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling gently so my head tips back.

“What can I do to make you say yes?” he ask fervently, throwing me off balance once more.

That’s right. This whole, amazing night? It was just Christian trying to buy Ana’s acceptance of his proposal. And he for real does not understand why she won’t just marry him already.

Then they have sex on the table in the foyer.

Later, they’re in bed, and they have to have the requisite romance novel “Our sex is better than the sex everyone else is having, neener neener,” conversation:

“Is sex like this for everyone? I’m surprised anyone ever goes out,” I murmur, feeling suddenly shy.

He grins. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s pretty damned special with you, Anastasia.” He bends and kisses me.

“That’s because you’re pretty damned special, Mr. Grey,” I agree, smiling and caressing his face.

There. Everybody is special. Everybody gets a trophy, just for participating.

 He nuzzles my hair, and I drift into sleep, safe in his arms, dreaming of sunsets and French doors and wide staircases… and a small copper-haired boy running through a meadow, laughing and giggling as I chase him.

She’s going to get pregnant. Spoiler alert, in case you haven’t read Breaking Dawn, but AnaBella is going to get pregnant.

Christian leaves early the next morning for a breakfast meeting, and Ana gets an idea for another birthday present for him while he’s in the shower. Because billionaires need the most birthday presents or something.

In the walk-in closet, I put on a dark red fitted dress with a square neckline, cut quite low. Yes, this will do for work.

Nothing says professional like, “Check it, yo, my tits are hanging out.”

Now for Christian’s present. I start rummaging through his drawers, looking for his ties. In the bottom drawer I find those faded, ripped jeans, the ones he wears in the playroom – the ones he looks so hot in. I stroke them gently, using my whole hand. Oh my, the material is so soft.

Beneath them, I find a large, black, flat cardboard box. It piques my interest immediately. What’s in here? I stare at it, feeling like I’m trespassing again.

Remember when she compared her life to the story of Bluebeard before? I’m loling so hard right now.

Instead of severed heads, she finds pictures Christian took of his exes in the Red Room. And she actually takes it pretty okay, rationalizing that they were taken before they were together. Still, it bothers her that he kept them, and I have to be honest, that would bug the fuck out of me, too. She asks Mrs. Robinson for the keys to the playroom, but never lets us in on what she’s planning to do in there. So, I guess that’s another subplot to add to the total. The mystery of what Ana is giving Christian for his birthday.

At work, Ana wonders if she should tell Christian she found the photos, and then she decides not to. Which is a wise choice, I think. They email back and forth, until she says the wrong thing and he gets mad and stops responding to her. So, basically, every email exchange they’ve ever had. At around four, Ana realizes that Christian still hasn’t emailed her back, and since he never goes a full hour without pestering her via some form of modern communication, she’s getting a little worried.

My phone rings unexpectedly and my heart jumps. Christian! But no – it’s Kate, my best friend, finally!

This is the only time she will ever be happy to hear from Kate. They talk a little and Ana invites Kate to go out for drinks with her and Jose. Oh yeah, I forgot that was happening.

Wow. Kate is home. How am I going to tell her all that has happened? I should write it down so I don’t forget anything.

What if she doesn’t care that much, Ana? What if she’s just as bored by your relationship as I am? What happens then?

Jose arrives in reception, and Claire just has to comment on him:

“You should see the guy asking for you in Reception. How come you know all these hot guys, Ana?”

Because she’s a Mary Sue, and they get to keep all the hotties. Every last one of them.

Jose and Ana go out for drinks, where he asks her about her relationship. Because it’s super realistic that all her friends only care about her relationship, and not her job or the rest of her life or anything.

“He’s not too old for you?”

What? He’s twenty-seven. She’s twenty-one or twenty-two, right? That’s not an age gap. What is up with the weird ideas about age in this book?

Kate and Ethan arrive:

I turn and there’s Kate with Ethan. She looks gorgeous: bleached strawberry-blonde hair, golden tan, and beaming white smile, and so shapely in her white camisole and tight white jeans. All eyes are on Kate. I leap up from my seat to give her a hug. Oh, how I’ve missed this woman.

If she were in Seattle, you wouldn’t have seen her, anyway. You’ve been spending every single non-work moment with Chedward.

Since we just heard how great Kate looks, we must now hear how skinny Ana looks, because otherwise Kate just keeps on being the prettiest, and what kind of world is that to live in, I ask you?

“You’ve lost weight. A lot of weight. And you look different. Grown-up. What’s ben going on?” she says, all mother hen. “I like your dress. Suits you.”

“A lot’s happened since you went away. I’ll tell you later, when we’re on our own.” I am not ready for the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition just yet. She regards me suspiciously.

For like, a second, Ana liked Kate, and now it’s back to, “OMG THE KATHERINE KAVANAGH INQUISITION WHEN WILL I GET A MOMENT’S PEACE OR PRIVACY?” Which is hilarious, because wasn’t Ana going to write a detailed list of shit she wanted to tell her?

Then Ana goes to the bathroom, and when she comes back, this happens:

“Ana.” Elliot’s voice is clipped and quiet, and my scalp prickles ominously.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Christian. He’s not back from Portland.”

 “What? What do you mean?”

“His helicopter has gone missing.”

“Charlie Tango?” I whisper as all the breath leaves my body. “No!”

To thoroughly enjoy the following tale of horror, you’re going to have to ignore the fact that my house was a disaster when I took these pictures. You will see dust. You will see clutter. But you’ll also see the very face of evil in this world. So, you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and then you’ll have –

OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT IS THIS?

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3RC0nggDp9E]

Thanks for being patient while we work on our audio issues. I think I found the magic formula this week to keep your earbones from exploding into jagged shards. Also, we talk about D-Rock’s future snake, and answer SK’s reader questions!