Trout Nation Posts

After a brain-meltingly drunk week on Bourbon street, you would think I would be coming into this recap refreshed and renewed for the task ahead of me. Instead, I’m bone weary and looking at the page count of this thing in despair.

I know this is the spot where the links go, but since I’ve received such a slew of them over the week and I’ve had no time to investigate them all, you’ll have to forgive me for putting them off until the next recap. The good news is, the funny stuff will still be funny, and the news stuff will still probably be infuriating, if not timely.

One thing I would like to share with you, by the by, is that this week wasn’t just total debauchery. I was actually working. I do that, sometimes, but don’t let that get around. I have a reputation to maintain. Anyway, I’ve been at the Authors After Dark conference, a reader-oriented event for fans of the romance genre. On one of the days, I was on an erotic romance panel. And because I should never talk about anything, anywhere, in public, I said the following things:

• About reading other erotic romance after reading 50 Shades: “It’s the only drug where your second hit will be more powerful than your first.”
• About the term “mommy porn”: “Can we just fucking stop calling it mommy porn? Just because I have kids doesn’t mean I stop having any sexual desire or curiosity.”
• About “down there”: “It’s not a fucking down there. I don’t have a down there. I have a pussy. I have a cunt.”

Boy, I want him inside me now.

Willikers! They have sex, it’s exactly like every sex scene they’ve had so far, with one caveat:

He groans loudly, closing his eyes again, tipping his head back. Seeing Christian undone is enough to seal my fate, and I come audibly, exhaustingly, spinning down and around, collapsing on top of him.

Wait, she had an orgasm without him verbally commanding her to do so? I’m actually excited about this. It’s like a lunar eclipse, it doesn’t happen very often in these books.

Afterward, Christian has some condescending things to say about Ana’s other potential suitors:

“All those boys pursuing you – that isn’t enough of a clue?”

“Boys? What boys?”

“You want the list?” Christian frowns. “The photographer, he’s crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate’s older brother. Your boss,” he adds bitterly.

“Oh, Christian, that’s just not true.”

“Trust me, they want you. They want what’s mine.”

Okay, a couple things here. First of all, gross. Second, Ana, you know that Jose has a thing for you. You expressly told us that in the first chapters of the first book. You friendzoned him, that doesn’t mean he stops having a crush on you. Plus, Miss Won’t Take A Hint, besides him professing his love for you while he drunkenly groped you outside of the bar in the first book, he also made you the focus of his very first gallery exhibition. I think you can drop the “aw, shucks, no one would be interested in me,” routine when literally everything with a penis in this book wants to climb on you despite the fact that you have the most horrible personality ever recorded in fiction.

Also, I hate the way Christian, who is all of twenty-fucking-six years old calls men who are his age or just a few years younger, “boys.” In fact, he included Jack Hyde in that category… if it hasn’t been stated outright, it is somewhat implied that Jack Hyde is older than both Ana and Christian. So what is up with this “boy” thing? It’s juvenile and pretentious, so I guess it shouldn’t really surprise me that he’s doing it.

Finally, does it seem weird to anyone else (and I know that it does, otherwise you wouldn’t be here reading this) that Christian isn’t like, “They want you because you’re a great person,” but instead, “They want you because you’re mine,” as  if that’s the lure of Ana? Just belonging to Christian somehow makes her something for other men to covet? That doesn’t make sense, because these men all liked her before Christian was a blip on their radar.

Since he still has the lipstick marks on his body, Ana wants to touch him, but first, he has to throw the used condom on the floor. Because he is a gentleman.

“I hate those things. I’ve a mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot.”

I probably don’t have to tell you what’s wrong with a man saying he’s going to have a woman injected with hormonal birth control without asking her opinion on the idea first. But a lot. A lot is wrong with that. Ana, however, is just skeptical that a doctor as highly respected as Dr. Greene will come-a-runnin’, so the short discussion ends up focused on how much power Christian Grey has in Seattle.

Christian is still very uncomfortable being touched, but to his credit he is game to try. This isn’t enough for Ana, though, who immediately brings up Mrs. Robinson. When Christian says he doesn’t want to talk about his past, this is what he tells Ana:

“No, you can’t, Ana. You see red Whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It’s a fact. I can’t change it. I’m lucky that you don’t have one, because it would drive me crazy if you did.”

So, basically, “It’s okay for me to have a past and you just have to deal with it, but if you had a past, I would be even more unbearably possessive than I am now.”

I actually just finished reading a great paranormal romance novel by Shanna Abe, The Smoke Thief. Near the end of the book, the hero tells the heroine that he knows she has a past, and he has a past, too, but he’s not going to hold her past against her and expects the same courtesy from her, so that they can forge ahead in a loving relationship. I almost jumped up and threw my fist in the air in like, a frozen movie moment, I was so excited to read that. It’s a fantastic book and I absolutely recommend it.

Since Christian has no refractory period, Ana just touching his stomach gets him hard and ready again, and there is a section break as they start to have sex again.

Now, onto a word-use nit-pick! Huzzah!

I stand beneath the shower, absentmindedly washing myself, careful not to wet my tied-back hair, contemplating the last couple of hours.

How do you do something both absentmindedly and carefully? Answer? You don’t. Those things are near opposites. “Careful” implies some degree of concentration, while “absentmindedly” implies a lack of thought. Words are hard, guys.

Ana thinks about how much Christian has revealed to her in the past day:

It’s staggering, trying to assimilate all the information and to reflect on what I’ve learned: his salary details – whoa, he’s stinking rich, and for someone so young, it’s just extraordinary-

I would have said “totally unbelievable,” but whatevs.

and the dossiers he has on me and on all his brunette submissives. I wonder if they are all in that filing cabinet.

My subconscious purses her lips at me and shakes her head – don’t even go there. I frown. Just a quick peek?

The grown-up, not frosted side of me says that she should respect his privacy if she expects him to respect hers, but the frosted kid in me says to crack that shit open, because we all know he’s not going to really respect her privacy.

And there’s Leila – with a gun, potentially, somewhere – and her crap taste in music still on his iPod.

Yeah, but you listened to it, didn’t you, Ana? You scrolled past all the Thomas Tallis to get that Beyonce, so let’s not go pointing proud, proud fingers here.

But even worse, Mrs. Pedo Robinson; I cannot wrap my head around her, and I don’t want to. I don’t want her to be a shimmering-haired specter in our relationship.

But who wouldn’t go off the deep end? What normal, sane person would do that to a fifteen-year-old boy? How much has she contributed to his fucked-upness? I don’t understand her.  And worse still, she says she helped him. How?

How indeed, Ana? Oh, I’m sorry, I was addressing a different question, which was, “how can this incredibly good point be made and maintained in a book that gets everything else so completely wrong?” But still, and here is the SHOCKING part, I really like that this is in here. At this point, I was so afraid that the author would normalize statutory rape with dumb justifications, that I was really, really pleased with this paragraph.

He’s said such loving things to me today.

Like what, Ana? What has he said that has been loving? Was it the part where he said men want you because you belong to him? Or the part where he was going to force birth control on you without asking you if you wanted it, because he doesn’t like condoms? Was it when he got angry with you for complimenting his mother and snapped at you about picking out a dress to wear tonight? Help me out, Ana, because I don’t remember a lot of “loving things” Christian has said or done in this or the last chapter.

Perhaps we can make this work. But how long will he want to do this without wanting to beat the crap out of me because I cross some arbitrary line?

Ah, romance.

Ana goes into her room and looks at the clothes that Christian had bought her before their breakup, and of course they’re all expensive and this makes Ana uncomfortable. Christian comes in to watch Ana get dressed, and they have one of their “cute” conversations about how much they want to fuck, but they can’t because they have to go somewhere. They actually have to go to his parents’ house for a charity dinner (if you’ve forgotten), so of course, that’s the appropriate time for her to wear the Ben Wa balls. No, seriously. He wants her to go to dinner with his parents like that. What is it with him and his parents and wanting to do sexual stuff to his girlfriend in close proximity to them? That’s a really, really specific fetish.

He puts the balls in and then gives her a pair of “second-chance” diamond earrings from Cartier (yes, as in, “you gave me a second chance, allow me to buy you some fancy shit since I can’t express emotion any other way), and then Ana admires herself in her fancy new dress.

My hair falls in soft waves around my face, spilling over my shoulders to my breasts. I tuck one side behind my ear, revealing my second-chance earrings. I have kept my makeup to a minimum, a natural look. Eyeliner, mascara, a little pink blush, and pale pink lipstick.

I don’t really need the blush. I am a little flushed from the constant movement of the silver balls.

“Security team?” I ask.

“Close protection. They’re under Taylor’s control. He’s trained in that, too.” Christian hands me a champagne flute. 

Taylor is trained in controlling people, too? Did he and Christian go to the same school for that? And I’m about to start a drinking game where you just drink every time the characters drink, but again, everyone would die.

“Here, you’re going to need this.” He hands me a large velvet pouch that was resting on the kitchen island. “Open it,” he says between sips of champagne. Intrigued, I reach into the bag and pull out an intricate silver masquerade mask with cobalt blue feathers in a plume crowning the top.

I love it when the cover is described in the book. This is my favorite.

“It’s a masked ball,” he states matter-of-factly.

No, it’s just a mask, Christian. Oh. Oh, no, I see, I get it. The thing that you’re going to… never mind.

“Are you wearing one?”

Wait, can’t you tell, Ana? You’re standing right next – Oh. Right, I got it, is he wearing one to the… never mind.

“Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out his hand, he leads me out into the hallway and to a door beside the stairs. He opens it, revealing a large room roughly the same size as his playroom, which must be directly above us. This one is filled with books. Wow, a library, every wall crammed floor to ceiling. In the center is a full-sized billiard table illuminated by a long, triangular-prism-shaped Tiffany lamp.

“You have a library!” I squeak in awe, overwhelmed with excitement.

Yes, Belle, he has a library. You’re excited now, but wait until later when you realize he didn’t go out and buy you those first editions of Tess of The D’Urbervilles, he just pulled them off the shelf. Then you won’t be as impressed.

“Yes, the balls room, as Elliot calls it. The apartment is quite spacious. I realized today, when you mentioned exploring, that I’ve never given you a tour. We don’t have time now, but I thought I’d show you this room, maybe challenge you to a game of billiards in the not-too-distant future.”

Sorry, chap, I have plans for the “not-too-distant future” and they involve being trapped on a Satellite of Love with robot friends I made all by myself, even though I’m just a janitor. Holy shit, I just realized that MST3K is the sequel to Good Will Hunting.

Seriously, though, Christian “forgot” to give Ana a tour because E.L. James was in the middle of writing Masters of The Universe when Disney’s Beauty and The Beast released on DVD and she was all, “Damnit! Why didn’t I think to give him a sexy, sexy library?!” I would bet money on that.

“Bring it on.” I secretly hug myself with glee. Jose and I bonded over pool.

You should mention that to Chedward. I bet he won’t be jealous at all.

Next scene, they’re in the back of the Audi, headed to the party:

I am beginning to feel a dull, pleasurable ache deep in my belly, caused by the balls. I wonder how long I will be able to manage without some, um… relief? I cross my legs. As I do, something that’s been gnawing at me in the back of my mind suddenly surfaces.

“Where did you get the lipstick?” I ask Christian quietly.

Okay, why is this gnawing at Ana? You and I both know, reader (and specifically YOU, not the other people reading this blog, I’m talking to YOU personally), that Ana is wondering if it’s Mrs. Robinson’s lipstick. But why would it have to be? The guy is rich, and he’s had some girlfriends. Either he bought it at CVS (they don’t make you declare your gender before you buy stuff), or one of his girlfriends could have left it behind. I honestly don’t see why this would be “gnawing” at her, except for the part where she’s ridiculously insecure. But then, the most wonderful thing happens:

He smirks at me and points toward the front. “Taylor,” he mouths.

MOST. INTERESTING. I’m so invested in Taylor at this point, that I’m now dying to know where he got the lipstick. Because I know he didn’t just pick it up at CVS. He’s got that lipstick because he’s a stone cold ladies man. Why can’t this book be about Taylor?

 When I open my eyes again, Christian is regarding me closely, a dark prince. It must be the dinner jacket and bow tie, but he looks older, sophisticated, a devastatingly handsome roue with licentious intent. He simply takes my breath away. I’m in his sexual thrall, and if I’m to believe him, he’s in mine.

Oh my god, Christian Grey is Dracula. It’s all so clear now!

Also, reading the description, especially the bit about the bow tie, I thought, “This is exactly what the 11th Doctor thinks he looks like.”

Long, pale pink paper lanters hang over the drive, and as we inch closer in the Audi, I can see they are everywhere. In the early evening light they look magical, as if we’re entering an enchanted kingdom. I glance at Christian. How suitable for my prince – and my childish excitement blooms, eclipsing all other feelings.

And that, right there, is the crux of Ana’s problem. She lets childish excitement and romantic expectations formed from fairytales and gothic novels eclipse the very real warning signs she’s acknowledged, then chosen to conveniently ignore, throughout the entire first book.

Before they get out of the car, they put on their masks, and we get some really weird emphasis:

 All I can see of his face is his beautiful mouth and strong jaw.

Now, since I’ve been quoting, I’ve been converting all the text into italics, using plain text to represent italics, because I am, apparently, the editor of People magazine. Anyway, the “jaw” at the end of the sentence is in italics in the book, for some reason. I don’t know why. It’s totally bizarre, and probably the most puzzling thing in all three books.

Coming into the party, there are photographers, and they call out to Christian:

Christian nods in acknowledgement and pulls me close as we pose quickly for a photo. How do they know it’s him?

He’s famous. That’s how they know who it is.

Oh, my picture in the press again. Leila briefly enters my mind. This is how she found me, posing with Christian. The thought is unsettling, though it’s comforting that I am unrecognizable beneath my mask.

Um, Ana, I hate to ruin your moment of calm here, but Leila already knows you’re dating Christian. It doesn’t matter if your picture is in the paper, she already knows who you are and where you work.

Christian gives Ana another glass of champagne, and then it’s time for the needlessly detailed description!

We approach a large white pergola hung with smaller versions of the paper lanterns. Beneath it shines a black-and-white checkered dance floor surrounded by a low fence with entrances on three sides. Standing at each entrance are two elaborate ice sculptures of swans. The fourth side of the pergola is occupied by a stage where a string quartet is playing softly, a haunting, ethereal piece I don’t recognize. The stage looks set for a big band but as there’s no sign of the musicians, I figure this must be for later.

I complained about the description in these books to a friend recently, and she defended it by saying, “Well, it is fanfic, and there was a lot of needless description in Twilight.” That doesn’t make it okay. Seriously, in no universe am I ever going to need to know the number of exits from the dance floor, or that there isn’t a big band now, but there might be later. Just move the damn story along!

A young woman appears out of the throng and throws her arms around his neck, and immediately I know she’s Mia.

Because you’ve met her before. If I see my friend Jill on the street, I don’t think to myself, “A woman in a Beatles t-shirt and red converse sneakers, and immediately I know she’s Jill,” I think to myself, “I see Jill.”

Mia is super excited to see Ana, and wants to take her to meet her friends, because none of them can believe Christian has a girlfriend. The implication is that no one can believe a notorious playboy can commit, but I’m going to assume they can’t believe he has a girlfriend because he’s so fucking difficult, no one wants to date him.

I shoot a quick, panicked glance at Christian, who shrugs in a resigned, I-know-she’s-impossible-I-had-to-live-with-her-for-years way, and let Mia lead me over to a group of four young women, all expensively attired and impeccably groomed.

Yeah, the nerve of that bitch, wanting to introduce you to people at a party! How inappropriate.

Mia makes hasty introductions. Three of them are sweet and kind, but Lily, I think her name is, regards me sourly from beneath her red mask.

“Of course, we all thought Christian was gay,” she says snidely, concealing her rancor with a large, fake smile.

“Lily, behave yourself. It’s obvious he has excellent taste in women. He was just waiting for the right one to come along, and it wasn’t you!”

Thanks, Mia, for defending your brother from such horrific allegations of gayness. This book doesn’t reek of homophobia now AT ALL.

Lily blushes the same color as her mask, as do I. Could this be any more uncomfortable?

As if summoned by those very words, who appears but Christian “The Dark Prince” Grey himself, to drag Ana away from Mia’s friends and introduce her to his. Ana is getting tipsy, and then dinner is served. They go to the big tent where the dinner is being held, and Ana gets to meet more of Christian’s family:

“Mother,” Christian greets her stiffly and kisses her on both cheeks.

“Oh, Christian, so formal!” she scolds him teasingly.

Have they not met?

Christian’s grandparents also show up, and Ana thinks they seem “exuberant and youthful,” but she can’t tell because of their masks. Here’s a hint to their age, Ana: they have a twenty-seven year old grandson. Trust me, they’re probably old.

“Grandmother, Grandfather, may I introduce Anastasia Steele?”

Mrs. Trevelyan is all over me like a rash. “Oh, he’s finally found someone, how wonderful, and so pretty! Well, I do hope you make an honest man of him,” she gushes, shaking my hand.

All over her like a rash? How fucking charming. Tell me again why everyone is so taken with the beautiful, kind, Ana? She’s saying this about someone’s grandmother.

Mia has brought a date, so Christian has to try and intimidate him:

Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him shrewdly. Don’t tell me that poor Mia suffers from her overbearing brother, too.

No, he only has a pathological need for total control in one area of his life.

Christian’s father opens the party with a short welcome speech, then joins them at their table:

Carrick joins us, kissing me on both cheeks, surprising me.

And then Christian punches him out. No, totally kidding, that doesn’t happen. But in my mind, it did.

The MC gives each table some instructions for a game they’re playing:

“In the center of the table you will find an envelope,” the MC continues. “Would everyone find, beg, borrow, or steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage, write your name on it, and place it inside the envelope? Table heads, please guard these envelopes carefully. We will need them later.”

Oh, and they will be full of money. That’s a good reason to guard them carefully, too.

Then, there’s some more needless description, this time of Christian’s fountain pen:

I sign my name using his fountain pen – it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap – and Mia passes the envelope around.

I bet you have been dying since page one of the first book, thinking, “If only I knew what Christian Grey’s fountain pen looks like. I can’t fully immerse myself in the details of this erotic fantasy until I know this.” Breathe easy now, friend. Your moment has arrived.

There’s a menu on the table, and there’s a different wine served with each course, so Ana should really be in her element here. Then the waiters come to serve the first course:

“Hungry?” Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I know he’s not referring to the food, and the muscles deep in my belly respond.

“Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and Christian’s lips respond.

Do you get it? She’s hungry, but not for food. What she’s saying is, she wants to have sex, but she’s saying it in such a way that suggests she’s talking about dinner. I’m not sure if you get it, and I want to make it very clear for you, because it’s a subtle motif that has been woven throughout the book and I feel like if you’re not fully grasping the double meaning of “hungry” every single time it is used in this context, you’re really missing out on something special.

Ana wishes Kate were at the party, but I’m really glad she’s not, because listening to Ana bitch about yet another female would be just too much for me to take in this chapter. And besides, she’s too busy bitching about Christian’s grandmother, aka The Rash:

Christian’s grandmother is the most vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually at the expense of her husband. I begin to feel a little sorry for Mr. Trevelyan.

If a woman in this novel is not Ana, then they are bitches. It’s how this works.

There is some boring stuff about Christian’s business and this wind-up cell phone they’re developing, and people stop by the table to meet him.

He introduces me to some but not other. I’m intrigued to know how and why he makes the distinction.

My money is on jealous insecurity.

Dessert rolls around, and Ana is done with the Ben Wa balls, she has to go take them out.

Before I can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at our table, and with him – if I’m not mistaken – is Miss European Pigtails.

What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel… Gretchen.

She’s masked, of course, but I know it’s her when her gaze doesn’t move beyond Christian. She blushes, and selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Christian doesn’t acknowledge her at all.

Why is she there? As far as I can tell, she’s there because there aren’t enough females for Ana to dislike at this party.

When Ana gets up to go to the bathroom, she’s kind of hoping Christian will go with her so they can fuck at his parent’s house again. Apparently, they both get off on the idea of doing it around his parents, so this is a match made in heaven. But Mia offers to take Ana to the bathroom instead, and Christian sulks, so it’s not going to be totally obvious to everyone what the plan was. Good thinking, Chedward. When she comes back, he’s in a better mood:

Phew… he’s no longer mad at a missed opportunity, though maybe I am.

Why would he be mad? Oh, that’s right, because he’s a child who demands what he wants, when he wants it, and if he doesn’t get it he throws a fit at the nearest available person he can blame. I really need to take better notes here.

There is a list of items up for auction, rich people stuff like oil paintings and landscaping design and driving an Aston-Martin DB7 (because at least SOMEONE in this book drives a rich people car, damn!), and a weekend stay at a property in Colorado that is donated by one Mr. C. Grey. Ana had no idea that Christian owned property in Aspen, and he’s annoyed when she mentions it, so I guess that’s where his super secret vampire lair is located? I’m not sure. She asks him if he owns any property anywhere else:

“I’ll tell you later,” Christian says quietly. “I wanted to come with you,” he adds rather sulkily.

Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still querulous, and no doubt, it’s the frustrating effect of the balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on the list of generous donors.

I wonder why they don’t get invited to more parties, these wacky, fun loving kids. They’re openly pouting because they didn’t get to fuck in the bathroom. I want them at every wedding, funeral, retirement function, etc.

I glance around the tent to see if I can spot her, but I can’t see her telltale hair. Surely Christian would have warned me if she was invited tonight.

Surely, he would have. Just like he warned you that he was taking you to her salon, where he took all of his exes, and like he was going to warn you about how Leila wants to murder you. Because if there is one thing Christian Grey is, by god, it’s forthcoming.

Christian’s weekend away in Aspen is on the block, and the bidding has climbed to $20k. Since she’s in such a good mood, Ana bids $24k, which, if you recall, is the amount of money Christian just deposited in her bank account without her permission. The chapter ends with Ana winning the weekend, and we can all look forward to the endless argument this will cause in Chapter 7.

Since I will be boarding a flying death machine tomorrow – sorry, “commercial airliner” – I thought I should have my affairs in order. So, I approached my husband about my last wishes, to make sure we were both on the same page.

Before we get into the recap proper, I have to make a PSA about the blog schedule. I try to get two 50 Shades recap posts in during the week. I would do more, except it takes a really long time to write these recaps. Even with a copy of the book chock full of notes and underlines, I spend a few hours working on these. For example, today’s recap clocked in at seven hours. So that’s why they’re not up every day. Well, that and the fact that I have children to care for, a husband to maintain a marriage with, a house that frequently requires at least minimal cleaning, and books of my own to write.

With that in mind, I will be “out of the office” next week, attending the Authors After Dark conference in New Orleans. I will be there speaking on the panels “GLBT Alpha/Beta” and “Erotic Romance,” as well as co-hosting a Steampunk tea party and an epic karaoke blow out. So, I’m gonna be a bit busy. Did I mention the hotel is on Burbon street? Busy.

So, what I’m saying is, next week I’m going to be too busy flashing my tits for cheap beads to do any recapping. I thought I would be able to get a post scheduled ahead of time, but it doesn’t look like it’s in the cards, so if you don’t see anything next week, you know the reason why. I will be back in the saddle on the 12th. I will probably post some short updates from the field, however. And if you’re really, really jonesing to know what’s going on, you can follow me on twitter. @JArmintrout. I post links to the freshest recaps there, and I check in quite often. I’m also quite chatty, so just, you know. Be aware that I’ll be blowing up your feed.

Next up, literally everyone in the world has sent me this link this week: Erica Jong hates 50 Shades  It’s some good reading, you should check it out, then come back here and read this recap.

We last left Ana looking on as Mrs. Robinson put her old, old, impossibly old hands all over Christian.

“Greta, who is Mr. Grey talking to?” My scalp is trying to leave the building.

Greta – who is blonde and therefore a whoore, remember – tells her that Mrs. Robinson is, in fact, Mrs. Lincoln, co-owner of the salon with non-other than Christian Grey. She usually doesn’t work at that location, but she just happens to be there filling in for a technician who got sick. After volunteering all that information, Ana asks Greta what Mrs. Lincoln’s first name is, and this happens:

Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curiosity. Shit, perhaps this is a step too far.

Asking what her first name is? Greta just voluntarily spilled all that information and asking her first name is a step too far? Mrs. Lincoln’s first name is Elena, and Ana is glad that her spidey sense was right.

Spidey sense? my subconscious snorts. Pedo sense.

HA! Good one, Ana.

They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talking rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding, grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs his arm soothingly while biting her lip.

And then he just bends her over one of those weird chair hair dryers and fucks her in front of everyone. Just kidding. But can you imagine how this conversation is going? “Hey, Elena, this chick I’m with has this weird hang up about statutory rape. I know, I know, she’s so plebeian. If only she were as rich as we are, she could see that love between an old lady and a teenager is perfectly normal, right?”

Elena smiles at Ana, and Ana glares at her, and Elena and Christian continue to have a conversation we don’t know the content of, until he finally comes back to Ana. She asks him why he didn’t want to introduce her, and he’s genuinely shocked that she has a problem with being in the salon he co-owns with his rapist.

“For a bright man, sometimes…” Words fail me. “I’d like to go, please.”

“Why?”

Because you co-own this place with the woman who molested you. Seriously, what part of this is he not getting? Also, why are we laboring under the delusion that Christian is bright? Is this like when people say Ana is bright, and we’re supposed to just believe it because it’s in print? Christian has yet to do a single thing in this series that I would consider “bright.”

Then, we get words that are practically copied out of those domestic violence handouts that I used throughout the last book:

“We won’t need Franco, Greta,” Christian snaps as we head out of the door. I have to suppress the impulse to run. I want to run fast and far away. I have an overwhelming urge to cry.

 “You wish he would go away, you want to cry, and you want to run away from him.” If you are new here, and you haven’t read the recaps of 50 Shades of Grey, consider checking out this post, 50 Shades and Abusive Relationships, which outlines the red flags in Christian and Ana’s relationship. This is a big one. Christian admits he took some of his other subs, including Samara Leila, to that salon, but he thought Elena wouldn’t be there, as she often works at a different location. He tells her that while Mrs. Robinson met all of his subs, they never knew who she was. Which seems incredibly fucked up, to me, but I have no experience being an emotionally crippled billionaire.


At least Ana doesn’t let it go blithely by:

“Can you see how fucked-up this is?” I glare at him, my voice low.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” And he has the grace to look contrite.

“I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven’t fucked either the staff or the clientele.”

Picky picky.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I can have Franco come to the apartment, or your place,” he says quietly.

“She’s very attractive.”

Franco? I thought that was a dude’s name.

Oh, wait, they’re talking about Mrs. Robinson again. Ana asks if Elena is still married, and Christian says she got divorced five years ago.

“Why aren’t you with her?”

Jeez, Ana, are you trying to set them up? Christian tells her that it’s over between him and Elena, and then he gets a call, so he has to stand on the sidewalk snapping at whoever called him while Ana waits patiently beside him. Remember that, for later in this chapter. When Christian Grey has a phone call, time better fucking stop for him.

People bustle past us, lost in their Saturday morning chores, no doubt contemplating their own personal drama. I wonder if they include stalk ex-submissives, stunning ex-Dommes, and a man who has no concept of privacy under US law.

No, Ana. Just you. Because you’re so special. We get it.

I absolutely hate it when Christian is on the phone, because he talks like someone pretending to be on the phone. He talks on the phone like he’s in a poorly written play, and the words he says are exposition to the audience:

“Killed in a car crash? When?” Christian interrupts my reverie.

And then a paragraph later:

“That’s twice that bastard’s not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?” Christian shakes his head in disgust. “This is beginning to make sense… no… explains why, but not where.”

Christian starts looking around all paranoid, then Ana does, too, but she doesn’t see anything.

“She’s here,” Christian continues. “She’s watching us… Yes… No. Two or four, twenty-four seven… I haven’t broached that yet.” Christian looks at me directly.

At this point, I’m adding “paranoid schizophrenia” to my list of possible mental illnesses for Christian, right next to “borderline personality disorder,” and “reactive attachment disorder.” Christian continues to have his exposition-splosion conversation:

“What?” he whispers and pales, his eyes widening. “I see. When?… That recently? But how?… No background checks?… I see. E-mail me the name, address, and photos if you have them…. twenty-four seven, from this afternoon. Establish liaison with Taylor.” Christian hangs up.

Of course, by now this is all so built up and dramatic that Elena who? Christian tells Ana that he was speaking to his security advisor, who has just discovered that Leila the ex-sub ran out on her husband with some guy who recently died in a car accident.

“The asshole shrink should have found that out,” he says angrily. “Grief, that’s what this is. Come.” He holds out his hand, and I automatically place mine in his before I snatch it away again.

Yeah, um, things haven’t changed with Ana since you took your big, dramatic, elaborate distraction phone call, Christian. Also, why would Leila’s psychologist tell you anything about what was going on in her life? I don’t care what kind of money and power you have, no mental health professional (who wants to keep their license) is going to say, “Oh, you’re her ex? Well, allow me to break HIPAA and tell you all these details about Leila’s life.”

I wish I could say that was the most poorly researched and unbelievable detail in this chapter, but just wait. It’s coming.

So, Ana is still mad and not thrown off the subject by Christian’s phone call:

“Wait a minute. We were in the middle of a discussion about ‘us.’ About her, your Mrs. Robinson.”

Yeah, wait a minute, Christian. I know it’s getting kind of confusing in here. After all, there was practically no plot in the last book, and in this one it’s stacking up, but one crisis at a time. Christian tells Ana they can talk about it at his place, and she’s like, no, I want to get my hair cut, so he calls the salon and says to have Franco at his place in an hour. But she still doesn’t want to go, and Christian is worried that Leila will hunt Ana down and do something to her, so she should really come and stay at his apartment:

“Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychotic break. I don’t know if it’s you or me she’s after, or what lengths she’s prepared to go to. We’ll go to your place, pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we’ve tracked her down.”

Wait, back up. Christian doesn’t know who Leila is after, himself or Ana. So, the obvious thing to do would be to go to his apartment (that Leila already knows the location of and has tried to commit suicide in) so that they’re both there, together, to… make it more convenient for the stalker? If anything, wouldn’t they be safer staying at Ana’s place? Or, I don’t know, filing PPOs against Leila and involving the police somehow? Like, immediately after she tried to kill herself in Christian’s apartment would have been an IDEAL time to get that stuff done.

He glares at me. “You are coming back to my apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair.”

Oh, you charmer, you.

I gape at him…this is beyond belief. Fifty Shades in Glorious Technicolor.

First of all, the entire reason Technicolor existed was so movies weren’t fifty shades of gray. Also, how is this beyond belief? Has he never threatened you with physical violence before, Ana? Haven’t you read the book?

“No,” I state stubbornly. I have to make a stand.

This is Jen, not holding her breath.

Christian threatens to carry her, and she thinks there’s no way he would do that:

Surely he wouldn’t make a scene on Second Avenue?

He tried to finger you at his parents’ dinner table, just inches from his entire family. But you’re right, he probably wouldn’t do anything crazy.

We glare at each other – and abruptly he sweeps down, clasps me around my thighs, and lifts me. Before I know it, I am over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” I scream. Oh, it feels good to scream.

He starts striding along Second Avenue, ignoring me. Clasping his arm firmly around my thighs, he swats my behind with his free hand.

Careful now, Chedward. It’s hard to stride purposefully with a boner. Why is no one stopping this? If I were on the street, and a woman was screaming and being carried off by a man, and it seemed like she was legit angry and not, you know, giggling, I would call the police. Ana sees that people are staring, but I can’t imagine that anyone would see an angry woman screaming “put me down,” to a man carrying her off and not do anything.

Eventually, he does put her down:

What am I going to do? I am so angry, but I’m not even sure what I am angry about – there’s so much.

No, really?

Ana makes a mental list of the reasons she’s mad, which of course leads her to the conclusion that there is something she doesn’t know about the situation:

Realization dawns. Something’s changed. What could that be? I halt, and Christian halts with me. “What’s happened?” I demand.

Of course he can’t tell her right off the bat, there has to be six or seven lines of dialogue in which he evades the question and pretends not to understand what she’s asking, so I’ll skip to the part where he just gives Ana the damned answer:

“She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit yesterday.”

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRp_mVi969I]

Wait right there. Let’s check out Christian’s phone call one more time:

“What?” he whispers and pales, his eyes widening. “I see. When?… That recently? But how?… No background checks?… I see. […]”

Leila got a concealed weapons permit without any background checks? BULL. SHIT.

If you follow me on the twitter or the facebook, you are probably already aware that I’m quite fond of guns, and as such, I am aware that laws vary from state-to-state with regards to open and concealed carry. I decided that this was a big enough plot point that I should do a little research (something E.L. James might have tried, if she wasn’t so busy racing to the next sex scene) and Here is what I found. Background checks are mandatory. From the Washington State Department of Licensing website: “The law enforcement agency will fingerprint you and conduct a background check before you can be issued a license. If you’re a Washington State resident, it may take up to 30 days to complete the background check.”

Oh shit. I gaze at him, blinking, and feel the blood drain from my face as I absorb this news. I may faint. Suppose she wants to kill him? No!

She would have to get in line behind me.

“That means she can just buy a gun,” I whisper.

No, it means she can carry a handgun concealed on her person, or carry a loaded gun in her car. That’s all it means. She could buy the gun any time she wants. Washington is an open carry state, so she could carry the unloaded gun with her, so long as it’s in an exposed holster. Also, she could buy a rifle at any time and just pop them off from a distance with no paperwork at all, that’s what they should be worrying about in his all-glass apartment.

“Ana,” he says, his voice full of concern. He places his hands on my shoulders, pulling me close to him. “I don’t think she’ll do anything stupid, but  – I just don’t want to take that risk with you.”

“Not me… what about you?” I whisper.

While they stand on the sidewalk arguing over who loves who more, Leila could just come up behind them and kill them both. Christian said she was there, and she was watching them. He knows she has a gun. So, by all means, let’s stand on the sidewalk and continue with this, “No, I would be more shattered if she did something to you.”

They go to Ana’s apartment and she packs her stuff (including the Charlie Tango balloon. No, I’m not kidding) to leave. She off-handedly mentions that Kate’s brother is coming to town on Tuesday.

Christian gazes at me blankly, but I notice the frostiness creep into his eyes.

“Well, it’s good you’ll be staying with me. Give him more room,” he says quietly.

Why don’t you just buy the building and make a “No Ethan Allowed” policy, Christian?

They get her stuff and go out to the car, where they argue about who’s driving. Seriously, Leila is a shitty assassin, she could have killed them twice now, while they stand out in the open talking to each other. She could have done it with an AR from a distance, and not had to bother with all these pesky licenses.

I know I sound like I’m rooting for Leila here, but with these two, can you blame me?

Once they’re safely in the car (Leila, you’re killing me here, you could murder/suicide into them in your own car, and it would tie in so poetically with the death of your boyfriend!) they start talking about how Christian seems to have a thing for brunettes. He says that Mrs. Robinson is who put him off blondes forever, but he’s just kidding.

So, he only likes brunettes, I wonder why? Did Mrs. Extraordinarily Glamorous in Spite of Being Old Robinson really put him off blondes?

Back up once again. “in Spite of Being Old?” In the last chapter, Ana describes Elena as being in her late thirties or early forties. Christian is twenty-seven. So, let’s say Elena is forty, just for the sake of argument and easy math. That means that when Christian was fifteen, when their relationship started, she would have been either the age Christian is now, or a year older. And since we don’t have the specifics, that number could go either up or down. So… how is she old, exactly? She wasn’t old when she molested Christian, and she isn’t old now. How is this happening? Either Ana is one of those people who believes anything over twenty-five is old and E.L. James is brilliantly portraying this detail (which I find doubtful, given the evidence at hand), or E.L. James herself believes that anyone over twenty-five is old and shouldn’t be having sex because it’s gross, in which case she has created a hellish existence for herself with the readership of these books and the universe is restored to some merciful balance in my favor.

Christian explains to Ana that he’s a silent partner in the salon business, he just invested the money in order to repay at $100k loan that Elena gave him when he dropped out of Harvard after two years to go into business for himself. Remember that thing I said about “bright?” He dropped out of the school people would literally, not figuratively, kill to get into. Unsurprisingly, his parents didn’t approve. He also gives Ana some backstory on Elena:

“She was a bored trophy wife, Anastasia. Her husband was wealthy – big in timber.” He gives me a wolfish grin. “He wouldn’t let her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are like that.” He gives me a quick sideways smile.

 It’s nice that they can joke about how controlling Christian is, without ever actually doing anything about it.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Christian asks Ana if she’s still mad at him. Gee, one of your exes is totally uprooting Ana’s life on the same day you took her to your rapist’s salon to get her hair done? Why would she be hanging on to a trifle like that?

Christian checks in with Taylor, who we learn has a daughter. Taylor is officially the most interesting character in this book, but there’s no time to dawdle, they have to go wait for the hair dresser. Christian goes to make some phone calls, leaving Ana to her own devices. She goes to her room and finally checks out all the clothes in her closet. This will come as a shock to no one, but they’re all needlessly expensive.

This isn’t me. I put my head in my hands and try to process the last few hours. It’s exhausting. Why, oh why, have I fallen for someone who is plain crazy – beautiful, sexy as fuck, richer than Croesus, and crazy with a capital K?

Because you have no self-esteem and believe that if you’re not with Christian Grey, the next step is dying alone? I thought we covered this in the first book. Also, Christian has his problems, and he’s definitely not mentally healthy, but you’ve got one of his exes planning a gun crime, so in this case, “crazy” might be subjective.

Ana decides to call her mom:

“Ana, honey! It’s been so long. How are you, darling?”

So long? She came home from Georgia and broke up with Christian like, a day or two later, right? And it’s been, what, a week since then, so… it hasn’t been that long at all. But okay. They talk about Christian and how things are complicated, and her mom says things are complicated with Bob, too, and then Ana has this staggeringly self-aware thought:

Oh, someone else has problems. I’m not the only one.

I think that pretty much sums up the entire character of Ana.

Christian appears in the doorway. “There you are. I thought you’d run off.” His relief is obvious.

Wait, he was the one who left to go make phone calls. Did he seriously expect her to just stand there and wait in the same spot until he got back?

I hold my hand up to indicate that I’m on the phone. “Sorry, Mom, I have to go. I’ll call again soon.”

Why does she have to go? Oh, right. It’s not like Christian has ever made her wait while he took a call. It certainly didn’t happen right now or just a little bit ago on the street or over and over and over again.

“Why are you hiding in here?” he asks.

“I’m not hiding. I’m despairing.”

And I am LOLing.

Christian and Ana have one of their trademark conversations in which they seem to believe there is some kind of problem with their relationship, but they won’t articulate it, so they just dance around it and try to be witty rather than actually resolving anything:

“I know, I’m trying,” he murmurs.

“You’re very trying.”

“As are you, Miss Steele.”

“Why are you doing this?”

His eyes widen and his wary look returns. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You are one frustrating female.”

JUST TALK TO EACH OTHER.

But if they did that, there wouldn’t be anything to space out the time between sex scenes, and we’d be left with just blank pages. Christian tells Ana that he likes that she’s not into him for his money, and she gives him “hope.” For what, you ask?

He shrugs. “More.” His voice is low and quiet. “And you’re right. I am used to women doing exactly what I say, when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly. There’s something about you, Anastasia, which calls to me on some deep level I don’t understand. It’s a siren’s call. I can’t resist you, and I don’t want to lose you.”

Sirens kill people. Just saying. And how infuriating is it to hear this douche, he of the “sign this sex contract,” complain that it’s boring when women do what he says? He’s the one who makes them sign contracts to do that in the first place! It’s not their fault he’s bored with what he asked for.

He looks so vulnerable… It’s disturbing.

Oh, NOW you’re disturbed. She tells Christian she can be patient, and then the hairdresser shows up:

Franco is small, dark, and gay. I love him.

Of course you do. You seem incapable of liking any person who isn’t a part of some marginalized group.

“Such beautiful hair!” he gushes with an outrageous, probably fake Italian accent. I bet he’s from Baltimore or somewhere, but his enthusiasm is infectious.

Gay people. They’re just so over the top, all the time, amiright? No, I’m not. Because we don’t live in Stereotopia, land where stereotypes are reality.

When they get done with her hair cut, Franco presents her to Christian:

“See! I tell you he like it,” Franco enthuses.

Good news, he talks like the prostitute in Full Metal Jacket for the rest of his scene.

“Over lunch, then. I’m hungry, and not just for food,” he gives me a salacious smile.

Oh stop.

“I am not going to let you dazzle me with your sexpertise.”

“What’s bothering me? Well, there’s your gross invasion of my privacy, the fact that you took me to some place where your ex-mistress works and you used to take all your lovers to have their bits waxed, you manhandled me in the street like I was six years old – and to cap it all, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!” My voice has risen to a crescendo.

I think you forgot, “Your ex is trying to kill me, and you weren’t even going to let me know.” Because if Ana hadn’t asked, Chedward wasn’t going to tell her about the CCW.

Christian wants to clarify that Elena isn’t his Mrs. Robinson, and Ana points out that, hey, Elena can touch him, and she can’t. Christian says it’s because Elena knows where she can touch him, and it’s apparently impossible to teach that to another living human being.

“You and I don’t have any rules. I have never had a relationship without rules, and I never know where you’re going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch completely – ” He stops, searching for the words. “It just means more… so much more.”

Wait, they don’t have any rules? Did I black out and start reading a different series? Because they had a whole bunch of rules, a contract, actually. And even though he said the contract has been thrown out, he’s still manipulating her into following those rules.

Ana tries to touch him, and he’s all panicked about it. Ana points out that he would feel pretty bad if he couldn’t touch her, and he agrees.

“You’ll have to tell me why this is a hard limit, one day, please.”

“One day,” he murmurs, and seems to snap out of his vulnerability in a nanosecond.

How can he switch so quickly?

Mental illness?

“So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy.” His mouth twists as he contemplates this. “Because I know your bank account number?”

“Yes, that’s outrageous.”

“I do background checks on all my submissives. I’ll show you.” He turns and heads for his study.

It doesn’t make it better that he’s done this to other women. It just makes it more shady, because he now has a lot of women’s banking information. There was nothing in the contract allowing him to do such a thing, and he never asked Ana if it was okay to run this check or find this information out.

From a locked filing cabinet, he pulls a manila folder. Typed on the tab: ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE.

Why is it in a filing cabinet? Surely someone with his finger on the pulse of developing technologies would have, you know, a computerized database for this stuff. It would be more secure than just a locked filing cabinet.

“So, you knew I worked at Clayton’s?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t just drop by?”

No, Ana. I’ve been trying to tell you this. He did not “just drop by” to pick up his kidnapping supplies, he went there on purpose. EVERYONE WITH HALF A BRAIN KNEW THIS ALREADY IT IS NOT A REVELATION.

Ana tells him that the whole background check thing is fucked up, and he says he doesn’t “see it that way,” so obviously that makes it okay.

“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get ahold of it if they have half a mind to, Anastasia. To have control – I need information. It’s how I’ve always operated.”

 The thought of just, you know, NOT CONTROLLING WOMEN has never entered into his mind. Christian Grey is a person who should not be in a relationship, in any relationship, because he has no clue how to respect other people and have boundaries. Keep in mind, somewhere, right now, a woman is schlicking to a fantasy of having this man treat her like garbage. GO FEMINISM! And let’s examine the ways Christian Grey does misuse the information:

• He goes to Ana’s workplace to “bump into” her.
• He deposits money into her bank account without her permission.
• He follows her to her mother’s house in Georgia against her wishes.

I’m sure there are more, but I’m too enraged by this normalization of abuse to remember them. At least Ana calls him on the deposit, but when she does, he asks her how much money she thinks he makes. She says it doesn’t matter, because she doesn’t care, and he says:

“I know. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

I gaze at him, shocked. Love about me?

So, yeah, now she’s going to focus on that to the exclusion of all common sense. Oh, and he tells her his unrealistic salary:

“Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand dollars an hour.”

Break it down now:

• $100,000.00 per hour
• $2,400,000.00 per day
• $16,800,000.00 per week
• $67,200,000.00 per month
• $806,400,000.00 annually

This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades, surely. He can’t put himself in my shoes.

Can’t, or won’t, Ana? He continues to argue that it’s okay for him to lavish gifts upon her, because he wants to. That’s what makes it okay, reader. He wants it, and he’s not willing to stop.

Oh, this is going nowhere.

Ana thought, echoing my own frustration.

They go to have lunch, and since Mrs. Jones has the day off, Ana will cook. Christian informs her that his subs usually cook for him on the weekend, so I guess that’s not like, slavery or anything. Christian goes to his study and leaves Ana to it.

Christian is still in his study, no doubt invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacy and compiling information. The thought is unpleasant and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

As it should. But not for long, of course, because to cook, Ana must also dance! Facing the fact that Leila might have put more music on Christian’s iPod, she bravely looks through it to find a song:

I scroll through the extensive list. I want something upbeat. Hmm, Beyonce – that doesn’t sound like Christian’s taste. “Crazy in Love.” Oh yes! How apt. I hit the “repeat” button and put it on loud.

I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin to whisk, dancing the whole time.

In case you’re keeping score at home, this is the second time Ana has whisk-danced in Christian’s kitchen.

No empathy, I muse. Is this unique to Christian? Maybe all men are like this, baffled by women.

No, Ana. All men are not like this. You’re just willing to believe that they are, rather than realize that you are in an abusive, controlling relationship that is only getting worse instead of better.

I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been in Barbados far too long. She should be back at the end of the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder if it’s still lust at first sight with them.

One of the things I love about you.

Notice the juxtaposition there? Kate and Elliot are only in lust, Ana and Christian are in love. That’s not an accident, as all along Ana has looked down on Kate and Elliot for being too sexual and too expressive of their love. They can’t possibly feel what Ana feels for Christian. Also, note that the reason Ana has given for missing Kate is, once again, because Kate could do something for her. First, she missed Kate because she needed someone to nurse her through her breakup, now she misses Kate because she’s not available to work through Ana’s relationship problems.

Christian comes back to the kitchen and asks Ana how long she’s going to stay mad at him for a piddly little thing like invading her privacy. Ana asks him if he put “Crazy In Love” on his iPod (even though she already knows the answer), and asks if Leila was trying to tell him something with the song choice. I’m guessing she was trying to tell him, “I’m going to go crazy and try to kill your next girlfriend if you break up with me.”

Why can’t anyone just use words to communicate their feelings in this series? Why must it always be some cryptic method through music? Oh, that’s right. Because they’re seventh graders.

Because writing something new and original for book two would be difficult, this happens:

He heads over to the iPod dock while I go back to my whisking.

Moments later the heavenly sweet, soulful voice of Nina Simone fills the room. It’s one of Ray’s favorites: “I Put A Spell On You.”

You know how Evil Dead and Evil Dead 2 are basically the same movie, with some minor changes? That. Right down to reminding us that it’s one of Ray’s favorite songs.

I flush, turning to gape at Christian. What is he trying to tell me?

WHY CAN’T YOU JUST SPEAK TO EACH OTHER LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE?!

I watch him, enthralled as slowly, like the predator he is, he stalks me in time to the slow, sultry beat of the music.

It’s way sexier than the way he stalks her the rest of the time. And “like the predator he is?” If the word you’re using to describe the man you date is “predator,” and you are not the heroine of a paranormal romance, maybe you might need to reevaluate your situation.

Christian tries to sex her out of being mad at him, but she rejects his advances. You know, a little.

I don’t want this – I do want this – badly. He’s so frustrating, so hot and desirable. I tear my gaze away from his spellbinding look.

“I want you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you. It’s very new. I need to know that we’re okay. It’s the only way I know how.”

“To manipulate you into forgetting that I’m a dick,” is how that sentence should have ended.

“I’m not going to touch you until you say yes,” he says softly. “But right now, after a really shitty morning, I want to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us.”

Oh my… Us. A magical combination, a small, potent pronoun that clinches the deal.

Luckily, Taylor comes in and interrupts them making out. You know, for now, because Ana doesn’t have the self-respect required to not have sex with Christian Grey when she’s legitimately angry with him.

Christian and Taylor stare at each other, some unspoken communication passing between them.

Taylor and Christian go into the study, and Ana goes back to making lunch and thinking about what is wrong with Christian and how she can fix it, because if there is one thing women are known for it’s their high success rate with fixing broken men. Christian comes back and they eat. They actually don’t fight about it for once, but Ana does mention that she’s eating despite not being hungry. They talk about how Christian knows French and stuff, and Ana says his parents must be very proud of him, which is apparently not an okay thing to say, because he gets really surly. Christian goes to brief the security team about recent developments, and Ana goes to fire up the google on the old internet machine. No, I’m not kidding, she says this:

I set about transferring Christian’s playlist from my iPad to the Mac, then fire up Google to surf the net.

Ana is one hundred years old.

I’m lying across the bed looking at my Mac as Christian enters.

“What are you doing?” he inquires softly.

I panic briefly, wondering if I should let him see the Web site I’m on – Multiple Personality Disorder: The Symptoms.

Here’s another nit to pick: any up-to-date website would refer to it as “Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

Christian and Ana banter wittily about how fucked up he is, then he suggests that she take a tube of lipstick and draw on his body so that she has a map of where she can touch him:

“I could get a tatto.” His eyes are alight with humor.

Christian Grey with a tat? Marring his lovely body, when it’s marked in so many ways already? No way!

Fuck you, Ana. First of all, don’t say “tat” because it sounds skeezy and like something you get in prison, and second, tattoos don’t “mar” a body, they decorate it.

For a page and a half, Ana draws on Christian with lipstick.

“Finished,” I murmur, and it looks like he’s wearing a bizarre skin-colored vest with harlot red trim.

I may have already told you all this story before. If I have, just nod and smile, as if I’m a forgetful old grandpa telling you the same story every year at Christmas time.

Once upon a time, I had this dream that I was going to be a big time Broadway star. But I could never commit to leaving Michigan, due to its awesomeness. Instead, I had this weird idea that I could live in Michigan and worry about relocating to the Big Apple if I ever actually got a job. In industries that are not “acting in a play in New York,” that’s a smart strategy. But I’ve already mentioned what industry I was interested in, so my plan bleeeeeeeeeeeeew.

So, anyway, I would fly into New York, audition for shit, then fly home either the same night or the next morning. On one such occasion, I was walking around and saw the marquee for a revival of The Iceman Cometh. I had heard that Tony Danza was in that. I thought it would be funny to wait at the stage door and meet him, and get his autograph on one of the brochures you get out of the back of taxis. Because he was on Taxi, get it? I’m hilarious.

I go over to a cab, I get one of the brochures from the guy, I go back and wait at the stage door. People start coming out, but nobody I really want to see. Then the dude next to me starts talking about how he’s the big Kevin Spacey fan, and he’s so into Kevin Spacey, and I’m like, “That’s nice, me too,” and thinking, “Wow, it’s weird that this guy just keeps talking about Kevin Spacey,” and then I realize, oh, Kevin Spacey is in this show, and just then, bam, out the stage door comes Kevin Spacey.

So, I got Kevin Spacey’s autograph on an index card, and it was pretty awesome. Except, I’m not really good at meeting celebrities (ask me about the time I puked in front of Tori Amos!) so I ended up pointing at his face when he was like, a foot away from me, and saying, “Hey! You’re Keyser Soze!”

Then I started pretty actively hardcore trolling on Kevin Spacey fan email lists, but that… is a story for another time.

Oh, also, Tony Danza never came out, otherwise this story would have been way cooler.

And lo, Jen said it was link times, and it was, and she looked upon it and saw that it was good. Aaaaallll good:

Product Review: Masturbation to 50 Shades of Grey: “WANKING TO THIS BOOK IS EVIDENCE OF A DISEASE.”

OMG! That 51 Tints of Granite thing is hilarious! More to read. I love it! I have never been into fanfic before, but suddenly I’m seeking it out all over the place. Jenn, you have introduced me to a world I never knew existed. I think I love you.

This got me thinking. A lot of the criticism coming at the entire 50 Shades phenomenon has been that it’s fanfic. And I think along the way a lot of people, myself included, have used “It’s fanfic” to make fun of the horrible writing. But there are some really good fanfics out there, with absolutely stellar writing, and I think I would be remiss if I didn’t point them out to y’all. So, expect an upcoming post with fanfic recs. Because fanfic is magic and the more people who participate, the better!

But for now, let’s bust right through this chapter like it’s Ana’s problematic hymen.

As sanity returns,

You realize you’re in an abusive relationship and leave him?

I open my eyes and gaze up into the face of the man I love.

Damn.


Christian tells Ana how much he’s missed her (in the five days they were broken up) and how much he missed having sex with her, and he tells her not to leave him again. Then she’s all, “Thanks for the iPad,” and then he says:

“Come cook me some food, wench. I’m famished.”

Because this is Westeros or something. Or…

Oh my gosh. Does anyone else remember Covington Cross, that show that was on (and got immediately canceled) in 1992? I have been obsessed with that show for so long, I’m almost embarrassed that this is the first time I’m thinking of this in this context… the family name of the main characters was “Grey.” I could write a 50 Shades of Grey fanfic… and it could be about one of the Greys from that show. My mind is spinning. What deadline?

Wait, what was I doing? Right, reading this book. Bummer.

As I scramble out of bed, I dislodge my pillow, revealing the deflated helicopter balloon underneath.

How does someone sleep with a deflated mylar balloon under their pillow? Isn’t that all kinds of crinkly? Why didn’t he notice the strange crunchy noise when they were fucking? They have a little conversation about the balloon, and then they get something to eat:

Christian and I sit on Kate’s Persian rug, eating stir-fry chicken and noodles from white china bowls with chopsticks and sipping chilled white Pinot Grigio.

Try to read that sentence out loud without taking a breath. I hope that’s not a real Persian rug, because who does that? “My roommate isn’t here, so let’s sit on what is possibly the most expensive thing in the apartment and eat with chopsticks.” Also, thanks for the heads up, Ana, I would have never known Pinot Grigio was white unless you’d told me, because where I come from Pinot Grigio is bright green.

He’s wearing his jeans and his shirt, and that’s all.

That sounds… fully dressed.

Christian says the food is good, and Ana actually eats without them arguing about it, and she also says:

“I usually do all the cooking. Kate isn’t a great cook.”

Poor Kate, she probably never gets to eat, then, if she waits for Ana to make dinner.

They talk about Ana’s upbringing a little, namely how her mother’s third husband didn’t like her, so she had to go back to live in Forks with Ray. Christian observes:

“Sounds like you looked after him,”

Sounds like you read Twilight, Christian.

Christian doesn’t like the fact that Ana has taken care of people her whole life. I’m amazed that Ana has actually taken care of anything, because she’s so utterly inept at taking care of herself. This woman can’t remember to eat for four days. I would assume even houseplants wouldn’t be safe with her. Christian tells Ana that he wants to take care of her, and she says that’s nice, but he does it in weird ways, and he says it’s the only way he knows how. So, that makes it okay that he bought your job, I guess.

“I’m still mad at you for buying SIP.”

He smiles. “I know, but you being mad, baby, wouldn’t stop me.”

He might as well just pat her on the head and tell her that her feelings don’t matter. Because they don’t.


Take a deep breath. In and out. Because it’s just going to get worse.

I scowl. “If I leave and find another job, will you buy that company, too?”

“You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” His expression alters, wary once more.

“Possibly. I’m not sure you’ve given me a great deal of choice.”

“Yes, I will buy that company, too.” He is adamant.

You know how you solve this one, Ana? Go get a job at McDonald’s. I’d love to see Christian try to buy THAT company. Go work for Disney, or Time Warner. Good luck, Stalky McFuckhead, trying to buy THOSE.

Because Ana doesn’t want to fight (yeah, if you fight over little, unimportant things like your boyfriend buying every company you ever work for in an attempt to exert total control over your life, what kind of a relationship do you have?), they decide to have dessert instead:

“Would you like dessert?”

“Now you’re talking!” he says, giving me a lascivious grin.

“Not me.” Why not me? My inner goddess wakes from her doze and sits upright, all ears. “We have ice cream. Vanilla.” I snicker.

Because she’s into vanilla relationships and vanilla sex, get it? By the way, we’re only on page 74 and I’ve already lost count of the number of times Chedward and Anabella joke about being hungry, but not for food. It’s one thing to use a cliche… it’s another to overuse a cliche.

Christian asks Ana where the ice cream is, and she tells him it’s in the oven, to which he responds:

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Miss Steele.”

Oh yeah, I’m soooo sure it is. Seriously, though, despite Ana telling the reader that Christian has a great sense of humor and he’s so witty and funny, I’ve yet to see evidence that he actually is. Most of the time he’s just stomping around, yelling, “I must protect you, helpless Ana!” I think he cracked a couple jokes in the last book. But pardon me if I’m not taking lessons in comedy from a dude whose go-to line is to act like he’s confusing an offer of food for an offer of sex.

I will give Christian credit for the pun that comes next, after he exhibits sarcasm himself and Ana calls him out on it:

“Well, Anastasia, my new motto is, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.'”

It’s funny, because he beat the shit out of her with a belt while she cried and screamed, get it?

Christian decides that vanilla ice cream is perfect for the sexy times, so he ties Ana up to the bed and drizzles ice cream on her:

Oh… it’s cold. Each nipple peaks and hardens beneath the cool of the vanilla.

No shit, it’s cold? Is it? Is ice cream cold? I’m glad Ana shared that detail. I’m also glad she pauses to tell us how hot everything is once the sex scene gets going. Then he drips ice cream onto her pubes and clit, and starts fingering her while he licks it up. I hope there are whole chapters devoted to the yeast infection she gets from someone pushing ice cream up her cooch.

“Hush now,” Christian says softly as his magical tongue sets to work lapping up the vanilla, and now I’m keening quietly.

How does one keen quietly? Keening means wailing or screaming. If you’re screaming quietly, you’re doing it wrong. Or Chedward is doing it wrong. OH SNAP!

“Oh… please… Christian.”

“I know, baby, I know,” he breathes as his tongue works its magic.

I groan as he picks up speed.

“You are mine, Anastasia.”

“Yes, yours,” I pant.

“I take care of what’s mine,” he hisses and bites my ear.

“Come on, baby,” he growls through gritted teeth and on cue, like the sorcerer’s apprentice I am, I let go, and we find our release together.

It’s a good thing he tells her to orgasm, otherwise she might not at this point. And still with the “Come on,” to get her to orgasm and “come,” to get her to go somewhere. The fact that the confusion is so consistent is only more maddening, because it means he’s saying the same thing in every single sex scene.

“What I feel for you frightens me,” I whisper.

He stills. “Me too, baby,” he says quietly.

Me three.

Christian tells Ana that he doesn’t think he’ll ever leave her, because he can’t imagine getting tired of her. How romantic.

“I’ve never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia. I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that again.” He sounds so sad, dazed even.

Um. Didn’t your mom kill herself in front of you when you were four, and you spent a bunch of days with her dead body? And you’ve never felt so bad as when your girlfriend dumped you? Okay.

Ana has a nightmare about the girl who confronted her outside of SIP, and I suppose the whole thing is supposed to be moody and cryptic, but it’s terribly obvious and very short. Why is it that E.L. James can reserve ten pages every chapter for fucking, but glimpses into Ana’s actual subconscious only get five paragraphs? Christian shakes her awake from her nightmare, and she finally thinks, “Gee, maybe I should bring up the weird girl I saw outside of work today and instantly forgot until it was more convenient for the author to address the subject.”

Turns out the girl is Leila, the ex-sub who put “Toxic” by Britney Spears on Christian’s iPod. This is an important detail that Ana remarks on, because as a reader, I care deeply about who does what with Christian’s iPod.

My scalp prickles as adrenaline spikes through my body. What if she means a lot to him? Perhaps he misses her? I know so little about his past… um, relationships. She must have had a contract, and she would have done what he wanted, given him what he needed gladly.

Oh no – when I can’t. The thought makes me nauseous.

The thought makes you “nauseated,” Ana. What makes you “nauseous” is the fact that a girl who looks like the ghost from The Ring came up to you after an obvious suicide attempt and you’re jealous of her. This woman clearly tried to kill herself at some recent point in time, she still had the bandage on her wrist. She was haggard and thin, and obviously not having a great time of things, and you’re worried that she’s going to steal your boyfriend.

Christian gets on the phone and, in a long, ellipses filled block of dialogue, implores someone named Welch to find Samara Leila. He’s obviously stressed out, so Ana offers him tea:

“Do you want some tea?” I ask. Tea, Ray’s answer to every crisis and the only thing he does well in the kitchen.

Isn’t Ray supposed to be Charlie? Look, I read Twilight, and I guarantee you that Charlie hasn’t so much as purchased a single tea bag in the entire time he’s been alive. I know some of you have complained about people pointing out so-called Britishisms that aren’t really Britishisms, but come on. The obsession with tea in these books? I’m not saying there’s no tea in America, or that no one in America has a fondness for the stuff, or that everyone in the UK is always drinking tea all the time, because that would be patently false, but in America we usually associate tea with England. Because of that whole taxation without representation thing that happened a little while ago in the 18th century that turned us all into coffee drinkers. And because years of cultural conditioning starting with that whole “Fuck your tea, we’ll throw it in the harbor and drink coffee instead,” thing, a manly man’s man like Charlie Swan would not be an old hand at making tea in times when consolation is needed, ergo, Ray would not, either. I think Ray and Charlie would both say that beer is the answer to everything.

I put the kettle on the stove and busy myself with teacups and the teapot. My anxiety level has shot to DEFCON 1. Is he going to tell me the problem? Or am I going to have to dig?

What do you think, Ana? Do you think he’s going to tell you all about it, since he’s so open and forthcoming?

She asks him if he’s going to tell her what’s going on, and of course he’s not:

“Because it shouldn’t concern you. I don’t want you tangled up in this.”

I’m surprised he doesn’t just pat her on the head here, too. This fucking guy.

Ana gets him to tell her the truth, with surprisingly little pressure, actually. He admits that Leila is messed up, and that while he was busy stalking Ana in Georgia, Leila got into his apartment and tried to kill herself in front of the housekeeper. So, that was the “situation” that made him leave Georgia.

“Let me get this straight. She hasn’t been your submissive for three years?”

“About two and a half years.”

“And she wanted more.”

“Yes.”

Okay, it’s story time, dear readers. I once hooked up with a guy friend I’d been hanging out with for the summer. It was totally hot. However, what followed was not hot. See, he had an ex-girlfriend who was craaaaaaaaazy. They had been broken up for three years, and he hadn’t been with anyone since her, so he broke a long, long streak by hooking up with me. Two days after the hook up, which was never intended to be anything more than just a little fun, the ex came into my place of business, grabbed me by the front of my uniform polo shirt and said, “If you ever sleep with [poor guy] again,  I will fucking kill you. He’s mine.” It was so utterly bizarre. Reading this part of the book, I actually got creeped out. Like, looking around to see if the freak was lurking around a corner somewhere. So let me tell you, I do not doubt that someone could go that nuts after a breakup that they would stalk the next girlfriend or boyfriend or casual hook up after several years. This is one place where this horrible book is rooted in fact.

I stare at Fifty, magnificently naked from the waist up. I have him; he’s mine. That’s what I have, and yet she looked like me: same dark hair and pale skin. I frown at the thought. Yes… what do I have that she doesn’t?

This is a great excerpt to display how shallow Ana truly is. While a normal person would go, “Wow, that chick is messed up, I bet she wasn’t able to hide that level of crazy and that’s why they broke up,” Ana can’t figure out why it’s her with Christian and not Leila, because they look the same. To Ana’s thinking, two human beings with distinct personalities and quirks and thoughts are completely interchangeable, so long as they look exactly alike. Her self-obsession also keeps her from accepting the truth of the situation, that it has nothing at all to do with her. Christian could have started fucking Taylor, and Leila would still have shown up. It’s not an Ana problem, and it’s not even a Christian problem, it’s a Leila problem.

Christian asks Ana why she didn’t mention Leila yesterday, and Ana’s excuse was that she just forgot. How do you just forget something that bizarre? Especially when she made reference to it in her internal monologue a couple times after the fact? That’s not forgetting. That’s the author wanting to have more sex scenes before the plot happens. Speaking of which:

“Forget about her. Come.” He holds out his hand.

My inner goddess does three back flips over the gym floor as I grasp his hand.

Ana, you’re being stalked by two people now! Let’s fuck to celebrate!

Luckily, it’s a section break instead of a ten page long sex scene full of “It’s so freaking hot,” and “jeez!” Ana wakes up beside Christian and tries to touch him, and he’s all, “LOL, no,” and then asks her if she wants sex or breakfast. Get it, they’re HUNGRY, but not for FOOD. For SEX instead. Tee hee.

There’s another section break, and Ana tries to fix her horrible, no good, very bad hair while watching Christian get dressed. She asks him how often he works out, and he says he does every week day. He runs, lifts weights, and kickboxes, which leads me to my biggest nit pick of the chapter:

“Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He’s very good. You’d like him.”

Kickboxing isn’t an Olympic sport! It never has been! Claude is either a fraud, or Christian is talking a big game about his kickboxing trainer because he needs to sound FANCY.

Despite the fact that they allegedly threw the contract out and are having a vanilla relationship, Christian tells Ana she needs a personal trainer:

“But I want you fit, baby, for what I have in mind. I’ll need you to keep up.”

So, in other words, “We’re not doing that whole contract thing, but you still need to follow the rules in it.”

I flush as memories of the playroom flood my mind. Yes… the Red Room of Pain is exhausting. Is he going to let me back in there? Do I want to go back in?

Now, in the three times they’ve actually been in the Red Room, Ana has stood up, shackled to the ceiling, fucked against a bed post, been blindfolded while Christian fucks her, and then the last time, beaten with a belt. I’m not going to deny that these things would be somewhat physically taxing, but I can’t think of a single exercise you could do with a personal trainer that would make you more physically capable of the psychological exhaustion involved in heavy BDSM. Ana hasn’t been tired from the complicated acrobatics of sex with Christian Grey (because the sex being described just isn’t that physically demanding), but from the emotional aspect of submission.

I flush, and the undesirable thought that Leila could probably keep up slithers invidious and unwelcome into my mind.

For real, Ana? Yes, fine. Leila is perfect, way more perfect than you. That’s why Christian is still with her, and not with you, right? Get over yourself and your little pity party.

Ana tells Christian she needs to get a haircut and put a check in the bank so she can buy a car, because she’s still without wheels. Christian responds by giving her the key to the Audi he bought her as a graduation present.

He’s giving me back the car. Double crap. Why didn’t I foresee this?

Because you have no short term memory? Because you’re just too dumb and trusting? I don’t know, Ana, help me out, why didn’t you see this coming? Because we all did.

Ana tries to give Christian his check back, that way he’s not giving her the car and the money for the car he sold for her. I’m not quite understanding this, because the original plan was that she would keep the Audi and he would reimburse her for her Beetle. However, that doesn’t justify Christian’s reaction to the suggestion that she would like to return the money. He gets super angry – the word “fury” is used twice – and they argue, ending with:

“End of discussion, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”

Why? Because you’ll hit her? We already know that you won’t leave her, because it was just too hard to not be attached to her for five days.

Ana rips up the check.

Christian gazes at me impassively, but I know I’ve just lit the fuse and should stand well back.

Christian leaves the room, and Ana messes with her hair a little before going to see what he’s up to. He’s been on the phone, and he’s just hanging up when she finds him.

“Deposited in your bank account, Monday. Don’t play games with me.” He’s boiling mad, but I don’t care.

“Twenty-four thousand dollars!” I’m almost screaming. “And how do you know my account number?”

My ire takes Christian by surprise.

“I know everything about you, Anastasia,” he says quietly.

Ana does not interpret this as the creepy, creepy red flag that it is, and instead argues that her car wasn’t worth twenty-four thousand dollars. Christian says a collector bought it, and she can ask Taylor if she doesn’t believe him. Because the dude Christian pays would be a totally impartial source.

So, how about him knowing your bank account number? Aren’t you concerned with that, Ana?

And I feel it, the pull – the electricity between us – tangible, drawing us together. Suddenly he grabs me and pushes me up against the door, his mouth on mine, claiming me hungrily, one hand on my behind pressing me to his groin and the other in the nape of my hair, tugging my head back.

So, that would be a “no,” I take it?

“Why do you defy me?” he mumbles between his heated kisses.

All this line made me think of was Jareth.

“Okay,” I acquiesce and just like that, our fight is over.

Just like that, she forgets that he’s somehow dug up her bank account number and dumped a huge amount of money into it, despite her wishes to the contrary. BECAUSE ROMANCE, DUH!

They go out for breakfast, and Christian gets grumpy because Ana pays the bill. Nothing is sexier than a man who clings to outdated gender stereotypes, let me tell you. He reminds Ana about a black tie benefit thing they’re going to at his parents’ house. It’s a fundraiser for a drug rehab program for parents and their children, called “Coping Together.” I did a search to see if this charity exists, and it does. Only, the real life “Coping Together” organization is for parents grieving miscarriage. Since these stupid books are inducing people to buy sex toys and trips to Seattle, I hope this organization gets some of the blow-back in the form of monetary donations.

Ana and Christian explore her neighborhood for the first time, and Christian takes her to a salon a couple blocks from her apartment:

Christian stops outside a large, slick-looking beauty salon and opens the door for me. It’s called Esclava.

The door is called Esclava? That is one FANCY door.

The interior is all white and leather. At the stark white reception desk sits a young blonde woman in a crisp white uniform.

Always with the blondes. I bet she flirts evilly with Christian.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey,” she says brightly, color rising in her cheeks as she bats her eyelashes at him. It’s the Grey effect, but she knows him! How?

Yeah, how does she know him? The nerve of this bitch, being blonde and knowing Ana’s boyfriend! But hold up, I thought the Grey Effect caused women to attempt suicide in front of housekeepers?

This evil!blonde is “Greta” (well, that’s European if I’ve ever heard-). All you need to know about how Ana feels about her is right here:

“The usual, sir?” she asks politely. She’s wearing very pink lipstick.

It’s like Ana cannot meet a woman without critiquing her hair and lipstick color. Ana think it’s weird that Christian has a “usual,” until she has a stunning lightbulb moment that you guys have probably all figured out already:

Holy fuck! It’s Rule Number Six, the damned beauty salon. All the waxing nonsense… shit!

For someone who is supposedly so super intelligent that everyone around her instantly notices how stunningly bright she is, Ana can be super dumb a lot of the time.

I glare at him. He’s introducing the Rules by stealth. I’ve agreed to the personal trainer – now this?

Okay, it’s not “stealth.” He’s not being particularly artful about this. It’s open manipulation. He brought Ana to the same salon all the other subs went to because he knows she’s insecure and will just do whatever he asks her to once she’s started comparing herself to his past conquests.

Ana asks why he brought her to this particular salon, and Christian tells her it’s no big, he owns this one and three more. Because he owns everything, I guess. Christian tells her all the things this salon does, and she says she just wants a haircut. Then, there’s more anti-blonde, anti-European sentiment:

Greta is all pink lipstick and bustling Germanic efficiency as she checks her computer screen.

I bet she and European pigtails from the last book double up on Christian all. the. time.

But before Ana can get her haircut, enter another evil!blonde:

I peek up at him, and suddenly he blanches – something, or someone, has caught his eye. I turn to see where he’s looking, and right at the back of the salon a sleek platinum blonde has appeared, closing a door behind her and speaking to one of the hair stylists.

Do you know who this evil!blonde is yet?

Platinum Blonde is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her late thirties or early forties – it’s difficult to tell. She’s wearing the same uniform as Greta, but in black. She looks stunning. Her hair shines like a halo, cut in a sharp bob. As she turns, she catches sight of Christian and smiles at him, a dazzling smile of warm recognition.

Seriously, are you getting a sense of build up here?

Christian looks upset about something. He’s reasoning with her, and she’s acquiescing, holding her hands up and smiling at him. He’s smiling at her – clearly they know each other well. Perhaps they’ve worked together for a long time? Maybe she runs the place; after all, she has a certain look of authority.

ANA HOW ARE YOU NOT PICKING UP ON THIS?

Then it hits me like a wrecking ball, and I know, deep down in my gut on a visceral level, I know who she is. It’s her. Stunning, older, beautiful.

Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

It’s Mrs. Robinson.

That is the end of the chapter, and the first effective chapter hook E.L. has managed to execute in the series so far.

Thanks everyone for your nice comments on my depression post. I always feel weird writing about stuff like that, like it’s going to seem like I’m fishing for compliments or something, but to have so many people share their stories really reinforced how important it is for people with depression to be open and honest and talk about this stuff.


Before we dive right in to your ass the recap, I’ve got links! Oh, how I have links!


First of all, some jackass decided he should replace the the bibles in his hotel with copies of 50 Shades. Now, I’m not one of those ultra-religious people who think that every hotel room needs a bible or else some sinning might go down there, but seriously? This guy sounds like a douche canoe. I mean, he had first planned to replace the bibles with Atlas Shrugged. Sounds like someone just has a problem not showing off how irreverent he can be. Oh, you. But seriously, this article makes me furious. Not because he swapped out the bibles, but because the press keeps referring to this as an “erotic” novel with “graphic” sex scenes. How graphic is “down there,” really?


Then, from Pastor Douglas Wilson, comes this op-ed piece, 50 Shades of Prey, at HuffPo. Now, I almost didn’t link this, because I’m so fucking angry at HuffPo for giving those StalkTheGoodReadsUsersWhoseOpinionsIDon’tAgreeWith nutjobs a platform, but this is a guy who called out Twilight for training women to be in bad relationships, and now he’s talking about 50 Shades, so I thought it was worth posting.


Okay, onto the recap. We last left Ana curled up in her bed, hugging a deflated mylar balloon and dreaming of her abusive boyfriend. It is now the next day:

The good thing about being carless is that on the bus on my way to work, I can plug my headphones into my iPad while it’s in my purse and listen to all the wonderful tunes Christian has given me.

But Mo-Om, Taylor the bodyguard gets to listen to his iPod while driving!


Ana goes into work, where her boss has the audacity to compliment her:

“Good morning, Ana. You look… radiant.” His remark flusters me. How inappropriate.

Why, because he’s not a billionaire? I’m not going to lie, I have a real issue with guys who give creepy compliments. But Christian Grey gives them all the time. “I’m in awe of you,” is much, much more disturbing than, “You look… radiant.” The difference is, Jack is probably old, like in his thirties or forties (remember, in the first book Ana believes thirty to be impossibly old), and he doesn’t fly a helicopter. So, he’s totally inappropriate.

Jack finishes sexually harassing her and gives her four manuscripts to look over by lunchtime. She’s supposed to read the first chapters and give him a report. I bet every “report” is going to compare the book in question to classic literature. But first, she has to email back and forth with Christian, about nothing at all that furthers the plot. In fact, one email is an almost direct rehash of one she sent him in the last chapter. Then we find out she eats a pastrami sandwich at lunch while listening to more of the music Christian put on the iPad, and then it’s right back to the emails. In one of his replies, Christian writes:

Your e-mails at SIP are monitored.

Well, her emails at home are probably also monitored, stalker.

Ana is astounded by this news:

 Oh shit. I had no idea. How the hell does he know?

Because that’s pretty much par for the course at any job, Ana. Now, I’m not saying that it’s right, but lots and lots of companies monitor the content of their employees’ email accounts. This shouldn’t be news, and if you’re going to send email to your boyfriend, why not use your personal email account? How on Earth did Ana get through four years of college and, hell, just being a teenager in America, without learning stuff about the internet and how it works?


At the end of the work day, Jack stops by Ana’s desk to invite her out for drinks with him and the rest of the staff. Seems Ana might have been feeling a little full of herself, hmmm? She thought the boss wanted to get into her pants, and he was just inviting her out on the weekly staff outing. They’re going to a bar called “Fifty’s.” Dollars to donuts, Christian owns it. Ana emails Christian the details and tells him:

The rich seam of humor that I could mine from this is endless.

Not really. So please don’t. I rolled my eyes hard enough the first time the name of the bar was mentioned, I had to spank myself.

Ana invites Christian to come to drinks with her work colleagues, because she’s never had a job before and doesn’t realize how fucking awkward that is.

I check myself in the mirror. What a difference a day can make. I have more color in my cheeks, and my eyes are shining. It’s the Christian Grey effect.

Huh. I would have thought the Christian Grey effect would involve having color in entirely different cheeks.

I turn expectantly, and an ashen young woman approaches me cautiously. She looks like a ghost – so pale and strangely blank.

This woman knows Ana’s full name, and just stares at her until Ana says the polite version of “What the fuck do you want and why are you staring at me and also are you that girl from The Ring?” which translates into nice people speak as, “‘Can I help you?'”

“No… I just wanted to look at you.” Her voice is eerily soft. Like me, she has dark hair that starkly contrasts with her fair skin. Her eyes are brown, like bourbon, but flat. There’s no life in them at all. Her beautiful face is pale, and etched with sorrow.

The ghost from The Ring is wearing designer clothes that are too big, and she’s got a dirty bandage around her wrist. The ghost from The Ring asks Ana:

“What do you have that I don’t?”

What was that about?

Gosh, I wonder, Ana. What was that about? Some strange woman who looks just like you in expensive clothes and a suicide attempt wanders up and is all, “What do you have that I don’t?” and you can’t connect even one teeny tiny little dot here?

Confused, I cross the street to the bar, trying to assimilate what has just happened, while my subconscious rears her ugly head and hisses at me – She has something to do with Christian.

No. You don’t say.

Ana uses her coworkers as a distraction to forget that she’s going to die in seven days. She actually does have a conversation with the receptionist who has been the pinpoint focus of her white guilt every time she’s mentioned, and then Ana remembers that Kate exists:

Absently, I wonder how Kate is… and Elliot.

I like how in the first chapter Ana couldn’t live without Kate and missed her soooooo much, then she gets back together with Christian and it’s like, “Oh, yeah… Kate. And that other guy. What’s his name?” In literally the same paragraph, her thoughts go straight to Christian:

Oh, and Ethan, Kate’s brother, will be back next Tuesday, and he’ll be staying in our apartment. I can’t imagine Christian is going to be happy about that.

It’s Kate’s apartment. It doesn’t matter how Christian feels about it. It’s something he can’t control, so nanananabooboo and neenerneenerneener and all that.

When Elizabeth and Courtney leave, Jack joins Claire and me. Where is Christian?

Probably watching you from a corner somewhere.


Claire starts talking to someone else, and we find out that Jack is a close talker:

“Ana, think you made the right decision coming here?” Jack’s voice is soft, and he’s standing a bit too close. But I’ve noticed that he has a tendency to do this with everyone, even at the office.

I hate people who do that. They always make me really self-conscious about my breath, even if I’ve just brushed my teeth.

Jack tells Ana that she’s a bright girl, makes some chit-chat about where she lives and if she has any weekend plans. He leans on the bar and Ana feels trapped, and then our knight in shining armor shows up at just the right time:

I feel him before I see him. It’s as if my whole body is highly attuned to his presence. It relaxes and ignites me at the same time – a weird, internal duality – and I sense that strange pulsing electricity.

That’s how connected they are, guys. She can sense his presence. Shit, my eyes are rolling again. Time for another spanking, I guess. But what do you want to bet he was there the whole time, watching, like he was doing in Georgia when she was at the bar with her mom.

Christian drapes his arm around my shoulder in a seemingly casual display of affection – but I know differently. He is staking a claim, and on this occasion, it’s very welcome. Softly he kisses my hair.

Ever notice, reader, how Christian only displays affection toward Ana in public when he’s trying to impress a point on someone else? Ana finds it flattering, but doesn’t it just reinforce that he isn’t capable of feeling for her as a person, that he only views her as an object or a contest? Just throwing that out there, I don’t mean to destroy the “romance” of Christian Grey.

I feel relieved, safe, and excited with his arm around me.

This is a really sneaky thing that Christian does with all the men Ana comes into contact with. He acts possessive, which in turn tells Ana that there is something to fear from all men – except him. He does it with Jose, he did it with Paul at the hardware store, and now he’s doing it with Jack. If you’ve read the entire series, then you know that Jack really isn’t a nice guy, but Christian doesn’t know that at this point. What he’s doing is setting up a false sense of safety and reliance, so Ana believes she needs his protection from all the men of the world. It’s pretty gross.

Ana introduces the two:

“I’m the boyfriend,” Christian says with a small, cool smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he shakes Jack’s hand. I glance up at Jack who is mentally assessing the fine specimen of manhood in front of him.

I rarely actually LOL, but I LOLed heartily at that line. Seriously, I’m pretty sure that Jack isn’t thinking of Christian as a “fine specimen of manhood.” In fact, I’m pretty convinced that Ana sees Christian like this:

And everyone else sees him like this:

I glance at Claire, who is, of course staring, openmouthed and with frankly carnal appreciation, at Christian.

Someone fix those fucking commas, I beg of you.

They leave and Ana points out that she knows the whole “meeting my boss” thing was a pissing contest, and they get into the Audi, where Taylor is behind the wheel.

My cheeks turn pink, knowing that Taylor can hear us, grateful that he can’t see the scorching, panty-combusting look that Christian is giving me.

I’m sure Taylor is grateful that his panties aren’t going to combust, too. That would be awkward. And look, I know that “My cheeks turn pink” was probably swapped for “I flush” by a copy editor who later committed Seppuku with a letter opener, but seriously, Ana, you can’t see your cheeks turn pink, and you just skewed your POV.

There is a lot of uninteresting and juvenile hinting about how they’re going to have sex later, and they decide to go to Ana’s apartment, for a change. Then Christian is all:

“Your boss, Jack Hyde, is he good at his job?”

Ana can’t fathom why he would ask, since she’s not interested in Jack beyond a professional capacity, and I’m already getting a real, real bad feeling about where this is going…

“That’s the point… he wants what’s mine. I need to know if he’s good at his job.” 

Ana tells him that she thinks Jack is pretty good at his job, and then Christian says:

“Well, he’d better leave you alone, or he’ll find himself on his ass on the sidewalk.”

“You don’t have that kind of power.” Honestly! And before I roll my eyes at him, the realization hits me with the force of a speeding freight truck. “Do you, Christian?”

Christian gives me his enigmatic smile.

“You’re buying the company,” I whisper in horror.

E.L. James has a crazy idea of how business works, and here’s why. Christian is supposedly this uber-successful entrepreneur… who makes business decisions based entirely around controlling his girlfriend? Doesn’t this company have a board of directors, or stock holders, or anyone who might say, “Um… what the fuck are you doing?”

So, why did he buy the company?

“Because I can, Anastasia. I need you safe.”

Well, that’s a good reason, right? Until he realizes that she’s apocalyptically furious with him and asks him, “‘I mean, what kind of responsible business executive makes decisions based on who he is currently fucking?'” At that point, his tune changes to:

“First, I haven’t fucked you for a while – a long while, it feels – and second, I wanted to get into publishing. Of the four companies in Seattle, SIP is the most profitable, but it’s on the cusp and it’s going to stagnate – it needs to branch out.”

Let’s examine the absolutely infuriating facts here:

• Christian wanted Ana to come work for him.
• She refused.
• She then got a job at SIP
• And broke up with Christian.
• So, Christian bought the company she works for.
• Now, they’re back together AND she’s working for Christian.
• Christian has everything he wants

So, pardon the fuck out of me if I don’t believe that he really wanted to get into publishing.


Ana’s anger is, predictably, short lived, because Christian makes her laugh, and he smiles at her:

And he smiles, a dazzling, full-toothed, all-American-boy smiles, and I can’t help it. I am grinning and laughing, too How could I not be affected by the joy I see in his smile?

If you had a brain, or self-respect. Just those two, off the top of my head.

“Just because I have a stupid damn grin on my face doesn’t mean I’m not mad as hell at you,” I mutter breathlessly, trying to suppress my high-school-cheerleader giggling. Though I was never cheerleader – the bitter thought crosses my mind.

Seriously, Ana? Are you fucking serious? A man has just used his wealth and power as a weapon and blasted his way into your career against your express wishes, and you’re bitter because you were never a cheerleader?!

Go back up and look at the baby monkey picture. I’ll wait, and you probably need it.

Of course, they go inside together, and Ana has some inner thoughts about how shitty it is that Christian bought the company, but there isn’t anything she can do about it. Because breaking up clearly doesn’t stick. Then they start talking about how they’re totally going to do it, tee hee, but Christian needs to make sure she eats because clearly, she hasn’t been able to feed herself for the twenty-one years before she met this asshole. He tells her she’s going to have to tell him everywhere on her body she wants to be touched, and they talk about mapping out areas on his body that she’s allowed to touch. Then, it’s birth control times:

“Have you been taking your pill?”

No, of course she hasn’t. If you remember, Christian, she was only taking those pills because she was dating you, and then you broke up. And in the first book she makes it really clear that it’s either you or a house full of cats, and none of them are going to get her pregnant, unless this turns into a real weird fucking book.

“You need to eat and so do I,” he murmurs, burning eyes gazing down at me. “Besides… anticipation is the key to seduction, and right now, I’m really into delayed gratification.”

Says the guy who impulsively bought his girlfriend’s job.

He tells her she’s too skinny, because a chapter can’t go by without that happening YOU GUYS ANA IS SKINNY DO YOU GET IT YET SHE IS SUPERMODEL SKINNY YOU GUYS DANGEROUSLY SKINNY SHE IS SO SKINNY DO YOU GET IT THIS IS REALLY IMPORTANT and he tells her that she’ll be less mad over that whole, “I bought your job” thing when she’s had something to eat. Because Ana is a cranky toddler. But Ana is so incredibly skinny that she has no food in the house, so they have to go grocery shopping.

“Does Mrs. Jones do all the shopping?”

“I think Taylor helps her. I’m not sure.”

I bet Taylor and Mrs. Jones are boning. I feel a fanfic coming on.


While they shop, Ana asks Christian how long Taylor and Mrs. Jones have worked for him:

“Taylor, four years, I think. Mrs. Jones, about the same. Why didn’t you have any food in the apartment?”

Because she has an eating disorder.

The wine in the supermarket isn’t FANCY enough to satisfying Christian Grey, classist dick, and then Ana sees some women looking at him and mentally remarks on it “despondently” and then they leave the grocery store trip where literally nothing happened to move the plot along.

They go back to the apartment, and Christian asks if he can help with dinner, but then says he can’t cook. So I don’t know how he thinks he’s going to help. There is a lot of “Oh, it’s so sexy that he’s carrying groceries and chopping vegetables like a real person and not the God of Lust that he is,” stuff, and this:

I wash my hands and hunt for the wok, the oil, and the other ingredients I need, repeatedly brushing against him – my hip, my arm, my back, my hands. Small, seemingly innocent touches.

So, Ana is a geisha now, I guess, with all these little touches. She keeps goading Christian into having sex with her while they cook dinner, and I can’t help but get the feeling that she’s doing it to avoid eating. Either the whole “Ana/Mia” thing is a coincidence that is messing with my head, or this chick really does have an eating disorder. They don’t wind up actually eating the stir fry they make, because Christian is so overcome with his desire for her that he must have her at once!

He smiles and hooks his index finger into my open shirt, pulling me toward him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and without taking his blazing eyes off mine, slowly starts to unbutton my shirt.

How can he unbutton her shirt if it’s already open? Theres is some more foreplay, and then:

“Kiss me,” I whisper

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“Where?”

Oh, he’s taking no prisoners. Embarrassed, I quickly point at the apex of my thighs, and he grins wickedly.

This is the reason that every time someone says, “the sex scenes are so hot,” I want to be able to just pull out a random samurai sword and chop the damn book in half. How is it hot that the heroine can’t say what she wants in bed? Why is this an ideal we’re striving toward? So. Much. Bullshit.

Here’s more of this sex scene bullshit:

He stands and gazes down at me, and his lips glisten with the evidence of my arousal.

It’s so hot…

Well, thanks for telling us. Seriously, I don’t mind reading, “He did this and it was hot,” once or twice in a book, but it’s thoroughly annoying how often Ana has to inform the reader that what is happening is supposed to be sexy. It happens constantly throughout all the books. And it’s not needed. The first sentence in that excerpt gets across that it’s sexual and exciting. It’s totally superflous to add, “It’s so hot.”

I peek up at him through my lashes,

Try that. Try it right now. Try to look up at something and still see your eyelashes.

They have sex, and all the usual culprits are there, like “he really starts to move,” and him telling her to “come on” to get her to have an orgasm on command, and then the chapter ends and I realize that I have referenced Japanese culture three times in this recap and I can’t figure out why, because it’s not a particular interest of mine, but I did watch Memoirs of A Geisha the other day.

I hate depression. It makes me into a different person, a person I don’t like. A person who snaps at her kids, a person who takes everything too personally. A person who googles “Jennifer Armintrout sucks” just to see if anyone agrees with her.

I get stuck in these deep grooves with depression, where I think I’m worthless, and I consider quitting writing. I feel absolutely no drive or passion to write, I open up old projects I’ve abandoned and tell myself, “You’re so lazy and worthless. You could at least finish this and self-publish it. You’ll have to, because no one will buy it, since you’re a shitty writer. You should just quit. Today. Contact everyone involved in your career and tell them to throw out your contracts and just quit. Go get a real job and stop being such a loser. Look at what you’re doing to your family. You’re never going to come up with any good ideas again, and if you do, you won’t follow through on them. You should just give up today.”

How can I let myself talk to me that way? That’s insane. If I heard someone saying that out loud to another writer, I would punch that person’s teeth in. I would be outraged beyond words.

But I suspect I’m not alone. I bet any number of writers struggling with depression have said those exact things to themselves. I bet I’m not the only person who struggles with this, even at the best of times. And while my career is certainly not enjoying it’s “best time,” things aren’t the worst they’ve ever been, either. So, what do I have to be defeated about? Nothing. It’s just a trick of my diseased brain, telling me mean stuff to knock me down a peg, just for kicks.

I don’t know why my brain chemistry hates me. I don’t know why it tries to destroy my confidence and mess with me, but I know that tomorrow I won’t feel this way. If that’s enough to get me through today, maybe tomorrow I’ll have confidence again, maybe something will smack me in the face and say, “Suck it up. When you google ‘Jennifer Armintrout sucks’ the first page of results is mostly shit you’ve said about yourself.”

That’s the carrot dangling in front of me right now. I’m going to just survive today. But if you suffer from depression, please feel free to share your stories in the comments, if that helps you.

I got snappy with some of you this morning, in comments on this blog, twitter DMs, and an email. And I want to apologize. I’m astounded by the enthusiasm with which you guys have passed this blog around the internet, and my silly little recaps have become much, much bigger than I thought they would. I’m overwhelmed, and I reacted badly to readers because of that. There’s no excuse for an author who routinely rants about bad author behavior, to participate in bad author behavior. So, I’m really sorry to the parties involved, you know who you are.

I like to think they are saying, “Jen’s back! And she has a camera!”