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You’re getting a bonus post today, because I’m incapable of counting. I thought, “I’ll write the recaps one a day, keeping a day ahead, and working in this fashion the last recap will post on the first day of my vacation, and I will be done!” Except math. So, here’s a post to catch me back up to my brilliant plan.

Christian stands in a steel-barred cage. Wearing his soft, ripped jeans, his chest and feet are mouthwateringly naked, and he’s staring at me. His private-joke smile etched on his beautiful face and his eyes a molten grey. In his hands he holds a bowl of strawberries.

Because an apple would be too obvious.

He ambles with athletic grace to the front of the cage, gazing intently at me. Holding up a plump ripe strawberry, he extends his hand through the bars.

“Eat,” he says, his tongue caressing the front of his palate as he enunciates the ‘t’.

Jeez, even in her dreams he’s obsessed with her eating. She wants to go to him and eat the damn strawberry, but something holds her back, and he keeps telling her to eat, because that’s just how things work with him, and then the real Christian is waking her up.

It is literally the middle of the night, and Christian is all dressed in black. He tells Ana he wants to “chase the dawn” with her, which sounds like drug talk if I ever heard it. Ana asks if she can take a shower before they go out. Of course she can’t!

“If you have a shower, I’ll want one with you, and you and I know what will happen then – the day will just go. Come.”

Or, and here is an novel thought, you could control your own desires for a second and let Ana take a damn shower, since she’s been bleeding all over herself and the hotel sheets all night long. Christian has laid out a fresh pair of his own Ralph Lauren underpants for Ana:

 I shake my head at his lar-gesse, and I frown as a scene from Tess crosses my mind: the strawberry scene. It evokes my dream. To hell with Dr. Flynn – Freud would have a field day – and then he’d probably expire trying to deal with Fifty Shades.

Freud and I have that in common. Don’t you just love it when an author not only weaves a particular motif though a book, but also makes the text scream in your face, “THIS IS A REFERENCE TO A LITERARY CLASSIC LOOK HOW SMART I AM!” when you read it? I particularly enjoy that.

When Ana is done doing her bathroom things, she comes out to find Christian eating breakfast. And of course, he wants her to eat, too:

“Eat,” he says.

Holy Moses… my dream. I gape at him, thinking about his tongue on his palate. Hmm, his expert tongue.

I don’t think we can attribute him telling her to eat specifically to her dream. More likely, we can attribute dream-Chedward telling her to eat to real-Chedward constantly doing so whenever they’re in the presence of any kind of food.

It really is too early for me. How to handle this?

“I’m not hungry because it’s too early in the morning.” That should work, right? Oh, wait, no, it won’t work, because your boyfriend is a sociopath.

“I’ll have some tea. Can I take a croissant for later?” He eyes me suspiciously, and I smile very sweetly.

 “Don’t rain on my parade, Anastasia,” he warns softly.

Ana teases him about spanking, and then she gets all swoony because Christian has Twinings Breakfast Tea on the table, which means he really cares. Would pointing out that Twinings is a popular brand for hotels to carry destroy the romantic fantasy here? After non-breakfast, Christian takes Ana outside, where a valet is waiting with a soft-top convertible, and Christian says, “‘You know, sometimes it’s great being me.'”
This guy. This fucking guy.

In the car, they listen to some La Traviata, but Ana doesn’t want to listen to music about a “‘doomed courtesan,'” so Christian invites her to scroll through his iPod to find something she likes better. Every time they talk about music, Christian makes me think that he’s one of those people who doesn’t actually listen to what he likes, but what he thinks will make people find him smart or cool. Now, I’m not saying no young people like opera. I love opera, and did even before I reached the Anastasia Steele benchmark for geriatric hopelessness, otherwise known as “thirty.” However, Christian always smirks when he’s discussing music, and it’s always some song that echoes what’s going on in their relationship. Or it’s a piece that Ana isn’t familiar with, so she has to ask him about it, and he gets to look super smart. “Oh, you’ve never heard Thomas Tallis? He’s only the greatest Tudor-era composer. I can’t believe you’ve never heard him.”

He turns the music down a little more, and inside I am hugging myself. My inner goddess is standing on the podium awaiting her gold medal. He turned the music down.

Victory!

You probably could have just turned the music down, yourself. There’s a little knob on the car stereo that does that. If it was too difficult to pull off, you could have just asked.

“I didn’t put that song on my iPod,” he says casually, and puts his foot down so that I am thrown back into my seat as the car accelerates along the freeway.

Oooh, he’s all mad because you found his secret, decidedly unhipster Britney cache! Are you new here, Chedward? Just say you only put it on there “ironically” or to test people who use your iPod. That will show her for making you feel uncool.

What? He knows what he’s doing, the bastard. Who did? And I have to listen to Britney going on and on. Who… who?

Is there some reason you can’t change the song, Ana? Seriously, for two people in their twenties, they’re acting like middle schoolers. The next song that comes on is Damien Rice, so we know that we’ve downshifted into serious time.

“It was Leila,” he answers my unspoken thoughts. How does he do that?

“Leila?”

“An ex, who put the song on my iPod.”

Here is another thing that bothers me about this book. Needless dialogue. If Ana already knows the question in her head, why does she ask, “‘Leila?'” like she has no idea what he’s referring to? Save the reader some damn time. All of us, Ana, Christian, the reader, we all know that he’s saying Leila put the song on his iPod.

As it turns out, Leila was a former submissive who wanted more from Christian, so he broke up with her. He tells Ana that he’s never wanted more with a sub, except for her, and then Ana’s inner goddess does more spastic shit. Ana asks what happened to the rest of his subs, and he tells her that he’s only been in four long-term relationships, not counting Mrs. Robinson, whose real name is Elena.

Elena! Holy Fuck. The evil one has a name and its all-foreign sounding. A vision of a glorious, pale skinned vamp with raven hair and ruby-red lips comes to mind, and I know that she’s beautiful. I must not dwell. I must not dwell.

How is that working for you, Ana? I love that she thinks “Elena” is a foreign name. Ana is so bizarrely xenophobic. At dinner with Christian’s parents, she uses “European” as an insulting way to describe their housekeeper. Now she’s thinking “Elena” sounds foreign. Elena doesn’t sound blonde, though, thank God. I wonder if this isn’t a little bit of the stereotypical “I’m not a part of Europe!” attitude you hear from some British people leaking into the text. I mean, Ana even shoots down the idea of going to Paris because she would rather go to London. The pieces are suddenly falling into place here. The funny thing is, people in the United States don’t think of England as a piece separate from Europe, we think of it as a European country, so that attitude is all wrong on an American heroine. Unless she’s one of those obnoxious Anglophiles who prances around with a fake accent and talks about how they only watch British television.


Okay, I have a little of that, but it extends only to Top Gear, and that’s because our version of Top Gear is balls awful.

They talk a little bit more about his past girlfriends, and Ana brings up that someday she wants kids, which doesn’t sit great with Christian. They are driving to an airfield, where Christian wants to show her his second favorite pastime, gliding. They get to the airfield, and Taylor is there, and so is the tow pilot, who Ana can tell is British from his accent. If you’re South African, Australian, Irish, Kiwi, or Scottish, you are probably laughing your ass off right now, because you know that most Americans default to “British” upon hearing any kind of even remotely similar accent.

I’m going to skip most of the scene with the gliding, because it reads like a procedural straight from How To Go on a Glider. Basically, Christian likes strapping Ana into her parachute, and then into her seat harness (because he’s into BDSM, get it?!), and then they get up in the air.

The light is extraordinary, diffuse and warm in hue, and I remember Jose rambling on about ‘magic hour’, a time of day that photographers adore – this is it… just after dawn, and I’m in it, with Christian.

Abruptly, I’m reminded of Jose’s show. Hmm. I need to tell Christian.

I think you should definitely do that while he’s piloting an engineless light aircraft that could easily have some kind of accident. Tell him right now.

The plane banks and turns as the wing dips, and we spiral toward the sun. Icarus. This is it. I am flying close to the sun, but he’s with me, leading me. I gasp at the realization.

First of all, Ana:

“Was it more?” he asks, his voice tinged with hope.

“Much more,” I breathe, and he grins.

But it wasn’t, was it? It wasn’t emotional trust or true intimacy. It was piloting a glider.

After their gliding adventure, they go to IHOP. Yes. International House of Pancakes. And proximity to greasy, overpriced menu items gets both of them all hot.

Oh, I want to run my hands through that hair. I pick up a menu and examine it. I realize I’m starving.

“I know what I want,” he breathes, his voice low and husky.

I glance up at him, and he’s staring at me in that way that tightens all the muscles in my belly and takes my breath away, his eyes dark and smoldering. Holy shit. I gaze at him, my blood singing in my veins answering his call.

“I want what you want,” I whisper.

He inhales sharply.

“Here?” he asks suggestively, raising an eyebrow at me, smiling wickedly, his teeth trapping the tip of his tongue. 

Oh please. Stop. I’m not sure if I can take the unbridled eroticism of this moment. Seriously, I cannot wait to see the promotional tie-in for this one. “The Rooty Tooty Fresh n’ Fruity Buttermilk Ben Wa Pancake Stack?” With “Lingering Gaze” ligon berry sauce? You wouldn’t even have to change the name of the stuffed french toast, that already sounds dirty enough. Of course, it’s French, so we’d have to probably change that, or it will steal Ana’s boyfriend.

“I don’t think I’ve changed my mind per se. We just need to re-define our parameters, re-draw our battle lines, if you will. We can make this work, I’m sure. I want you submissive in my playroom. I will punish you if you digress from the rules. Other than that… well, I think it’s all up for discussion. Those are my requirements, Miss Steele. What say you to that?”

We all know what Ana is going to say to that. Their breakfast arrives, and then they have this charming exchange:

“Can I treat you?” I ask Christian.

“Treat me how?”

“Pay for this meal.”

Christian snorts.

“I don’t think so,” he scoffs.

“Please. I want to.”

He frowns at me.

“Are you trying to completely emasculate me?”

This. Fucking. Guy.

I’m not even going to get into how awful that statement is, because either you recognize what is wrong with it, or you’re a time traveler from the 1950’s who stumbled, confused, upon my blog and are probably wondering why my husband allows me to read.

Christian takes Ana back to her mother’s house – without asking for directions, because he already knows where she lives. I’m not kidding, Ana even says as much:

Of course he doesn’t ask me for my mother’s address. He knows it already, stalker that he is. When he pulls up outside the house, I don’t comment. What’s the point?

That’ right, Ana! You march straight into that relationship in which your feelings don’t matter. At least you’re doing it with somewhat open eyes. Ana asks him to come in. I half expect him to say, “I’ve already been there, while you were sleeping,” but instead he turns her down:

“I need to work, Anastasia, but I’ll be back this evening. What time?” I ignore the unwelcome stab of disappointment. Why do I want to spend every single minute with this controlling sex god? Oh yes, I’ve fallen in love with him, and he can fly.

He can’t really fly, though, can he? He has to use a vehicle.

Perhaps she’s improved since she moved to Savannah with Bob. There was a time I wouldn’t subject anyone to her cooking… even – who do I hate? Oh yes – Mrs. Robinson – Elena. Well, maybe he. Will I ever meet this damned woman?

Back up there, Ana. You’ve known Christian for all of what, three weeks? And you’re impatient because he hasn’t introduced you to his ex-girlfriends? Now who’s a controlling stalker?

Ana emails Christian (because they have been apart maybe ten minutes) and during the exchange he tells her that she talks in her sleep.

Supposing I’ve said I hate him, or worse still, that I love him, in my sleep. Oh, I hope not. I am not ready to tell him that, and I’m sure he’s not ready to hear it, if he ever wants to hear it.

That actually happened to me, once. I was occasionally sleeping with this guy, totally casual, and one night when I stayed over I had a dream that I got to meet Paul McCartney. Apparently I sat up and yelled, “I love you!” and then went back to sleep. That… took some explaining.

Ana goes to the supermarket with her mom, where she gets a phone call from SIP, offering her an assistant’s job to Mr. Jack Hyde.

I need you to be fucking honest with me here, readers. I wasn’t going to read the second book. But I have this feeling there is going to be some kind of sexual tension between her and Jack Hyde, based on her meeting with him in this book. If there is, if you’ve read book two, let me know, and I’ll fucking read it. But if you lie to me, I will find you like the goddamned Repo Man and I will gut you. Also like the Repo Man.

“Congratulations, darling! We have to buy some champagne!” She’s clapping her hands and jumping up and down. Is she forty-two or twelve?

Maybe she’s your inner goddess, Ana.


Ana sees a missed call on her phone from Christian. Ana calls him back, and he tells her that a situation has come up and he has to fly back to Seattle immediately. He won’t be able to have dinner.

Oh no. The last ‘situation’ he had was my virginity. Jeez I hope it’s nothing like that.

Yup, that’s exactly what it is, Ana. Your hymen grew back. Only, something went… wrong. And now it has engulfed all of Seattle.

Later that night, she remembers that Christian had dinner with Elena. I call bullshit, as I’m sure that has been on her mind all damn day. They email back and forth again, he still doesn’t tell her what she said in her sleep (Spoiler alert: it was “I love you, Paul McCartney”) and the chapter ends.

Once again, the excerpts in this post are riddled with format errors that are not present in the text of the book. So don’t hold them against E.L. James or The Writer’s Coffeeshop.


I would really appreciate it if you would do me a favor and read the next excerpt while listening to this. I think we’re both going to be better people for it:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMLPnk9-6MM]

I glance nervously around the bar but cannot see him. 

 “Ana, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s Christian, he’s here.”

Yup. After she asked him, once again, to give her space, what has he done? He’s followed her to Georgia, after she expressly told him in chapter twenty-one that she didn’t want him to come with her. After he promised via email to give her space. Okay, he promised to try to give her space, but how difficult is it to not suddenly be in Georgia if you live in Washington? Answer: not too damn difficult.

I have neglected to mention Christian’s stalker tendencies to my mom.

Or the police, which is probably the better idea.

I see him. My heat leaps, beginning a juddering thumping beat as he makes his way toward us. He’s really here – for me. My inner goddess leaps up cheering from her chaise longue. Moving smoothly through the crowd, his hair glints burnished copper and red under the recessed halogens. His bright gray eyes are shining with – anger? Tension? His mouth is set in a grim line, jaw tense. Oh holy shit… no. I am so mad at him right now, and here he is. How can I be angry with him in front of my mother.

Where to start? First, Ana’s inner goddess has so many fucking props, I imagine the inside of Ana’s head looks like something from Storage Wars. Second, Christian’s hair is moving smoothly through the crowd? What about the rest of him? Third, why would he have any right to be angry? He’s the freak who flew cross-country after his girlfriend told him not to. Finally, you have every right to be angry with him, even in front of your mother, because he has no concept of boundaries whatsoever.

When she introduces Christian to her mother, we finally get to find out her mother’s first name. It’s Carla. That’s actually a great name for someone who goes to the beach in big hats, isn’t it? I’m writing that down. Her full name is Carla Adams, something Ana has not divulged.

How does he know her name? He gives her the heart-stopping, Christian Grey patented, full-blown-no-prisoners-taken smile.

It is the law of the land that Christian’s smile be described in no less than one hundred adjectives at any moment.

That actually gives me an idea. I know that there are a lot of big names flying around, who should play Christian Grey in the movie. Most of them are too old to play twenty-seven. But not one guy. Not one very special guy, with a winning smile:

 “What are you doing here?” My question sounds more brittle than I mean, and his smile disappears, his expression now guarded. I am thrilled to see him, but completely thrown off balance, my anger about Mrs. Robinson simmering through my veins. I don’t know if I want to shout at him or throw myself into his arms – but I don’t think he’d like either – and I want to know how long he has been watching us.

Oh, of course she’s not angry that he followed her to Georgia. Of course she wants to throw herself into his arms. Because Ana is operating under the misconception that it’s totally okay to stalk another person, so long as you’re rich and gorgeous. Something tells me that if Jose or Paul from the hardware store pulled this kind of shenanigan, she’d file for a restraining order. But when Ridiculously Photogenic Christian Grey does it? Then it’s okay.

“Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here.” He pauses trying to gauge my reaction. “We aim to please, Miss Steele.” His voice is quiet with no trace of humor.

She also said that she wanted time away from you. Interesting how you missed the mark when you aimed to please on that one. 

Crap – Is he mad? Maybe the Mrs. Robinson comments? Or the fact that I’m on my third, soon to be fourth Cosmo?

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS? I wish, so very, very hard, that I could reach into the book and shake Ana. Just shake the ever living shit out of her. Give her whiplash. Why should Ana be worried whether or not HE is mad at HER? She isn’t the one who stalked him. So what if she has a few drinks? He plies her with liquor literally every time they’re together. He gets her drunk on purpose to manipulate her. But yeah, let’s really worry if HE is angry.

“So you just happen to be staying in the hotel where we’re drinking?” I ask, trying hard to keep my tone light.“Or, you just happen to be drinking in the hotel where I’m staying,” Christian replies. “I just finished dinner, came in here, and saw you. I was distracted thinking about your most recent email, and I glance up and there you are. Quite a coincidence, eh?” He cocks his head to one side, and i see a trace of a smile. Thank heavens – we may be able to save the evening after all.

 “I don’t want to interrupt the time you have with your mother. I’ll have a quick drink and then retire. I have work to do,” he states earnestly.

You know, Chedward, IF YOU DIDN’T WANT TO INTERRUPT THE TIME SHE HAS WITH HER MOTHER, YOU WOULDN’T HAVE FLOWN TO SAVANNAH IN THE FIRST PLACE.  And I love that he “has work to do,” because he never fucking works. So what work could he have to do in Savannah? He probably needs to get on the phone to some (blonde, evil) assistant and bark vague commands about it being “shit or bust” time.

Ana’s mom invites Christian to dinner the next night, and he accepts, then Carla excuses herself to the bathroom. That’s when Christian decides it’s time to bring up Ana’s email. He assures her that his sexual relationship with Mrs. Robinson was over a long time ago, and now Ana is the only person he wants.

“I think of her as a child molester, Christian.” I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction.Christian blanches.“That’s very judgmental. It wasn’t like that,” he whispers, shocked. He releases my hand. Judgemental?

I’m right there with you, Ana. How is it judgmental to call it what it is? Clearly, Christian really is damaged goods, if he’s still seeing a relationship between a child and an adult as consensual. However, I would be remiss if I did not point out that Ana only thinks of Mrs. Robinson as a child molester as a cursory stop en route to jealous lover town. Ana points out that if the roles had been reversed, if Mrs. Robinson had been Mr. Robinson and Mia had been in the relationship with him, Christian would probably feel differently. But Christian feels that Mrs. Robinson was “a force for good. What I needed.”

“Anastasia, your mother will be back shortly. I’m not comfortable talking about this now. Later maybe. If you don’t want me here, I have a plane on stand-by at Hilton Head. I can go.”

Laters, asshole.

“No – don’t go. Please. I’m thrilled you’re here. I’m just trying to make you understand. I’m angry that as soon as I left, you had dinner with her. Think about how you are when I get anywhere near Jose. Jose is a good friend. I have never had a sexual relationship with him. Whereas you and her,” I trail off, unwilling to take that thought further.

Of course you don’t want him to go, Ana. You’re psychologically all screwed up, in a manner of weeks, because this guy is a master manipulator.

“Anastasia, she helped me, that’s all I’ll say about that. And as for your jealousy, put yourself in my shoes. I haven’t had to justify my actions to anyone in the last seven years. Not one person. I do as I wish, Anastasia. I like my autonomy.

And Ana doesn’t like her autonomy? Or maybe she just doesn’t deserve it. And did anyone else think of Forrest Gump when he said “that’s all I’ll say about that?” Because I totally did.

That’s right, Chedward doesn’t think Ana deserves autonomy, but he does, and he lets it slip that he has to see Mrs. Robinson, because they’re business partners. Ana asks why Christian stopped sleeping with Mrs. Robinson and the answer is, unsurprisingly, because her husband found out. That earns something stronger than a Jeez! from our heroine.

“I don’t think you’ll ever convince me that she’s not some kind of paedophile.”“I don’t think of her that way. I never have. Now that’s enough!” he snaps.
“Did you love her?”

Ana doesn’t get an answer to the paedophile question, because her mom comes back to the table and they have to act like everything is hunky dory. Just a heads up, British people, “pedophile.” Stop trying to, as Eddie Izzard might say, cheat at Scrabble. Christian tells them to charge the drinks to his room, and Ana’s mom gets all gooey over the fact that Christian uses Ana’s full name. Then he leaves, with a “laters, baby.”

“Well strike me down with a feather, Ana. He’s a catch. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, though. I think you need to talk to each other. Phew – the UST in here, it’s unbearable.” She fans herself theatrically.

What the fuck is an UST? Unresolved Sexual Tension? Does Ana’s mom write fanfic, too? Carla tells her daughter that she needs to go see Christian, even though Ana points out that she came to visit her, not her boyfriend from back home who has horned in on shit. Upon learning that Christian has a private plane, Ana’s mom is even more pushy about Ana going to talk to him, and Ana confesses that she thinks she’s in love with him. Carla tells Ana that it’s obvious that Christian is in love with her, too. Hey, stalking is a form of love!

Ana goes to Christian’s suite, which is of course “ultra modern” because everywhere Christian stays must be “ultra modern” in this book. He’s on the phone, talking about some expensive mistake, and he starts filling the bathtub. When he comes back, he says something about being interested in some land there. So, not only will he stalk Ana, he will buy property near her family so that he can continue to stalk her? Ah, romance. When he gets off the phone, it’s shit or bust time:

“You didn’t answer my question,” I murmur.“No. I didn’t,” he says quietly, his gray eyes wide and cautious.“No you didn’t my question or no you didn’t love her?” he folds his arms and leans against the wall, and a small smile plays upon his lips.“What are you doing here, Anastasia?”

Um, visiting her mother. What the fuck are you doing here, Chedward?


He tells her that he didn’t love Mrs. Robinson, and then it’s straight to the fucking, even though they’re supposed to be having some meaningful conversation. 

“I don’t remember anyone but my family ever being mad at me. I like it.” He runs the tips of his fingers down my cheek. Oh my, his proximity, his delicious Christian smell. We’re supposed to be talking, but my heart is pounding, my blood singing as it courses through my body, desire, pooling, unfurling… everywhere. Christian bends and runs his nose along my shoulder and up to the base of my ear, his fingers slipping into my hair. “We should talk.” I whisper. 

“Later.”

 Yeah, Ana, later. Your pesky concerns are meaningless, as you’re just a sex toy/employee to him.

But now, my lovely, lovely friends. Now, you are about to be treated to what is undeniably the most needlessly disgusting sex scene ever written by someone whose last name is not “de Sade” or “Waters”. Let me preface this scene by saying that I’m not one of those self-hating women who thinks her period is super gross. I’m a woman who realizes that menstruation is a part of a woman’s life, and normal cycles are a sign of good reproductive health, which I am all for. However, I do suffer from OCD, and my feelings about bodily fluids are that I would like them to stay, you know, contained. For the most part. Your heroine can gush all she wants in a sex scene, that’s fine. But period blood is a waste product. I’m sure that out there, somewhere, there is a writer who has the skill to pull off this scene without making me cringe about blood-born pathogens, but that writer? Is not E.L. James. So don’t be flooding the comments to this fucking entry with shit about being moon sisters and our bodies are beautiful and we need to celebrate our womanhood and take the mystery out of it, because there’s nothing mysterious about it to me. I know how it works, but I’m mentally ill. I don’t want a goddamned lecture here about how I should finger paint in my menstrual blood. My crippling disorder is my free pass to mock the shit out of this scene, take it or leave it.

Now you know what you’re getting into, okay? Let’s set the mood a little. Ah, this song should do nicely:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgpzLUCY0rU]

“I want you,” he breathes.I moan and reach up and grasp his arms.“Are you bleeding?” He continues to kiss me.Holy Fuck. Does nothing slip by him?“Yes,” I whisper, embarrassed.“Do you have cramps?”“No.” I flush. Jeez…
He stops and looks down at me.“Did you take your pill?”“Yes.” How mortifying is this?

I think you mean, “How sexy is this?” Ana, because this is supposed to be every woman’s sexual fantasy, right? I should be jilling off to this in the tub, right? (Apologies to my friend Jill, who hates that expression).

He takes me into the bathroom which is two rooms, all aquamarines and white limestone. It’s huge – In the second room a sunken bath, big enough for four people with stone steps that lead into it, is slowly filling with water. Steam rises gently above the foam, and I notice a stone seat all the way around.

This is a hotel suite. So just imagine the number of people that have been murdered in that tub.


Yes, that’s another obsessive thought of mine, I’ll try to keep it from further intruding on the sexual fantasy unfolding before you.


 Because she’s “Bleeding Love,” he’s going to have sex with her in the bathroom. He gets her naked, and then they look at her naked body in the mirror while he talks about how sexy she is, and he uses her own hand to rub her body while he whispers sexy things to her, and it’s really by far the best sex scene in the book yet. And then. Good lord. And then.

“When did you start your period, Anastasia?” he asks out of the blue, gazing down at me. “Err… yesterday,” I mumble in my highly aroused state.“Good.” He releases me and turns me around.“Hold on to the sink,” he orders and pulls my hips back again, like he did in the playroom, so I’m bending down.He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string… what! And… a gently pulls my tampon out and tosses it into the nearby toilet. Holy fuck. Sweet mother of all… Jeez.

Sweet mother of all Jeez, please protect and guide they humble servant through this sex scene, and please shine they holy light upon that turlet, which will surely become clogged because you ain’t supposed to put lady trash in them. Amen.


They fuck, it’s amazing, yadda yadda.

We sink slowly to the floor, and he wraps his arms around me, imprisoning me. I am curled on his lap, my head against his chest, as we both calm. Very subtly, I inhale his sweet, intoxicating Christian scent. I must not nuzzle. I must not nuzzle. I repeat the mantra in my head – though I am so tempted to do so. I want to lift my hand and draw patterns in his chest hair with my fingertips… but I resist, knowing that he’ll hate it if I do. We are both quiet, lost in our thoughts. I am lost in him… lost to him.I remember that I have my period.“I’m bleeding,” I murmur.

Here’s the thing: I know, intelligently, that having sex while on your period is no big deal. Just like I know, from a feminist standpoint, that to have a scene like this in a groundbreaking (for whatever sad reason) bestseller is a coup for women everywhere. It’s saying, “We’re not ashamed of menstruation. We can read about it, we can even get turned on by the thought of a dude pulling out our tampon.” But from a personal standpoint, full of fears of bodily fluids and smells and mess, I cannot look at this scene and think anything other than, “What does it add to the story for Ana to be having her period?” It adds nothing. This sex scene was actually pretty well written, for a change. But there is no level of eroticism added, in my opinion, by having him pull out her fucking tampon, and then reminding the reader that she’s bleeding all over him. It just doesn’t work for me. If it works for you, more power to you. But just like I don’t read medieval historical romances while thinking, “Gee, if only they could talk more about how everyone smells bad and there’s no penicillin,” I don’t read erotica and think to myself, “This scene would be way better with menstruation all up in it.”

They are not chicken pox, I muse absentmindedly. Grace said he was hardly affected. Holy shit… they must be burns.

Ana wonders if Mrs. Robinson burned him with cigarettes, or if his birth mom did it. That actually makes me a little sad. I’m all for someone stubbing a cigarette out in this jackoff’s eye, but that now, not then. I wouldn’t advocate doing it when he’s a little defenseless toddler. Ana confronts him about it, and he tells her that of course Mrs. Robinson didn’t do it. So, that leaves us with a case of child abuse. Oh my god, everything Dr. Drew said is coming horrifically true!

He’s standing there, naked, gloriously naked, with my blood on him… and we’re finally have this conversation. And I’m naked too – neither of us has anywhere to hide, except perhaps the bath.

Water is clear, Ana.

As they sit in the bath, Ana decides that she’s going to get her answers from him, no matter how much silent treatment he dishes out, and finally he tells her that if Mrs. Robinson hadn’t molested him, he wouldn’t be the person he is, he would have become just like his birth mother. He tells Ana that Mrs. Robinson “‘loved me in a way I found… acceptable,'” and then goes on to explain:

“She distracted me from the destructive path I found myself following. It’s very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you’re not perfect.” Oh no. My mouth dries as I digest his words. He gazes as me, his expression unfathomable. He’s not going to tell me any more. How frustrating. Inside, I’m reeling – he sounds so full of self-loathing. And Mrs. Robinson loved him. Holy shit… does she still?

Here’s Christian, finally answering Ana’s questions, and what’s she worried about? Does she have a romantic rival or not. That’s not, you know, disgustingly selfish or anything. They argue a little more about how Christian never talks and always tries to distract Ana from her questions. Then he admits that while he’s not talking to her about their relationship, he does talk to Mrs. Robinson about it.

“Why do you talk about me?” I endeavor not to sound whiney and petulant, but I don’t succeed. I know I should stop. I am pushing him too hard. My subconscious has her Edvard Munch face on again.“I’ve never met anyone like you, Anastasia.”“What does that mean? Anyone who just didn’t automatically sign your paperwork, no questions asked?”He shakes his head.“I need advice.”“And you take advice from Mrs. Paedo?” I snap. The hold on my temper is more tentative than I thought.

 Christian threatens to spank her if he keeps talking about Mrs. Robinson that way. Because if he doesn’t like something, well, by God, he’ll beat the shit out of it until he does. He’s finished answering her questions, and then he turns the table on her, asking what she thought of his latest email. As a reader, I don’t know what email he’s referring to, because the bulk of the last chapter was made up of their emails. The email device, that I once found kind of cute, has devolved into this horrific, confusing ordeal. If I never read another email again, in this book or in my real life, I might be able to recover.

He gives me a genuine, relieved smile. “I’m please I’m here too – in spite of your interrogation. So, while it’s acceptable to grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity just because I’ve flown all this way to see you? I’m not buying it, Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel.”

Yeah, Ana. He worked so hard at stalking you, how very dare you not do as he commands! Selfish.

Chedward asks Ana what she thinks about their arrangement, and she’s finally honest with him:

“I don’t think I can do it for an extended period of time. A whole weekend being someone I’m not.” I flush and stare at my hands.He tips my chin up, and he’s smirking at me, amused.“No, I don’t think you could either.”And a part of me feels slightly affronted and challenged.“Are you laughing at me?”“Yes, but in a good way,” he says with a small smile.He leans down and kisses me softly, briefly.“You’re not a great submissive,” he breathes as he holds my chin, his eyes dancing with humor.

 FINALLY! I’m so relieved that this is out in the open. Now it’s not a BDSM relationship, it’s just a regular old abusive relationship, and we can approach it with honesty.

Just kidding! Ana realizes that hitting her is how he shows that he cares. And he says nothing about discontinuing with the BDSM.

“You can always safe-word, Anastasia. Don’t forget that. And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulfill a deep need in me for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can find a way forward.”

Look at that, right there. What he’s saying is, quite literally, “We can’t continue this relationship unless you let me control you, because my needs are the only important ones.”

“But, here’s the thing – one moment you say don’t defy me, the next you say you like to be challenged. That’s a very fine line to tread successfully.” He gazes at me for a moment, then frowns.“I can see that. But you seem to be doing fine so far.”“But a what personal cost? I’m tied up in knots here.”“I like you tied up in knots,” he smirks.

See, it’s okay! He’s fine with Ana being emotionally crippled by the relationship! Problem solved! And that’s a good thing, because the time for talking is over, and the time for sexing has begun anew. They fuck in the bath, and she thinks,

I love this man. I love his passion, the effect I have on him. I love that he’s flown so far to see me. I love that he cares about me… he cares. It’s so unexpected, so fulfilling.

This horrible relationship is super fulfilling, and I know that, because I, Ana Steele, have a ton of experience with this sort of thing.

Without any transition at all, they’re lying in the bed, where we find out that Christian has had seventeen sexual partners in his lifetime, and his favorite movie is The Piano. Which I had completely forgotten about, and totally recommended everyone watch a few recaps back. I still recommend it, but I hate that it’s Christian Grey’s favorite movie. I don’t like having anything in common with him. One thing we don’t have in common? He’s paid for sex.

Oh my god. I just realized that in comparing Jareth to Christian Grey, I have absolutely slaughtered my fond memories of my budding childhood sexuality.

We’re nearing the end of our time together, dear reader. I am putting everything on hold this week to wrap up my recaps. I feel like I should make little construction paper graduation caps for those of you who have read every single one. Perhaps a slideshow of our field trip to the apple orchard or that time the bishop came to our class.

Oh, shit, I’m mixing this blog up with Catholic School somehow. Look, it’s been (and will continue to be) a long week. And it’s, what? Tuesday? But I have to get these done so that my writing vacation will be a peaceful oasis of NOT THIS FUCKING BOOK.

In the first class lounge, Ana has gotten a manicure and a massage, and she’s drinking champagne. I’ve only flown first class once, but I never saw the lounge, so I can’t say with certainty that these things did not happen. However, I question the time frame. How early did Ana arrive for this flight, that she has time to not only jump through TSA’s myriad hoops, but also to get a manicure and a massage? I’m glad they have champagne, though, because lord knows if she goes dry for just a second…

Ana emails Christian to thank him for upgrading her flight and to joke about his stalking tendencies, because it’s definitely cute when your rich boyfriend somehow tracks down your flight number without asking you, and not super duper creepy. Christian is more concerned with who, exactly, was massaging her back, because he’s jealous and super duper creepy.

Aha! Pay back time. Our flight has been called so I shall email him from the plane. It will be safer. I almost hug myself with mischievous glee.

Safer for who? They tell you not to use your wireless devices on those things, because the plane will fall the fuck out of the sky. Ana calls her dad for literally a three line conversation:

I call Ray to tell him where I am – a mercifully brief call, as it’s so late for him.“Love you, Dad,” I murmur.“You too, Annie. Say hi to your mom. Goodnight.”“Goodnight.” I hang up.

Don’t waste your minutes or anything, yeesh. I feel so bad for Ana’s friends and family, because this isn’t the first time she’s though something was “mercifully brief” where it concerned them. Stupid friends and family, always getting in the way of more important thoughts about Christian Grey. She emails him from the plane:

A very pleasant young man massaged my back. Yes. Very pleasant indeed. I wouldn’t have encountered Jean-Paul in the ordinary departure lounge – so thank you again for that treat. I’m not sure if I’ll be allowed to email once we take off, and I need my beauty sleep since I’ve not been sleeping so well recently.

 Ana has a little glee over the fact that when Christian gets the email, she’ll be out of reach. Besides, it’s all in good fun, because Ana thinks that Jean-Paul the masseuse was probably gay. She won’t bring that up to Christian, though, because then he wouldn’t be jealous.

Kate is right. It is like shooting fish in a barrel with him. My subconscious stares at me with an ugly twist to her mouth – do you really want to wind him up? What he’s done is sweet, you know! He cares about you and wants you to travel in style. Yes, but he could have asked me or told me. Not made me look like a complete klutz at check-in. I press send and wait, feeling like a very naughty girl.

How did you look like a klutz? You came in, the guy said you’d been upgraded, and you argued a little about that. You didn’t BellaSwandive in front of the ticketing counter.

“Miss Steele, you’ll need to stow your laptop for take-off,” the over-made-up flight attendant says politely. She makes me jump. My guilty conscience is at work.

So is your utter contempt for other females. Off the top of my head I can think of one other female who has been described in a positive context in this book, and it’s the receptionist that Ana kept staring at in the last chapter. And maybe Mia.

Ana realizes that the downside to emailing Christian from the plane is that she’ll have to wait to know if he replies or not. Oh, the horror. A whole, what, four, five hour ride without being in contact with him? How will you survive?

The cabin has filled up, except for the seat beside me which is still unoccupied. Oh no…a disturbing thought crosses my mind. Perhaps the seat is Christian’s. Oh shit… no… he wouldn’t do that. Would he? I told him I didn’t want him to come with me.

You also told him you didn’t want to be spanked, you told him you didn’t want a car, phone, laptop, or expensive books, you told him you didn’t want him to come to the bar… you realize that your wishes aren’t even remotely a factor in this relationship, right? But the plane pulls away from the terminal, and Ana is actually disappointed that he didn’t override her wishes on this one. Then she takes her BlackBerry out, because the safety of the other passengers is of minimal importance when Christian might have emailed her. And lo, he did, and Ana looked upon it and saw that is was probably the most creepy email any man has ever sent his girlfriend, ever:

I know what you’re trying to do – and trust me – you’ve succeeded. Next time you’ll be in the cargo hold, bound and gagged in a crate. Believe me when I say that attending to you in that state will give me so much more pleasure than merely upgrading your ticket.

So, yeah, he wants to bind her and gag her in a crate. Jesus Christ, even Flat Stanley got to take snacks in his little envelope.

How can you be emailing? Are you risking the life of everyone on board, including yourself, by using your BlackBerry? I think that contravenes one of the rules.

He signs off as the “two palms twitching CEO,  Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc,” and Ana is all, wow, two palms, I better not make this plane fall out of the sky. Then she pulls out Tess of The D’Urbervilles and calls it “light reading” and that makes my palms twitch, because I want to smack her for being so unbearably pretentious. She gets to Atlanta and the local time is 5:45 am. Okay, let’s run this down, to make sure E.L. did her homework:

• Ana’s flight left Seattle at 10:25pm.
• Seattle is three hours behind Atlanta.
• So Ana’s flight left Seattle at 1:25am.
• The flight should take somewhere between four and five hours.
• So Ana arriving at 5:45am is totally appropriate.

You know how much I dislike you spending money on me. Yes, you’re very rich, but still it makes me uncomfortable, like you’re paying me for sex. However, I like traveling first class, it’s so much more civilized than coach. So thank you. I mean it – and I did enjoy the massage from Jean Paul. He was very gay. I omitted that bit in my email to you to wind you up, because I was annoyed with you, and I’m sorry about that.

But as usual you overreact. You can’t write things like that to me – bound and gagged in a crate – (Were you serious or was it a joke?) That scares me… you scare me… I am completely caught up in your spell, considering a lifestyle with you that I didn’t even know existed until last Saturday week, and then you write something like that I want to run screaming into the hills.

The email goes on to reassure him that she wouldn’t leave him, because she would miss him, and that she’s not a submissive, but she’ll do it for him, even though she really hates the idea. So, way to have some strength for about two paragraphs, Ana. I honestly didn’t think you’d have even that much in you.

Let me just excerpt another part of her email here, I assure you it comes into play later:

I am so happy that you have said that you will try more. I just need to think about what ‘more’ means to me, and that’s one of the reasons why I wanted some distance. You dazzle me so much I find it very difficult to think clearly when we’re together.

Okay, keep that in mind for later. In the meantime:

My mom is waiting with Bob, and it is so good to see them. I don’t know if it’s because of exhaustion, the long journey, or the whole Christian situation, but as soon as I’m in my mother’s arms, I burst into tears.

Ana’s mom and other stepdad are obviously concerned, but she kind of blows their concern off, because she  can’t outright tell them she’s in an abusive relationship, right? Bob the other stepdad takes Ana’s backpack and he complains about how heavy it is, and Ana attributes that to the Apple laptop in there, because if there is one thing Macs are known for, it’s being huge and unwieldy. Of course, with a 1tb hard drive, okay, probably heavier than my Macbook Pro, but still. Macs are light.


Ana really wants to get it across to you that it’s hot in Savannah:

I always forget how unbearably hot it is in Savannah. Leaving the cool air-conditioned confines of the arrival terminal, we step into the Georgia heat like we’re wearing it. Whoa!
It saps everything. I have to struggle out of Mom and Bob’s embrace so I can remove my hoodie. I am so glad I packed shorts. I miss the dry heat of Vegas sometimes, where I lived with Mom and Bob when I was seventeen, but this wet heat, even at 8:30 in the morning, takes some getting used to. By the time I’m in the back of Bob’s wonderfully air-conditioned Tahoe SUV, I feel limp, and my hair ahs started a frizzy protest at the heat.

If there is anything you take away from this book, it should be this: pay attention to inane details, like arrival and departure times for flights, but ignore the fact you used the same word four times in two paragraphs, and you will have a runaway bestseller on your hands.

Ana sends texts to let everyone know that she has arrived safely, and then wonders if she should invite Christian to go to Jose’s art show. That’s a great idea, Ana, you should definitely do that. Nothing could go wrong.
Ana goes to Tybee Island Beach to relax, but all her mom wants to do is talk about Christian. Like mother, like daughter, right? Ana’s mom tells her that men aren’t complicated, they’re very simple creatures. She suggests Ana take everything Christian has said literally. Ana thinks this is a great idea, because she’s focused on shit like “‘I don’t want to lose you'” and “‘You’ve bewitched me,'” but what about when he’s said shit like, “I’ll track your cell phone,” and “I’ll put you in a crate in the cargo hold?” Doesn’t sound so good now, does it, Ana?

I gaze at my mom. She is on her fourth marriage. Maybe she does know something about men after all.

I’ll just leave that there.

No time to linger at the beach, though, because Ana has to get back to her email! At her mom’s house, Ana fires up the thousand pound laptop and finds a response from Christian:

I am annoyed that as soon as you put some distance between us, you communicate openly and honestly with me. Why can’t you do that when we’re together?

Because you dazzle her, duh. Well, that and you refuse to participate in anything remotely resembling and open dialogue when you’re together.

He goes on to tell her that she needs to get over him being rich, and he never meant to scare her, he was joking about putting her in a crate, etc.

I want to share my lifestyle with you. I have never wanted anything so much. Frankly I’m in awe of you, that one so innocent would be willing to try.

Um, excuse me, but why are you talking like a vampire?

Having said that, the only time you do assume the correct demeanor for a sub is in the playroom. It seems that’s the one place where you let me exercise proper control over you, and the only place you do as you’re told.

Christian apparently wants to the reader to Men In Black themselves so they don’t remember all the shit he’s pulled to control Ana outside of the playroom. Shit like giving her presents that only serve his intentions, shit like not respecting her desire for space, you know, all that kind of shit. Sorry, but I can’t just let that stuff go because the narrative tells me that it’s not controlling behavior.

I will endeavor to keep an open mind, and I shall try and give you the space you need and stay away from you while you are in Georgia.

How hard is it to avoid Georgia from Seattle? But still, keep that in mind.

He wants to make this work too. Oh Christian, so do I! He’s going to try and stay away! Does this mean he might fail to stay away? Suddenly I hope so. I want to see him. We’ve been apart less than twenty-four hours, and knowing that I can’t see him for four days, I realize how much I miss him. How much I love him.

You have known him for like two, three weeks. As a writer, I realize that a common trope that we all have to deal with is making our characters fall in love in a pretty limited amount of pages and, therefore, a pretty accelerated amount of time. But the only reason they’re “so in love” is because he forced the intimacy on her with his constant, “I want you/stay away, I’m dangerous!” act at the beginning of their relationship, with his insistence on meeting everyone who is close to her, with his “I’ll rescue you (even if you don’t need rescuing)!” pseudo-heroics. Everything he has done has been a calculated move to draw her in, even if he isn’t self-aware enough to know that this is not how healthy relationships work.

Ana takes a nap and her mom wakes her up to go to dinner, but Ana can’t go, not just yet, not without another freaking pages long email exchange with Christian, about spanking.

I press send and immediately the image of that evil witch Mrs. Robinson comes into my mind. I just can’t picture it. Christian being beaten by someone as old as my mother, it’s just so wrong.

Nooooo…. it’s wrong because Christian was fifteen and Mrs. Robinson was an adult. Not because her age makes her so old and icky. Well, okay, admittedly, age is a factor in statutory rape, but seriously. Focus on the important part here, that he was raped, not that it’s gross that he got raped by an old lady of thirty or forty.

The email exchange descends into email sex, and I’m wondering why they don’t just get skype. That’s what skype is for. Long distance sexing. But she doesn’t have time for that, because she has to go to dinner with her mom and Bob.

I dash into the hall where Bob and my mother are waiting. My mother frowns. “Darling – are you feeling okay? You look a bit flushed.”

HOW CAN YOU TELL?! She is flushed all the time!

We get a brief rundown on the dinner later, when Ana is in the shower. She likes that her mom is making friends and that Bob is such a good fit for her, and then, it’s right back to the Mac and Cheesward Show. Christian has sent her an email with a subject line that reads “Plagiarism” and I spit take like I’m in a silent movie. The plagiarism he refers to is the fact that she signed off her earlier email with “laters, baby,” and then they argue about how it’s not his line, it’s Elliot’s line, and it’s not Elliot’s line because he probably stole it from someone else, and suddenly I find myself staring into infinity, a cold, hard void completely without irony, folding in on itself again and again, spiraling into the very eye of God himself.

Christian mentions to Ana that he’s going to have dinner with an “old friend,” which Ana immediately interprets as Christian is going to have dinner with Mrs. Robinson. She wonders why he can’t see Mrs. Robinson for the child molester that she is:

How dare she? How dare she pick on a vulnerable adolescent? Is she still doing it? Why did they stop? Various scenarios filter through my mind: he had had enough, then why is still friends with her? Ditto her – is she married? Divorced? Jeez – does she have children of her own? Does she have Christian’s children? My subconscious rears her ugly head, leering, and I’m shocked and nauseous at the thought.

Usually, I would argue that Ana is “nauseated” and not “nauseous,” but I won’t because really, the word fits. The way Ana vacillates between anger at Mrs. Robinson, child molester, and Mrs. Robinson, ex-girlfriend, grosses me out. Ana admits that Mrs. Robinson is a rapist, and yet she still compares herself against her as a romantic rival.

Awash with jealousy and slight concern over the fact that her boyfriend was molested, Ana gets on Google and searches for pictures of him. She finds no pictures of him with women, except for the one taken of them at her graduation. Since she can’t find pictures of Mrs. Robinson, she sends Christian an email flat out asking him if he had dinner with her. Then she goes to sleep, with her BlackBerry in reach, in case he emails her back.

The next night, at a bar, Ana’s mom is asking some probing questions, but Ana’s just concerned with the fact that Christian might be fucking his rapist. Not because that would be emotionally unhealthy, or anything, just because it might mean he likes Mrs. Robinson better than he likes Ana:

I have not heard from Christian all day. No email, nothing. I am tempted to call him to see if he’s okay. My worst fear is that he’s been in a car accident, my second worst fear is that Mrs. Robinson has got her evil claws into him again. I know it’s irrational, but where  she’s concerned, I seem to have lost all sense of perspective.

Gosh, Ana, you think? But then Christian emails her and tells her that she was totally right, he was out having dinner with Mrs. Robinson. Ana sends off another email, asking if Mrs. Robinson is still fucking teenagers, and this is the email she gets back:

This is not something I wish to discuss via email.How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink?

THE EMAIL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE BAR! THEN WHO WAS PHONE?!

NOTE: The formatting of excerpts in this post is 50 Shades of Blogger, so just keep that in mind and don’t blame E.L. James.

There is light everywhere. Bright, warm, piercing light, and I endeavor to keep it at bay for a few more precious minutes.

No, don’t get your hopes up. This is not the chapter where Ana dies. She’s waking up to a “glorious Seattle morning,” or,

– sunshine pouring through the full-height windows and flooding the room with too-bright light.

If there is one weather feature Seattle is known for, friends, it is the amount of sun they get.

Ana gets why Christian likes to live “in the clouds”. I really hate to point out that the Escala building is not tall enough to reach the clouds, and besides, I thought it was sunny, Ana?

Ironically, I feel the same up here in his lofty tower. I’m adrift from reality.

I have been saying that for pretty much the entire book so far. It has nothing to do with the building.

I’m in this fantasy apartment, having fantasy sex with my fantasy boyfriend. When the grim reality is he wants a special arrangement, though he’s said he’ll try more. What does that actually mean? This is what I need to clarify between us to see if we are still at opposite ends on the see-saw or if we are inching closer together.

He’s not in the art gallery, but an elegant middle-aged woman is cleaning in the kitchen area. The sight of her stops me in my tracks. She has short blonde hair and clear blue eyes; she wears a plain white tailored shirt and a navy blue pencil skirt. She smiles broadly when she sees me.

 Ana is embarrassed because she’s only wearing a t-shirt, but this is Christian Grey’s housekeeper here. I’m sure she sees all manner of undressed women. She probably cleans the jizz off the waterproof mattress in the red room when they’re all done. The housekeeper offers to get Ana some breakfast, but Ana is too busy figuring out just when and how Christian has fucked this evil blonde:

I scuttle of toward the study, mortified. Why does Christian only have attractive blondes working for him? And a nasty thought comes involuntarily into my mind – Are they all ex-subs? I refuse to entertain that hideous idea.

You entertain that idea any time you see a woman with lighter hair than yours, Ana. Seriously, from the way she describes all the blondes in this book, I think they must all be the hot Nazi from Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade.

“Unless that company’s P&L improves, I’m not interested, Ros. We’re not carrying dead weight… I don’t need any more lame excuses… Have Marco call me, it’s shit or bust time…

 I think when it’s actually “shit or bust time,” someone’s going to end up shitting, either way. And I’m super impressed that he can speak an ampersand. The good new is, Christian is working. He hardly ever works in this book, I’m wondering how he made his enormous fortune.

He waits, staring out of the window, master of his universe, staring down at the little people below from his castle in the sky.

How very Ayn Rand of you, E.L. But you know how I love it when the title of something is in the something. If you were unaware, Master of The Universe was the original title of 50 Shades, back before it was 50 Shades and when it was full of names like Bella and Edward.

 Glancing up, he notices me at the door. A slow, sexy smile spreads across is beautiful face, and I’m rendered speechless as my insides melt. He is without a doubt the most beautiful man on the planet, too beautiful for the little people below, too beautiful for me.

Oh my gosh, we GET IT, ANA. You’re fucking hideous in the way that only slender, attractive brunettes can be fucking hideous, and that is, NOT AT ALL. Seriously, is this a case of an author trying to foster good will  for an intolerable character by inserting imagined flaws, or is this just straight up Mary Sueism? I can’t even tell anymore.

Despite the fact that Ana is officially the Hunchback of The Escala, Chedward clears his morning schedule, and asks his assistant (who is probably evil and blond and also blonde, did we mention blonde?) to get him an extra ticket for an event on Saturday. But the conversation goes like this:

“When will you be back from Georgia?” he asks. 

“Friday.” 

He resumes his phone conversation. 

Wait, wait. Since when is Ana going to Georgia? She hadn’t even made up her mind in the last chapter. She told her mom she wasn’t sure about visiting. Does she have plane tickets? Has she packed? Seriously, since when has this plan been cemented to such a point that she can say with confidence when she’s leaving and when she’s returning? I guess since this is a detail that doesn’t involve things going into or coming out of Ana’s vagina, the reader isn’t supposed to care.

When he gets off the phone, Ana fully tongue kisses him, and she hasn’t even used his toothbrush yet. So, of course they’re going to have sex. Christian flings everything off his desk, because billionaires don’t have to work or anything, and then, with no foreplay what so ever, this happens:

“You want it, you got it, baby,” he mutters, producing a foil packet from his pants pocket while he unzips his pants. Oh Mr. Boy Scout. He rolls the condom over his erection and gazes down at me. “I sure hope you’re ready,” he breathes, a salacious smile across his face.

Okay, of course she’s ready. Ana is Action Vagina Woman, able to hump tall erections in a single bound. But what I like about that paragraph is that Chedward was in his home office, working, and he had a condom on him. Just in case someone wandered in and fucked him. And Ana, having seen Hot Hilda Housefrau out there, she doesn’t go, “Maybe he had that condom on him because of her.” No, obviously that condom was meant for Ana. It’s stuff like cleaning the kitchen and offering to make breakfast that creates suspicion.


Anyway, back at Christian’s desk:

Wrapping my legs around his waist, I hold him the only way I can as he stays standing, staring down at me, gray eyes glowing, passionate and possessive. He starts to move, really move. This is not making love, this is fucking – and I love it.

Until I read this book, I didn’t realize that I was making love wrong. Thank god for this sexual intervention, because when my husband and I make love, we move. Like, we really move. All this time, I thought we were physically expressing our romantic feelings for each other, and we were just fucking. Next time, we’ll stay as still as possible.

“Come on, baby, give it up for me,” he cajoles through gritted teeth – and the fervent need in his voice – the strain – sends me over the edge.

Look at those em dashes. That sentence is like a fucking Russian doll, something inside of something inside of something.

I cry out a wordless, passionate plea as I touch the sun and burn, falling around him, falling down, back to a breathless, bright summit on Earth. He slams into me and stops abruptly as he reaches his climax, pulling at my wrists, and sinking gracefully and wordlessly onto me.Wow… that was unexpected. I slowly materialize back on Earth.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” he breathes as he nuzzles my neck. “You completely beguile me, Ana. You weave some powerful magic.” He releases my wrists, and I run my fingers through his hair, coming down from my high. I tighten my legs around him.“I’m the one beguiled,” I whisper.

I’m the one nauseated, in case anyone is keeping score at home. How is Ana “beguiling”? Everything Christian has seemed to like about Ana so far has been that he thinks she’s easy to control and she’ll be a good sub. There is no connection between these characters. There is no reason for them to like each other, or be attracted to each other. All through the entire story, they’re like a Barbie and Ken doll being smashed together by a sexually precocious child. Sorry, no, I guess Ana would be Theresa, Barbie’s hideous brunette friend.

“Are you sore?” he asks, leaning over me.“A little,” I confess.“I like you sore.” His eyes smolder. “Reminds you where I’ve been, and only me.”

Hey, Christian? Zebra Historical Romance circa 1987 called. They need you back there, ASAP.

Ana realizes that Christian has probably had sex on his desk before, and that makes her… not real thrilled. She goes to have a shower, but first, she has to agonize over inane details:

“I’ve got a couple more calls to make. I’ll join you for breakfast once you’re out of the shower. I think Mrs. Jones has laundered your clothes from yesterday. They’re in the closet.”What? When the hell did she do that? Jeez, could she hear us? I flush.

I like how Ana finds it totally absurd that a housekeeper would do the laundry. Yes, Ana. She did it because she could hear you. Or, here’s a thought, she did it because Christian was up before you and asked her to when she came in to do her job which specifically includes menial chores like laundry.


Because nary a scene can go by without angst, Ana decides Christian is acting “weirder than usual.” How can she tell? The guy is fully time weirdo. I never saw Master of The Universe on fanfiction.net, because I’m not into Twilight fandom, but I can guarantee the summary had the words “angst” and “hurt/comfort” in it. I would bet money. Actual money.

Ana is stunned to find that the housekeeper is still there (that bitch), and she’s super embarrassed, so she hauls ass into the shower, where she thinks about… really, the only thing Ana ever thinks about:

In the shower, I try to figure out what’s up with Christian. He is the most complicated person I know, and I cannot understand his ever-changing moods. He seemed fine when I went into his study. We had sex… and then he wasn’t. No, I don’t get it. I look to my subconscious. She’s whistling with her hands behind her back and looking anywhere but at me. She hasn’t got a clue, and my inner goddess is still basking in  remnant of post-coital glow. No – we’re all clueless.

I towel-dry my hair, comb it through with Christian’s one and only hair implement, and put my hair up in a bun. Kate’s plum dress hangs laundered and ironed in the closet along with my clean bra and panties. Mrs. Jones is a marvel.

Oh, so when she’s just hanging around Christian’s house, being all slutty and MILFy, doing shit like offering to cook you breakfast, she’s a blonde devil, but when she’s done your laundry, she’s all good. I’ll add that to my running tally of ways to be a good friend to Ana Steele.

So, overdressed in Kate’s outfit, Ana goes out to the kitchen to fight with Christian over whether or not she’ll eat breakfast. He tells Mrs. Jones to make her pancakes and bacon and eggs, and he’s just going to have an omelet with some fruit. Maybe Christian likes his ladies on the hefty side, then?

While Mrs. Jones cooks (hey, wait, Mrs. Jones… wait a minute… did Elsa not die in that crevasse, as we were led to believe by Mr. Spielberg?), Chedward and Ana discuss whether or not she has a plane ticket for Georgia (he actually says “air ticket” but I’m bored of pointing out how British these all-American kids sound), and she doesn’t. She’s just going to buy it on the internet. Because unemployed, fresh-out-of-college kids have enough money to buy a last minute flight cross-country. Happens all the time. It’s cool, though, because Christian, the billionaire who never actually does anything to earn his money, has a jet he’d like to offer her. She turns him down (no one has ever said no to him, remember?) and then he wants to know where she’s interviewing for jobs. She won’t tell him (no one ever says no). They eat and discuss her trip a bit more, and he threatens to track her phone, and then they talk about whether or not they’ll miss each other while she’s away:

How could he mean so much to me in such a short time? He’s got right under my skin… literally.

Figuratively, I believe, is the word you’re trying to use. Unless he gave you scabies. And the reason he means so much to you is because he forced intimacy between the two of you. Oh, and because the author desperately wants the reader to believe there is some sort of blistering connection between the two of them despite them having nothing in common besides physical intimacy. Then, it’s on to a job interview.

It is late afternoon, and I sit nervous and fidgeting in the lobby waiting for Mr. J. Hyde of Seattle Independent Publishing. This is my second interview today, and the one I’m most anxious about. My first interview went well, but it was for a larger conglomerate with offices based throughout the US, and I would be on of the many editorial assistants there. I can imagine being swallowed up and spat out pretty quickly in such a corporate machine.

Gosh, I hope you conveyed that to them during the interview.

The receptionist is a young African-American woman with large silver earrings and long straightened hair. She has a bohemian look about her, the sort of woman I could be friendly with. The thought is comforting. Every few moments, she glances up at me, away from computer and smiles reassuringly. I tentatively return her smile.

Ana, your white guilt is showing. “See, I’m not racist! I imagine that I could be friends with a black person! Look at me! I love black people!” And all the whole time, that poor receptionist is looking up, smiling, thinking, “Why is that girl staring at me? Is she still… she is. She’s still staring at me. God, I hope they don’t hire her, she is creeping me out.”

My flight is booked; my mother is in seventh heaven that I am visiting; I am packed, and Kate has agreed to drive me to the airport. Christian has ordered me to take my BlackBerry and the Mac. I roll my eyes at the memory of his overbearing bossiness, but I realize now that’s just the way he is. He likes control over everything, including me.

Well, if that’s just the way he is, that’s okay then, I suppose?  “It’s okay, he just likes controlling every aspect of my life and totally negating any sense of personal agency I might have. It’s cool.” This fucking guy.

Another lady with unblonde hair comes out to get Ana, and she can’t tell her age, because she might be in her late thirties, or possibly her forties, and “It’s so difficult to tell with older women.” Shut the fuck up, Ana. Older women my ass. You’re twenty-two, you shut your mouth before I smack it shut. “older women.” “Forties.” Indeed.

She gives me a polite smile, her cool hazel eyes assessing me. I am wearing one of Kate’s dresses, a black pinafore over a white blouse, and my black pumps. Very interview, I think.

Really? Because the second you say “pinafore” I think “Gothic Lolita.”

I launch into details of my librarianship at the campus central library, and my one experience of interviewing an obscenely rich despot for the student magazine. I gloss over the part that I didn’t actually write the article. I mention the two literary societies that I belonged to and conclude with working at Clayton’s and all the useless knowledge I now possess about hardware and DIY.

I know that when I interview for a job, the first thing I do is blindly tell my prospective employers that I find knowledge gained via life experience totally fucking useless. But somehow, Ana kind of aces the interview. She doesn’t like Jack Hyde, the guy who interviews her, because he’s not down with classic literature. I think she’s going to be disappointed by the publishing industry as a whole. I’m not saying that people who work in publishing don’t read or enjoy classic literature, but it’s not like they’re going to make any money off it, so why would they sit around talking about it all the time? Of course they’re going to want to discuss contemporary writers. I sit here, thinking meanly that I would not hire her because she’s a snob.

Ana’s flight doesn’t leave until night time, so she comes home to find Kate looking gorgeous again, unpacking boxes because Ana has been way too busy having sex with her boyfriend to get their new apartment taken care of. They talk about Ana’s interview, but not for long, because they have to move on to the really important stuff, which is now and forever shall be Christian Grey without end, amen:

“I really like the second place. I think I could fit in there. The guy who interviewed me was unnerving though,” I trail off – shit I’m talking to foghorn Kavanagh here. Shut up Ana!
“Oh?” The Katherine Kavanagh radar for an interesting tidbit of information swoops into action – a tidbit that will only resurface at some inopportune and embarrassing moment, which reminds me.“Incidentally – will you please stop winding Christian up? Your comment about Jose at dinner yesterday was out of line. He’s a jealous guy. It doesn’t do any good, you know.”

You know what, Ana? Say what you fucking mean. Say, “If you make him jealous, he will beat me. Not have consensual BDSM fun times with me, he will beat me out of anger, as he has done in the past.” But that can’t happen. Because even though Kate asks if she’s going to Georgia to escape Christian, even though she offers to be non-judgmental if Ana opens up and tells her what is going on, this is what Ana chooses to share, and how Kate responds:

“Oh, Kate.” I hug her. “I think I’ve really fallen for him.”“Ana, anyone can see that. And he’s fallen for you. He’s mad about you. Won’t take his eyes off you.”I laugh uncertainly.“Do you think so?”“Hasn’t he told you?”“Not in so many words.”“Have you told him?”“Not in so many words.” I shrug apologetically.“Ana! Someone has to make the first move, otherwise you’ll never get anywhere.” What… tell him how I feel?
“I’m just afraid I’ll frighten him away.”“And how do you know he’s not feeling the same?”

Hey, friend. I feel like you might be in an abusive relationship. I’m trying really hard to point that out to you that he’s controlling and scary. You know what I think you should do? TELL HIM THAT YOU LOVE HIM, SO HE CAN TELL YOU THAT HE LOVES YOU AND THEN EVERYTHING WILL BE ALL BETTER.
I’m starting to hate Kate as much as Ana does.
Ana tells Kate that she and Christian don’t talk much, and Kate tells her this:

“That’ll be the sexing! If that’s going well, then that’s half the battle Ana.

What? Sex isn’t half the battle here at all. It’s not even part of the battle. The battle is the part where Ana isn’t allowed to visit her family or speak to her friends without first enduring emotional manipulation and finally acquiescing to some demand from her boyfriend. That is the battle. All of it. Not the sex.

Is Christian afraid of his feelings for me? Does he even have feelings for me? He seems very keen, says I’m his – but that’s just part of his I-must-own-and-have-everything-now – control-freak dominant self, surely. I realize that while I’m away, I will have to run through all our conversations again and see if I can pick out telltale signs.

Oh, gosh, I hope we get to read all about that. I’m certainly not tired at all of the constant loop of Christian Grey playing in Ana’s otherwise empty head.

Because he hasn’t emailed her all day, she sends him an email, sparking an exchange that covers whether or not Mrs. Jones the housekeeper is an ex-sub (she isn’t) and whether or not Ana would consider working for Christian’s company (she won’t). There’s also a lot of talk about tea, because they’re super American, and everyone knows that if there is one beverage associated with America and no other country at all, it’s tea.

Ana goes to the airport, where she finds out that she’s been upgraded to first class, which infuriates her, and the chapter ends.

First of all, yes. The rumors are true. I am one of the 50 Writers on 50 Shades. The book is the brainchild of Lori Perkins and will be out in November, 2012, from BenBella Books. There will be more news to come, I’ll keep you all updated.

So, here we are, near the end of the book, and I’ve got a lot of you leaving comments about how I should read the next two books and blog those, as well.  While I rarely say “never,” things aren’t looking so good on the “read the next two and recap them” front. Not because I don’t love you enough. Because I love myself too much. Writing these recaps is a hell of a lot of work. I had to read the book in the first place. One of the reasons I failed so spectacularly in my short editing career was that I was rubbish at forcing myself to read something I had no interest in, and while there was a certain car-wreck-in-slow-motion quality to reading 50 Shades of Grey the first time, rereading a chapter every few days sometimes requires an elaborate self-bribe. Then, there’s the whole “write things that are kind of snarky, but not as mean as what you really want to say” thing where I’m reining myself in the entire time. I have the willpower of a two-year-old, so every recap is an exercise like unto Hercules cleaning out that stable.

So, as it stands right now, I won’t be recapping books two and three. But who the hell knows. Maybe recapping is like childbirth, and I’ll forget how much it sucked a few weeks later. Maybe my involvement in the 50 Writers on 50 Shades book will force my hand. Right now, though, it looks like the summer is going to be dedicated to my own writing. And possibly reading a book that I want to read. Which excites me more than you could possibly know at this moment.

Oh, and before I get into the recap, I want to say thanks to everyone who has posted a link to my blog anywhere, be it at reddit or Jezebel or on tumblr. The traffic is immense, so people are clicking those links. Your work has not been in vain, and I thank you for your support.

Apparently, E.L. James is considering rewriting 50 Shades from Christian’s POV. This is such a great idea! So original! Never before has an author of a hot bestseller considered such a bold move!

Onto the recap!

We last left Ana and Christian on a journey to a boathouse spanking.

Christian bursts through the wooden door of the boathouse and pauses to flick on some lights.

Christian sets me on my feet on the wooden floor.

The floor is wooden, the door is wooden, everything is wooden. At least it matches the prose.

I don’t have time to examine my surroundings-

Remember the earlier chapters, where I complained about logical disconnect? This one is such a disconnect, it’s a POV skew. Ana doesn’t have time to examine her surroundings, but in the paragraph just above the one containing this line, we get the following, detailed description:

He pauses at the doorway and touches another switch – halogens this time, they are softer, on a dimmer – and we’re in an attic room with sloping ceilings. It’s decorated with a nautical New England theme: navy blues and creams with a dash of red. The furnishings are sparse, just a couple of couches are all I can see.

I don’t even blame E.L. James for this, because it’s something an editor should have caught. There should have been a note in the margin, “If she doesn’t have time to examine her surroundings, how is she describing them in first-person present tense?” It doesn’t make any sense. It’s so brutally infuriating, because stuff like this is happening over and over and over. And this is coming from someone who once edited a book where a minor character’s name changed halfway through the book and I didn’t notice. I’m not even a good editor, and I can catch the problems in this, so what gives? Seriously, WHAT FUCKING GIVES?

I am mesmerized… watching him like one would watch a rare and dangerous predator, waiting for him to strike. His breathing is harsh but then he’s just carried me across the lawn and up a flight of stairs. Gray eyes blaze with anger, need, and pure unadulterated lust.Holy shit. I could spontaneously combust from his look alone. 

“Please don’t hit me,” I whisper, pleading.

Back in the day, I had this friend, we’ll call him Davis (because that is his name). He used to hate when I’d tell a story, because everything would be going along just fine, and I’d get to a natural stopping point, like, “And it was the biggest fish I’d ever caught,” but I’d barrel on past that and add something like, “And then six months later, Jimmy died of a ruptured bowel.” I would ruin the anecdote with some grim detail that added nothing but discomfort and horror to the listener. That is what just happened with that excerpt. The first two paragraphs? Fine. A little trite, and little under-punctuated for my tastes, but all in all, fine, and they get you invested in Ana’s sexual excitement. And then she’s pleading with him to not hit her. I don’t think there is anything less sexy in the world.

His brow furrows, his eyes widening.

How is that even possible? I can only imagine it looks something like this:

He pulls back suddenly, our collective breathing ragged and mingling. My hands drop to his arms and he glares down at me.“What are you doing to me?” he whispers confused.“Kissing you.”“You said no.”“What?” No to what?
“At the dinner table, with your legs.”Oh… that’s what this is all about.

“No one’s ever said no to me before. And it’s so – hot.” His eyes widen slightly, filled with wonder and lust.

Okay, but… Ana has said no to you a lot, Chedward. She said no to the books, to the car, she put up massive resistance about signing the contract… Ana says no to you a lot, but you usually just steamroll over her objections with alcohol or threats. Clearly, the characters and the author did not pay attention to the entire first part of this book. But he’s not just lust-angry (langry?) because she said no to digital penetration five feet from his mother, but because of other stuff, too. Stuff that makes me angry, and not in a “I want to hump you in a boathouse” way:

“I’m mad because you never mentioned Georgia to me. I’m mad because you went drinking with that guy who tried to seduce you when you were drunk and who left you when you were ill with an almost complete stranger. What kind of friend does that?

Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you the complete stranger who took an unconscious woman back to your hotel room? The first time I read this, I thought he was blaming Kate, but on second read I went, “whoa, hold the phone.” Because it was undeniably shitty of Kate to have let Ana get spirited away by a stranger while unconscious. But we can’t put the onus for Ana’s safety in that situation on Jose. Jose wasn’t there when Ana was unconscious, he was there when she was puking and both Chedward and Ana were telling him to leave. We absolutely can hold Jose responsible for assaulting Ana and not taking “no” for an answer. But it takes some incredible balls for Christian to be saying, “Well, that guy is terrible, because he didn’t stop me from taking you out of that club unconscious even though he wasn’t there when it happened. Never mind that I shouldn’t have been doing that in the first goddamned place.“

But Ana doesn’t really object to this twisted logic, because Christian wants to fuck her, and as we all know, Ana is nothing but an open vagina with a bachelor’s in English.

“We don’t have long. This will be quick, and it’s for me, not you. Do you understand? Don’t come, or I will spank you,” he says through clenched teeth.

Holy crap… how do I stop?

Yeah, that’s a good question, when we’re talking about Ana. Am I the only person who finds it a little… I don’t want to say “totally unbelievable”, because I’m sure there is some woman out there who orgasms at the drop of a hat without any prior sexual experience. But I’d go so far as to say that the majority of women did not have the experience that Ana has had in this book, where, without any prior sexual exploration of her own body, orgasm after copious, gushing orgasm, happens from the tiniest touch or a whisper of her name. Seriously, just saying Ana’s name causes her to orgasm in this book. I’m not saying such a state of arousal isn’t possible, I’m just saying that it’s not plausible every single time. And yes, this is fantasy, but the fantasy becomes less enjoyable once the boundaries of incredulity are stretched as thin as a hymen.

This time, though, Ana doesn’t come like an automated orgasm machine. He leaves her unfulfilled, to punish her:

“Don’t touch yourself. I want you frustrated. That’s what you do to me by not talking to me, by denying me what’s mine.” His eyes blaze anew, angry again.

Let’s examine what Christian believes is his:

• The right to sexually humiliate his girlfriend by fingering her in the presence of his entire family and her best friend.
• The right to control who Ana spends time with.
• The right to control whether or not Ana can leave the state.

This guy. This fucking guy.

 Mia comes to the boathouse, and the someone calls her irritating. I’m not sure who, because this is how it’s written:

He turns and raises his eyebrows at me.“Just in time. Christ, she can be really irritating.” I scowl back at him, hastily restoring my panties to their rightful place, and stand with as much dignity as I can muster in my just-fucked state. Quickly, I attempt to smooth my just-fucked hair.

She was just-fucked, in case you missed it. But seriously, who is speaking that dialogue? It seems like something a big brother would say about a little sister, but it’s attached, for some reason, to Ana’s action.

Lots of commenters have pointed out how skeevy it is that there are characters named Ana and Mia in this. If you’re unaware, Ana and Mia are the “friendly” names that very, very sick individuals use to refer to their “friendly” eating disorders. You’ll find these names peppered liberally on Pro-Ana and Pro-Mia websites, where people (usually young girls in their tweens, teens, and twenties) who view their eating disorders as beautiful and positive gather to share tips on how to starve themselves to death. The presence of the names become even more disturbing when you realize that Ana never wants to eat, and Christian constantly pushes her to do so, and all the stuff about Christian having suffered hunger and now his company is feeding starving people in Africa. But I think the names have to be just a horrible coincidence. I don’t think E.L. James actually used them to hurt anyone, or to support the tragedy of Pro-Ana subculture.

And it’s time for a Pride and Prejudice reference:

“But it was tolerable?” he asks softly.I flush.“Barely,” I whisper, but I can’t help my smirk.

Mia tells Ana that Kate and Elliot are going to leave, and comments that they’re just awful for not being able to keep their hands off each other. This is the exact moment Ana becomes a true Mary Sue. Other characters are taking an instant liking to her and complaining about the awful behavior of a character who is behaving exactly as the Mary Sue does. If there were any remaining doubts that this was a fanfic, they have just been blown to smithereens. This is like every Lord of The Rings fanfic where Galadriel’s long lost daughter whines and bitches and has to be saved constantly, and then mid-rescue, Legolas is all, “I love you, because you’re not like other girls, who whine and bitch and have to be saved constantly.”

Sorry, I read a lot of fanfic over the weekend.

Mia thinks something is definitely up, and that makes Ana “blush scarlet”. I’ve actually had people ask if Ana really flushes or blushes as much as she appears to in the excerpts I post. With the exception of the occasional formatting issue (which, btw, totally plagues this post, so sorry for that, blame Blogger), the excerpts I’m posting are straight from the book. I don’t add anything to them. If I was going to add anything, it would be correct punctuation. Ana flushes/blushes that much, and more.

Back at the house, Ana says a tender goodbye to her friend Kate:

“I need to speak to you about antagonizing Christian,” I hiss quietly in her ear as she embraces me.“He needs antagonizing, then you can see what he’s really like. Be careful, Ana – he’s so controlling.” she whispers. “See you later.”I KNOW WHAT HE’S REALLY LIKE – YOU DON’T! – I scream at her in my head. I’m fully aware that her actions come from a good place, but sometimes she just oversteps the mark, and right now so far that she’s into the neighboring state.

Said every woman in every abusive relationship EVER.

I flush, and Christian rolls his eyes again. I purse my lips. Why can he do that when I can’t? I want to roll my eyes back at him, but I do not dare, not after his threat in the boathouse.

I’m not even going to point out why it’s wrong for someone to hit you if you roll your eyes. I’m just going to stop commenting on the abuse at all, really. Because if it isn’t fucking obvious, well…

Ana watches Christian say goodbye to his parents, and then they join Taylor in the car, and Ana brings up how she got invited to the dinner.

“I think that you felt trapped into bringing me to meet your parents.” My voice is soft and hesitant. “If Elliot hadn’t asked Kate, you’d never have asked me.” I can’t see his face in the dark, but he tilts his head, gaping at me.“Anastasia, I’m delighted that you’ve met my parents. Why are you so filled with self-doubt? It never ceases to amaze me. You’re such a strong, self-contained young woman, but you have such negative thoughts about yourself. If I hadn’t wanted you to meet them, you wouldn’t be here. Is that how you were feeling the whole time you were there?” Oh! He wanted me there – and it’s a revelation. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable answering me as he would if he were hiding the truth.

 Yeah, Ana. That’s how things work in real life. People have boundaries. They don’t do things just to even the score between roommates. This is another part that screams Mary Sue to me. We’re constantly told, by Christian, by Kate, by Ana’s dad, by the doctor who sees her just long enough for a pap smear, that Ana is strong, self-contained, bright, smart, mature, etc., but we never actually see her being those things. Ana hasn’t done one smart thing yet. Self-contained? She curled up in the fetal position and cried on the floor of a parking garage. It’s almost like E.L. James thought, “Ah, characterization. That’s when other characters tell the reader what I want them to know about Ana. I’ve solved it!”

“Yes, I thought that. And another thing, I only mentioned Georgia because Kate was talking about Barbados – I haven’t made up my mind.”“Do you want to go and see your mother?”“Yes.”He looks oddly at me, like he’s having some internal struggle.“Can I come with you?” he asks eventually.What!?

If there is one thing, just ONE THING that publishing takes away from the phenomenal success of 50 Shades of Grey, I hope it is that interobangs become acceptable punctuation again.

Ana and Christian have a flirty little conversation about how funny he is (spoiler alert: he’s not) and then things get serious when he asks why she wants to go to Georgia. She wants to think about their relationship. He doesn’t understand why she needs to think about it, because on his end, shit is hunky-dory:

Holy crap. How did this suddenly become such and intense and meaningful conversation? It’s been sprung on me, like an exam that I’m not prepared for. What do I say? Because I think I love you, and you just see me as a toy. Because I can’t touch you, because I’m too frightened to show you any affection in case you flinch or tell me off or worse – beat me?

That’s right. She’s still not viewing this as consensual BDSM. She’s still thinking that if she does something bad, he beats her.

I shrug, trapped. I don’t want to lose him. In spite of all his demands, his need to control, his scary vices. I have never felt as alive as I do now. It’s a thrill to be sitting here beside him. He’s so unpredictable, sexy, smart, and funny. But his moods… oh – and he wants to hurt me. He says he’ll think about my reservations, but it still scares me.

Why does Ana love this guy? I can’t figure it out. All he has done, from the very beginning of this book, is stalk and intimidate her. She can’t just be in love with him because the author says so. That’s not how books work, E.L.

We’re coming near to the end of the bridge, and the road is once more bathed in the neon light of the street lamps so his face is intermittently in the light and the dark.

Oh. Oh please. Please, Ana, it’s all I’ve ever wanted –

 And it’s such a fitting metaphor.

Yes, yes, OH GOD YES.

This man, whom I once thought of as a romantic hero – a brave, shining white knight, or the dark knight as he said.

 YES! YES! A MILLION TIMES YES!

And then she ruins it, because like Britta, Ana is the opposite of Batman:

He’s not a hero, he’s a man with serious, deep emotional flaws, and he’s dragging me into the dark. Can I not guide him into the light?

Remember those universal red flags? “You have the urge to ‘love him into emotional wellness,’ if that were possible.” Just saying.

But of course, her love for him wins out, and she ends up in his lap, making out with him and vowing that she’s going to sign the contract. He tells her to wait until after she gets back from Georgia, and he’s willing to try to be a normal boyfriend for her. He wants her to stay the night with him, and it’s all romance and hearts until they get out of the car and Christian realizes that she’s not wearing a jacket. She’s afraid she’s going to get spanked, and then she’s relieved when she doesn’t.

I gaze up at him in the elevator. I have assumed he’d like me to sleep with him, and then I remember that he doesn’t sleep with anyone, although he has with me a few times.

He has with you a lot of times. I can only think of one time he didn’t sleep with you, and that was when he didn’t take a nap before going to his parent’s house. There is some elevator hanky-panky, and it makes me realize… this is a real building. In a real city. And they’re selling condos there right now to capitalize on the success of the book… and since some crazy woman not only had a replica Twilight wedding, but forced her husband to legally change his last name to Cullen… some deranged 50 Shades fan is going to buy a condo there and fuck in the elevator, making the Escala building #1 on my top ten biohazard sites in the fucking universe.

Ana points out that having sex in bed is “vanilla”, and Chedward tells her that he’s fine with vanilla.

“Since when?”“Since last Saturday. Why? Were you hoping for something more exotic?” My inner goddess pops her head above the parapet.

 Back that shit right up? That bitch has a castle now? Ana, you better get your inner goddess under control before she starts building siege engines.

There’s some dialogue while they go into the bedroom and get Ana naked, and then it’s all:

“Don’t you want to fuck?” he asks.“No,” I breathe.“Oh.” He frowns.Okay, here goes… deep breath.
“I want you to make love to me.”

This makes Mr. Grey furious. He tells her that touching is a hard limit, and then he’s all, “Just put on this t-shirt and go to bed.” Ana goes to the bathroom and checks herself out in the mirror.

 After all that I’ve done today, it’s still the same ordinary girl gaping back at me. What did you expect – that you’d grow horns and a little pointy tail? My subconscious snaps at me. And what the hell are you doing? Touching is his hard limit. Too soon, you idiot, he needs to walk before he can run. My subconscious is furious, medusa-like in her anger, hair flying, her hands clenched around her face like Edvard Munch’s Scream.

What do Medusa and the guy in The Scream have in common? THEY DON’T HAVE FUCKING HAIR, ANA. That’s like, Medusa 101, okay?

 Ana realizes that she’s rushing him, because you know, that’s too much intimacy to expect from a guy who thinks it’s acceptable to stick his fingers in your hooey at dinner with his parents. Too much intimacy to touch him, but she does use his toothbrush again. And Christian catches her this time.

Christian stands in the doorway, his PJs hanging off his hips – in that way that makes every little cell in my body stand up and take notice. He’s bare-chested, and I drink him in like I’m crazed with thirst and he’s clear cool mountain spring water.

This book brought to you by Evian.

He gazes at me impassively, then smirks and comes to stand beside me. Our eyes lock in the mirror, gray to blue. I finish with his toothbrush, rinse it off, and hand it to him, my look never leaving his. Wordlessly, he takes the toothbrush from me and puts it in his mouth. I smirk back at him, and his eyes are suddenly dancing with humor.“Do feel free to borrow my toothbrush.” His tone is gently mocking. 

Of all the things that I consider “okay” to hit another person for, and he doesn’t use the opportunity. Let this be a warning to anyone thinking about spending the night at my house: if I walk in on you using my toothbrush, I will punch you in the face.

Again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again…

Ana asks Christian how he would feel if she told him he couldn’t touch her, and he tells her that he had a fucked up childhood, but he doesn’t want to talk about it because basically he doesn’t want to burden her with how terrible it was. Ana argues that she wants to know him better, and he’s all, “‘You know me well enough.'” So then Ana realizes she has some bargaining power. If he tells her what she wants to know, he can spank her. He tells her it doesn’t work that way. And really, how could she not expect that answer. It’s Grey’s way, or the highway. But he goes for it, and brings out the Ben Wa balls. He puts them in her mouth first, then in his, because double spit lubrication all the way:

Fuck, this is sexier than the toothbrush.

Anything, Ana, literally ANYTHING is sexier than using another person’s toothbrush.

 So, he puts the Ben Wa balls in her and asks her to get him a glass of water, and then he makes her ask him to spank her, and she does. And then he spanks her, and of course it’s mind-blowing and erotic, and then he takes the balls out and they have sex. I would excerpt some of it here, but it’s all the same words as she used in the rest of the sex scenes. Then he rubs lotion on her butt and we get the weirdest fucking pillow talk I have ever read in my entire life:

Careful not to touch my stinging behind, we are spooning again. He kisses me very softly beside my ear.“The woman who brought me into this world was a crack-whore, Anastasia. Go to sleep.”

Right, because it’s super easy to sleep after your boyfriend calls his biological mother a crack-whore. He tells Ana that his mom died when he was four, and he doesn’t really remember much.

And I slip into a dazed and exhausted sleep, dreaming of a four-year-old, gray-eyed boy in a dark, scary, miserable place.

Sweet dreams, Ana! 

He didn’t know her, and it didn’t make sense. And he was petrified.What would happen, when they were alone? How would he talk to her, calm her? What if he was being had, and she didn’t want this at all? How could he trust that anything that man downstairs had said?What if she was simple?

So, there you have it. The very first look at Silent Surrender. 


However, I always hate trying to tag people for these things. I don’t mind when people tag me, but I’m convinced that everyone hates me when I tag them, and I’m destroying the lives of everyone around me. Remember what I said about being socially awkward? Rather than tag people, I just encourage all of you to do this. Published, prepublished, fanfic writer, I don’t care. Do this on your blog and post a link in the comments. Let’s make this interactive.

Due to my daughter’s illness, I totally forgot to draw the winner of Bride of The Wolf last Saturday! Now, my daughter isn’t better yet, but she is sleeping, and that’s nearly as good. I pray no one you love ever gets this horrible illness. Not because it’s serious or anything, because it’s not. It’s just made this kid insanely bitchy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit. I can read!


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

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

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

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

AT THE FAST FOOD DRIVE THRU:


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

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

EMAILING MY CAR’S MANUFACTURER


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

Ten minutes later…

Me: They haven’t emailed me back yet.

Husband: It’s only been ten minutes.

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

Ten more minutes later…

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

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