Grey, Chapter 12: Friday, May 27th, 2011, PART 1

My computer decided to start giving me problems I couldn’t deal with.  So off to Apple’s depot it went!  And onto a loaner from my husband’s employer for me.  But now I have access to Grey again, and my soul can once again get beaten up.  Oh, the things I go through for you people. 🙂

(Directory of recap links)

If this book, if we can call if that, didn’t divide the numberless chapters by dates, this one would be part of the previous chapter.  No, wait, Stephenie Meyer had a habit of strange chapter cuts, very much like Saturday afternoon movies where they cut to a commercial at some very random moment.

The previous email was at 11:57pm, and this next one is a mere six minutes later.  It spans midnight.  So time for a cut!

And the email, from Grey to his victim, is painfully juvenile.

Why don’t you like me?

Ana writes back two minutes later.

Question for y’all.  Who here uses email as their main method of back-and-forth communication?  Text messages kiiiiiiinda exist, and are a lot easier now than back in the days when “Why don’t you like me” was literally:

944999_3666[pause]66*8_99966688_5554445533_633#*

If you don’t understand that, then you’re very young. 🙂  Back in MY day, we had to hit numbers.  None of these fancy keyboards!  And our phones had maybe one game on it, but that snake game was AWESOME.  Because it was a game.  Oh a phone.  And Nokia was amazing for the changeable covers.  And that ringtone that everyone of my generation knows all too well.

May you cringe in peace.

So Ana writes back and tells him it’s because he never stays with her.  He reflects for a moment on how big of a day it was for her, and for once, just this one, realizes he screwed up, and runs back out the door to go to her.

Since the roads are clear, he makes it to her place in 23 minutes.  Do you what apartment complex is 23 minutes from there?  According to the maps on my phone, MY complex is exactly that far from the Heathman.

“I knock quietly, and Kavanagh opens the door.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” she shouts, her eyes blazing with anger.

Whoa. Not the reception I was expecting.

“I’ve come to see Ana.”

“Well, you can’t!” Kavanagh stands with arms folded and legs braced in the doorway, like a gargoyle.

I try reasoning with her. “But I need to see her. She sent me an e-mail.” Get out of my way!

“What the fuck have you done to her now?”

“That’s what I need to find out.” I grit my teeth.

“Ever since she met you she cries all the time.”

“What?” I can’t deal with her shit anymore, and I barge past her.

“You can’t come in here!” Kavanagh follows me, shrieking like a harpy, as I storm through the apartment to Ana’s bedroom.

She’s entirely justified to shriek at the bastard who just shoved her aside (she was blocking the door, and the only way to barge in would involve physically moving her), and committing the criminal act of trespassing.

He storms into Ana’s room, where her lights are out, and rudely turns on the overhead light.

“Do you want me to throw this asshole out?” Kate barks from the doorway.

Fuck you, Kavanagh. Raising an eyebrow, I pretend to ignore her.

No, fuck YOU for thinking you have ANY right to have forced your way into someone else’s home and behaving like this.

Ana is shocked, and when Kate asks if she wants her to toss Grey out, Ana does the only think she can do.  She shakes her head “no.”  She knows what happens if she doesn’t give Grey her way, and since she was awake already, as evidenced by her crying, she would have heave the commotion.

Scared, she asks why he’s there.

“Part of my role is to look after your needs. You said you wanted me to stay, so here I am.” Nice save, Grey. “And yet I find you like this.” You weren’t like this when I left. “I’m sure I’m responsible, but I have no idea why. Is it because I hit you?”

She struggles to sit up and flinches when she does.

“Did you take some Advil?” As instructed?

She shakes her head.

When will you do as you’re told?

I go to find Kavanagh, who’s on the sofa, seething.

“Ana has a headache. Do you have any Advil?”

She raises her eyebrows, surprised, I think, by my concern for her friend.

Concern?  CONCERN?! No.  If he was concerned, he wouldn’t be treating Ana like this!!  Kate’s probably surprised he didn’t tell her to get a belt or something.  And that “You said you wanted me to stay, so here I am” is not a “nice save.”  It’s a guilt trip.

“Anastasia, you can’t tell me what you think I want to hear. That’s not very honest. How can I trust anything you’ve said to me?” This will never work if she’s not honest with me.

The thought is depressing.

Talk to me, Ana.

He doesn’t want honestly!  If he did, he wouldn’t ignore her when she says the opposite of that he want her to have said!

“How did you feel while I was hitting you, and after?”

“I didn’t like it. I’d rather you didn’t do it again.”

Is anyone ignorant enough to believe for even a split second that he will respect her VERY explicitly telling him NO MORE?

“You weren’t meant to like it.”

“Why do you like it?” she asks, and her voice is stronger.

Remember when he told her it would be pleasurable for her?  He lied.  He’s a lying liar who lies and beats and rapes.

Shit. I can’t tell her why.

“You really want to know?”

It’s because she reminds him of his mom.  She’s a stand-in for his fantasies of his mother.  Do I need to say what’s wrong with that?

“Oh, trust me, I’m fascinated.” Now she’s being sarcastic.

“Careful,” I warn her.

She pales at my expression. “Are you going to hit me again?”

“No, not tonight.” I think you’ve had enough.

Not tonight.  Meaning he intends to hit her again, even though she just told him she didn’t want him hitting her again.

How can ANYONE think this book portrays a consensual relationship?  Ana is broken and ignored.

“I like the control it gives me, Anastasia. I want you to behave in a particular way, and if you don’t, I shall punish you, and you will learn to behave the way I desire. I enjoy punishing you. I’ve wanted to spank you since you asked me if I was gay.”

And I don’t want you rolling your eyes at me, or being sarcastic.

GET. OVER. IT.  Someone asking a question doesn’t mean you get to hit them!!

“So you don’t like the way I am.” Her voice is small.

“I think you’re lovely the way you are.”

“So why are you trying to change me?”

“I don’t want to change you.” God forbid. You’re enchanting. “I’d like you to be courteous and to follow the set of rules I’ve given you and not defy me. Simple.” I want you safe.

FUCKING LIAR!!  He DOES want to change her.  He wants to change everything about her, and will beat her up to do it!  If she was so “enchanting” to him, then he wouldn’t be forcing her to stop being who she is.  She’s not safe with him.  Physically she’s being harmed.  Emotionally and mentally she’s being battered.  Sexually she’s being assaulted and raped.  What’s left?

She asks if he wants to punish her, and he answers in the affirmative, and when she says she doesn’t understand why he wants to hurt her, he says it’s just the way he is.
No, being gay is the way you are.  Having a foot fetish is the way you are.  Wanting to beat the hell out of people who tell you they don’t want you to should NEVER be accepted as the way you are.  Would anyone accept a pedophile saying that raping babies is just the way they are?

Insert him getting aroused by a fantasy of beating the woman who is crying in front of him and asking him not to.

“So it’s not the pain you’re putting me through?”

Hell.

“A bit, to see if you can take it.” Actually, it’s a lot, but I don’t want to go there right now. If I tell her, she’ll throw me out. “But that’s not the whole reason. It’s the fact that you are mine to do with as I see fit—ultimate control over someone else. And it turns me on. Big-time.”

Don’t you love how he lies to her again because he knows she wouldn’t approve of the truth?  It’s amazing to me that anyone can see it as sexy that he’s turned on by controlling a woman who doesn’t want to be controlled.  It’s hurting her.  It’s not sexy.

I must lend her a book or two on being a submissive.

Because he really does want to change her.

Some crap about how he’s “always been with like-minded people” (there’s a nitfy website be should be on), so shame on her for not being like them.

“And you haven’t answered my question—how did you feel afterward?”

She blinks. “Confused.”

“You were sexually aroused by it, Anastasia.”

You have an inner freak, Ana. I know it.

Blaming the victim for her physiological responses working even when being assaulted.  Lovely.  As if rape-victims don’t have enough to deal with.

Closing my eyes, I recall her wet and wanting around my fingers after I spanked her. When I open them, she’s staring at me, pupils dilated, her lips parted…her tongue moistening her top lip. She wants it, too.

Common reaction to fear too.

“You have no problem being honest with me in print. Your e-mails always tell me exactly how you feel. Why can’t you do that in conversation? Do I intimidate you that much?”

Her fingers fiddle with the quilt.

“You beguile me, Christian. Completely overwhelm me. I feel like Icarus, flying too close to the sun.” Her voice is quiet, but brimming with emotion.

Yup.  She’s scared, not aroused.  When Icarus went too near the sun, and ignored the warnings of others, his paper wings incinerated and he fell and died.  Ana is ignoring everyone, and it getting too close to someone dangerous.  She’s going to be killed before she’s 30.

“Oh, Anastasia, you’ve bewitched me. Isn’t it obvious?”

That’s why I’m here.

She’s not convinced.

Ana. Believe me. “You’ve still not answered my question. Write me an e-mail, please. But right now, I’d really like to sleep. Can I stay?”

“Do you want to stay?”

“You wanted me here.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” she persists.

Impossible woman. I just drove like a maniac to get here after your fucking message. There’s your answer.

That’s not an answer.  Who among us hasn’t hightailed to get somewhere where we didn’t want to be?  No, he didn’t get there because he felt bad.  He saw a way to manipulate her.  Be the prince on the white horse.

So appropriate.

He TELLS us that he grumbles he’ll respond by email (after chastising her for emailing him) instead of showing us by actually telling her.  A+ writing, folks.  All my English teachers would have given F’s for that.

Before I can change my mind and head back to The Heathman, I stand, empty my pockets, remove my shoes and socks, and strip off my pants. Slinging my jacket over her chair, I climb into her bed.

“Lie down,” I growl.

Doesn’t he sound SO happy to be there?!  I think Wednesday Addams was more enthused about going to camp.

And now I need to watch that movie in a few minutes.  I think it’s on Netflix.  If now, that’s what torrents are for.  I justify torrents since I’ve bought that movie on tape, then got a DVD player, then on DVD, but have now gone all digital.  I don’t wanna keep dropping money to upgrade my license to watch the movies I’ve paid for. Besides, we do use a legal pay service.  So I don’t think it’s actually torrents.  I don’t know.  My husband does it all.

Guess what!!  That comparatively interesting detour is over.  Back to the recap.  Well, after I start the movie.

Aw, crud.  Only the first movie is on there.  I’ll take it!

Ah, the opening music.  Morticia and Gomez are sexy as hell.  Passionate, loving, and they literally use torture as foreplay.  But THEY are consensual about it!  The should give Grey some lessons.

I’m all melty now. 🙂

She does.

“Lie on your side, facing away from me.”

I don’t want you to touch me.

He wants her to think he wants to be there, but it’s so obvious he doesn’t.  He’s repulsed by her touching him.  He should just leave instead of doing this crap he’s doing.

He has a symbolic dream of symbolism about picking apples with his brother.  The baby-talk used to write those dreams makes me irrationally angry, but as an adult, it’s my responsibility to control myself instead of throwing this computer at the television.

Mmmmm, Gomez.

Know what else is sexier than this book?

And, Folks, it ain’t sexy.  If you’re morbidly curious, I think this link is the full thing.  I’ve got the real Addams Family movie, and there’s better porn, so have no interest in watching it again so see if it’s the full movie.  Have fun.  It’s funny once.  That’s once more than there is humor in this book.

The wakes up with morning wood.  The scene that follows would be cute if they could pass for a loving couple.  A bit of teasing that reminds me of me and my husband.  But they have an abusive relationship, so him teasing her with “[his] favorite body part” comes off creepy.

Oh, wait!  There IS something funny!  It’s 7:30, and he needs to be in Portland by 8, and he thinks he’s going to make it if he hurries.  HAHAHHAHAAAAA!!!   Oh hell no.  HEEEELLLL no.  In real life, getting from here to there means taking the I5 bridge.  Getting over the bridge in the morning is HELL.  Lots of traffic.  To make it worse, right as you near the bridge, there’s an on-ramp further slowing the road.  Once you get over it, and get to past the I5/404 split (another painfully slow area), you have to get through the exit 302 nightmare, where you have a three-lane area with an on-ramp making it four lanes, right where people are trying to get off at an exit to a part of downtown right before is merges into two lanes, with another exit to another major freeway…  Let’s just say that I make the drive myself about five times a week (ten or more during Nutcracker season), and even in lower-traffic times, I give myself 40 minutes going into town.  During rush-hour, give it 90 minutes.

So I guess he used magic.  Whatever.  He left her place a few minutes after 7:30, and is IN his hotel room, with his car already parked, at 8:02am. He made it in about 20 minutes during rush hour.  James was a millionaire when she wrote this book, and this section wasn’t in the original.  She should have spent a few grand and come here to make these drives and see if everything she said made sense.  She’s not very popular here though.

He gets on WebEx (seriously, we use Skype here), and has Andrea, who is in Seattle, order him breakfast from the hotel he’s sitting in.  What a lazy ass.

He checks into the online meeting, and I check out of this book.  Half this chapter is left, and Gomez just pulled the book called “Greed.”

And with that, I’ll sign off on this post, and thrill you in a few more days with another email from Ana since it’s not like Grey’s paying attention to the meeting.  Why would he, when Ana emails him and he’s horny and a jerk, as usual?

The land of complacency

NO PHOTOS are in this post.  Some of the links do have photos.

This morning, on live TV, a gunman by the name of Vester Flanagan, known as Bruce Williams on the air, show and killed a reported and a cameraman.  Alison Parker and cameraman Adam Ward were just 24 and 27.  The woman Alison was interviewing, Vicki Gardner, is the sole survivor.  She was shot in the back, but so far, is alive.  Again, this happened live on the air, and happened so quickly that the attack was nearly over before someone was able to unfreeze and cut back to the studio, where viewers saw a stunned anchor in an understandable state of shock and disbelief.

As the cameraman fell, we could see the shooter standing above him, then aim the gun down at the cameraman.  Flanagan took his own video, a literally first-person shooter video, which he uploaded and encouraged people to watch.

Flanagan later shot himself, and has ridded the world of his life.

This afternoon, on NPR, the US’s national public radio system, someone asked if this would finally get Congress to do something about gun-involved violence.  (For those of you not in the US, what people are asking for is strict NATION-WIDE controls to lessen the chance of a criminal or mentally/emotionally unstable person being allowed to buy a gun or ammo.  In Utah, MINORS can legally buy guns as long as they have permission from a parent…and I guess it’s impossible to forge a note….)  The other person stated a mind-blowing truth: The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School changed literally nothing.  Hundreds of staff and children went to school on the morning of December 14th, 2012, and six staff and a whopping TWENTY CHILDREN, little kindergarteners and first-graders, were dead by 10am, and the fucking government did NOTHING!!!  Of COURSE a couple dead adult-victims and a third fighting for her life won’t matter….

But what about when a politician is the one who is shot?  In 2001, Arizona Representative Gabrielle Giffords was shot in the head.  Another eighteen people were shot.  Six, including a child, died.  Miraculously, Gabrielle survived.  But no real change to the gun laws have happened.  In fact, Arizona is the third most lenient state when it comes to gun-control laws.

What about if a president is shot?  We’ve had 42 different presidents (the official count is 43 only because Grover Cleveland served non-cosecutive terms, making him count as both the 22nd and 24th).  Of that few, four were assassinated.  Almost 10% of our presidents were shot to death.  And the only time a shooting made a difference was the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan in early 1981, where he was non-fatally shot, and an assistant, James Brady, was paralyzed.  But all that happened ended up being nothing.  The Brady Bill mandated background checks and a five-day waiting period.  However, in 1997 the National Rifle Association argued that it was unconstitutional on 10th amendment grounds, claiming the federal government couldn’t mandate checks.  Incredibly, the supreme court agreed, and all federal regulations were tossed out.  So even when presidents are killed and more shot, STILL nothing happens.

America has become incredibly complacent when it comes to violence and death.  By “America,” I mean our politicians.  They won’t do anything.  Those purchased politicians know who lines their pockets.  While many will posture and claim, and a few will genuinely mean it, most of them will not do a single thing.  Within a week, today will be known as “remember when those people were killed by that guy,” as the next tragedy happens.  Alison and Adam are only known names today because their murders were aired live on American TV.  But they will be forgotten by most, and we’ll all sit here, emotionally tired of begging the powers that be to DO something.  All WE can do is write letters and pressure and hope for the best.  In a political system where you have to have a lot of money to compete, where most of the competitors are the same, voting won’t have an effect.  But our begging, and the faces of twenty little children, isn’t enough.

How can we expect domestic violence and rape to be treated as a big deal when “at least she wasn’t murdered”?  Our politicians doing nothing but put on an act, and nothing changes for the safer or better.  All the happens is another day passes, and another tragedy.  Abuse and rape are small compared to murder.  We are becoming desensitized to the “smaller” problems of abuse and rape, even though they happen to more people every day.  And even today, the murders of two and attempted murder of another are only news-worthy because they happened live on television.  We’re sick and tired of nothing happening, and have been through this so often that, as a nation, we’re becoming numb to is just to prevent ourselves from living in a state of perpetual grief.  If we let it in each and every time, we’d so nothing but sit here sad.  We can get angry, but nothing changes.

As a parent, I get to live with the non-stop nausea that my child’s in a country where violence and rape and murder is just business as usual.  Today, Alison’s and Adam’s families and friends are grieving, and Vicki’s family and friends are hoping, praying, so all they can to beg for a recovery, because the previous murders led to more business as usual, and after today, it’ll be more business as usual.  Another day, another name; another day, another name forgotten.

A smoky day both still and breathtaking

Today the smoke from the Washington and Oregon wildfires hit us.  It was rather surprising to walk outside and see such haze, and to smell the smoke.  When I stepped into my front porch, this sight greeted me:

I was slightly unsettled to enjoy the smell of the burning wood.  The sweetness reminded me of camping, and big fires over which we roasted marshmallows and popped those things of Jiffy Pop not meant to be used over open fire.

But at the same time, I realized that this fire is burning homes to the ground.  Millions in property damage has happened, and three firefighters’ lives were lost two days ago.  In addition to the National Guard and firefighters from overseas, for the first time in Washington’s state history, civilian volunteers were asked for, especially those who could operate heavy machinery, such as bulldozers and back hoes, to help create a firebreak.  If I remembered how to operate them (I used to play with them at a job I had where driving forklifts was a part of the job, and other machines were used like toys in our downtime), I’d be out there.  The temptation is strong to go anyway.

The air quality today reached very unhealthy levels in the region.  My husband had a hard time breathing.  My daughter’s eyes burned.  I was fine, thanks to enough time spent camping that smoke doesn’t affect me.  But many, many people were experiencing ailments from it all.  One of my friends had to leave work early.  Others reported needing inhalers.

Something about today reminded me of another large fire I was fairly close to nearly 25 years ago.  Some of you may remember if, and others will have never heard of it.  In what came to simply be called the Oakland firestorm of 1991, the skies seemed to rain fire.  High winds kicked up flaming debris, and let it down in new places, causing new fires to pick up.  So many things went wrong in fighting the fire, everything from the narrow walkways into the hills making accessing homes difficult, to the hydrants having outlets that were incompatible with the hoses.  Thousands of homes were lost, as well as 25 lives.  Watching all this on TV, hoping it didn’t managed to reach us an hour away, both cemented a fear of fires in me and made me love fire out of respect for what it could do.  I was too young to remember the house fire that nearly killed my dad, leaving that fire as the first large one in my own memory.

I think the difficulty containing the fires in the Pacific Northwest is what’s making me think of Oakland.  In California, wildfires are more or less business as usual and are expected.  So those fires weren’t any major concern to me personally (though I’m sure those with homes affected would want to punch me for saying that).  But these fires, 49 of then between large and smaller, are proving a challenge due to a lack of manpower.

I ran a couple errands later this afternoon.  There was this palpable feeling in the air of avoidance.  Though others and I would glance outside periodically at the first store, no one mentioned the fires.  Speech would halt, as if someone edged too close to the four-lettered f-word that’s replaced “fuck” for the day.  Talking about the fire was like bad luck, perhaps a jinx of the hope of a soon containment.

While driving, I started directly at the fiery red sun, surprised that I could look right at it without going blind.  The smoke was that thick in the air still.

As the evening went on, the sky cleared up enough for me to take a photo of the moon.

Who knows what tomorrow’s going to bring for the fires.  For me?  I’m going to do my best to force it from my mind so I can get work done.  We are definitely in for weeks more of fires, and so much march onward while the fighters do their work.

Grey, Chapter 11: Thursday, May 26th, 2011, PART 3

I know, my dears,  I know.  I’m late, and this book is forever and a day long of nothingness.  My excuse for being late?  I’ve just plain been too achy.

In Fifty Shades news, the next movie might be delayed.  Reportedly, Dornan’s wife isn’t happy he’s in these movies.  Can’t say I blame her.  Despite the money, I might divorce my own husband if he said he was going to promote rape and abuse.  I’ve read comments where people have said he’s got a child now, and needs to be able to support her.  Well, my husband and I manage to support out daughter on a middle-class income.  Dornan doesn’t need half a mil off a rape film to raise his.

However, that’s not the rumored problem Amelia Warner has.  Oh, no.  Her problem may be that her husband’s gotten too close to Dakota Johnson, and not just physically while on camera.  I can’t help but suspect this could be true.

This is on top of the delays announced a few months ago.  That delay is because EL James wants to pull a Stephenie Meyer and get her grubby hands all over every aspect of the movie.  The Twilight movies were actually very funny, at least until Meyer got involved.  Then then were boring.  Sam Taylor Wood altered some of the rapier scenes, and nixed others, against the protestations of James.  James being in control will probably make worse movies.

James needs to study up on recent history and stop trying to emulate everything Meyer does.

And Dornan needs to wear a badge of shame for making the world crappier for his daughter.

(Directory of recap links)

The last recap ended with Grey grabbing condoms since he says he might get lucky.  Yeah, lucky that Ana doesn’t call the cops.

Grey stops at a liquor store outside Portland.  Uh, tip from someone who lives here: Liquor stores in Oregon are tightly regulated by the infamously strict OLCC.  Most are closed by 7pm on Thursday, a few are open until 8, and I think two are open until 10.

Anyway he says the alcohol is to celebrate.  Celebrate what, breaking a woman enough that she will be compliant and do something she really doesn’t want to do?  When he gets to her place, she notes that she’s pale.  Y’know, scared.  He says she’s “skittish.”  So she’s like a puppy that’s learned to be on edge and ready to perform to avoid being beaten.  When she speaks, he calls her voice “small and strained.”

This is a romance?

She gives him the books back, with a quote asking him to go easy on her and not to hurt her too much.  It’s her way of pleading with him.

“A plea? For me to go easy on you?”

She nods.

To me these books were an investment, but for her I thought they’d mean something.

“I bought these for you.” It’s a small white lie—as I’ve replaced them. “I’ll go easier on you if you accept them.” I keep my voice calm and quiet, masking my disappointment.

“Christian, I can’t accept them, they’re just too much.”

Here we go, another battle of wills.”

This is awful.  He bought them as an “investment” where the return if her feeling obligated to let him take what he wants from her body.  And he’s disappointed.  He wants to go as rough on her as he wants.

He lectures her on how she’s being a bad submissive and tries shaming her, until she agrees to give them back.  She tells him she’s donating them to charity, and he response, at least to us, is to get pissy and to say she can burn them, for all he cares.  Then he internally begs her to keep them sine they’re a gift.

In such a short space, he lies twice.  He DOES care what she does with the books, and they’re not a gift.  They’re an “investment” to make her feel obligated to him.

“It makes me feel cheap,” she says.

“It shouldn’t. You’re overthinking it. Don’t place some vague moral judgment on yourself based on what others might think. Don’t waste your energy. It’s only because you have reservations about our arrangement; that’s perfectly natural. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Anxiety is etched all over her lovely face.

“Hey, stop this. There is nothing about you that is cheap, Anastasia. I won’t have you thinking that. I just sent you some old books that I thought might mean something to you, that’s all.”

She blinks a couple of times and stares at the package, obviously conflicted.

Keep them, Ana—they’re for you.

“Have some champagne,” I whisper, and she rewards me with a small smile.

She doesn’t feel cheap because of what others might thing, but because she’s selling herself out.  She’s doing what she doesn’t want to do, and will accept what is essentially payment for sexual services.

Grey admits she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.  This is part of why this whole thing is incredibly wrong, and why consent is invalid.  Consent requires knowing and understanding.  She doesn’t know.  Also he’s trying to ease her further along by trying to get alcohol into her.  Drunk consent also isn’t legal consent.

I fetch the champagne and refill her cup. She regards me suspiciously. She knows I’m plying her with alcohol.

THIS IS WHY THIS IS ALL ILLEGAL!!  Any why he’s a filthy rapist who should be in jail!  He admits it right there.  He’s trying to get her drunk to have his way.

“I’d help you move, but I promised to meet my sister at the airport.”

Daryl has more redeeming qualities to him, and he’s so bad he, a black man, managed to be racist to another black man for being from Africa.  Daryl also tries forcing Lisa into marriage.  Yet he’s better than Christian Grey.  And he’s still played as a villain.

Grey’s brother is helping though, and Grey snarks about being surprised Elliot is still interested in Kate.  Kate’s more interesting than Ana, and she and Elliot have a healthier relationship that includes doing stuff that isn’t sex.

He starts chastising her for not telling him she’s applying for internships in Seattle.

Oh!  Just to let you know, I’m not jumping from topic to topic just because.  This is how it is in the books.  It’s disjointed and dull.

So shame on his fire hydrant…

…for not telling him everything.  Then he gets back to his favorite topic: Abusive sex with himself!

Her eyelashes flutter and she takes a shaky breath, then drains her cup. She’s really nervous about this. I offer her more liquid courage.

How can anyone at all call this book a romance full of consensual sex when it’s clearly not, and that even he knows what he’s doing?  This is canon.  He knows he’s getting her drunk to have his way with her.

“She swallows. “Anal intercourse doesn’t exactly float my boat.”

“I’ll agree to the fisting, but I’d really like to claim your ass, Anastasia.”

She inhales sharply, gazing at me.

“But we’ll wait for that. Besides, it’s not something we can dive into.” I can’t help my smirk. “Your ass will need training.”

She says no, he says yes, so it’s going to happen in just a couple weeks book-time.

His deliberate choice to openly ignore her NOT consenting invalidates the rest of this conversation they have.  Even though it’s supposed to be about her limits, he’s shown us, and her, that it’s just going through the motions and doesn’t care about what she’s not freely willing to do.

He keeps laughing in her face about how inexperienced she is.  She doesn’t know what things like butt plugs are, or spreader bars, and she asks him not to laugh at her anymore.  He apologizes, but snaps his apology at her, and is mad at her for “making” him apologize, and snaps some more about how she’s not to do that again.

He’s mentally beating her down.  This is open abuse.  She’s not having fun.

My voice is sharper than I intended, and she leans away from me.

Shit.

Ignore her reaction, Grey. Get on with it.

That’s right.  He knows she isn’t comfortable, and even in canon, he’s ignoring how she feels.

“And how will I use safe words if I’m gagged?” she inquires.

“First of all, I hope you never have to use them. But if you’re gagged, we’ll use hand signals.”

“I’m nervous about the gagging.”|

“Okay. I’ll take note.”

Take note.  He’ll take note.  Her not being okay with gagging means DON’T DO IT.  She’s not freely consenting.  That means it’s OFF THE TABLE.  Actually, everything with her should be off the table when he knows she’s scared and has to give her alcohol to get her to talk about this stuff.  Worse, he openly tells us it’s why he’s giving her alcohol.

“Would you like another drink?” I ask. “It’s making you brave, and I need to know how you feel about pain.” I refill her cup and she takes a sip, wide-eyed and anxious. “So, what’s your general attitude to receiving pain?”

She remains mute.

Bravery is a result of being drunk (and on her fourth glass of wine, which is almost an entire bottle!) isn’t bravery.  Bravery means weighing a risk against a potential benefit, understanding that there is an elevated chance of some harm, but choosing to take the risk in the face of inherent danger.  Grey is making her too drunk to understand.  He’s calling her brave to butter her up and make her think this is all her choice.  It’s not.

“It’s not as bad as you think. Your imagination is your worst enemy in this.” Trust me on this, Ana. Please.

“Do you have to do it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You really don’t want to know.

I swear part of their communication issues is that they don’t actually talk to each other. All these thoughts he has are things he should say to her so that she can respond to them.

Also that reason she really doesn’t want to know?

As he will later tell her, he likes to “fuck little brown-haired girls, like [his] mother.”  What it breaks down to is how dare his evil bitch of a mother, that woman who has only shown him love, literally whose every action we are shown is of her doing what she has to to try providing for him, go off and be a bad mother by…  I don’t know.  She wasn’t rich and her situation wasn’t ideal, but damn if she didn’t try her best, and she succeeded enough that he loved her and knew she loved him.  He didn’t dislike her until she died, after which point she became “the crack whore.”  And then he decided to punish her by having sex with women who look like her.

So his reason that hitting is something he says he has to do, and that she doesn’t want to know, is that he is using her, and other women he has sex with, as stand-ins for his mother, so he can beat and get revenge on her.

Raise your hand if you think this sounds remotely healthy.

The list of punishment methods unsettles Ana.

“Well, you said no to genital clamps. That’s fine. It’s caning that hurts the most.”

Ana pales.

“We can work up to that,” I state quickly.

“Or not do it at all,” she counters.

“This is part of the deal, baby, but we’ll work up to all of this. Anastasia, I won’t push you too far.”

He’s okay with no genital clamping since something else will hurt her more.  She doesn’t want to do it.  Again, her “no” is “yes” to him.  This isn’t a negotiation.  It’s a meeting to intimidate her and let her know her place in this world is one where her will is going to be taken without her consent.

They get to the car she doesn’t know about.  He’s willing to “try” to give her what she wants–a real relationship–one night a week, IF she’ll “graciously” accept surprise.  Not only can a real relationship not only not exist when it’s one night a week, but there’s no way for her to graciously keep the car when she doesn’t want him buying her expensive things.

“She gapes at the car, speechless.

Shit.

“I mentioned it to your stepfather. He was all for it.”

Perhaps I’m overstating this.

Her mouth is still open in dismay when she turns to glare at me.

“You mentioned this to Ray? How could you?” She’s annoyed, really annoyed.

“It’s a gift, Anastasia. Can’t you just say thank you?”

“But you know it’s too much.”

“Not to me it isn’t, not for my peace of mind.”

Come on, Ana. You want more. This is the price.

Her shoulders sag, and she turns to me, resigned, I think.

Manipulation. Lying about her father (and admitting it to us).  Disrespect.  More manipulation.

Ana tries to call it a loan, like the laptop that also isn’t a loan.  He grits his teeth, angrily, and agrees to it being an “indefinite” loan.  Heh.  It’s not even a loan, or a gift.  He’s not exactly going to allow her to drive it often.  When he sells her car, without her willingness, she’s going to be dependent on him to get around.

“Please don’t be angry with me,” she whispers.

That saddens me.  She shouldn’t have to ask that.

“I’m sorry about the car and the books—” She halts and licks her lips. “You scare me when you’re angry.”

And he won’t change.  Nothing will change, at all.  In fact, in Fifty Shades Freed, Ana’s scared he’ll kill her.

Another sex scene.  When the most notable things are that Ana’s white cotton granny-panties have a seam in the back (typical cotton undies in the US have seams on the side), and that she doesn’t know how to put on a condom.  After they both orgasm (takes Ana a few minutes only), he tells her he’s “fifty shades of fucked up,” and that he had “a rough introduction to life.”

Seriously, I can think of thousands of worse starts to life than being poor and having a mother who loves you and doesn’t hurt you.

I sit up and remove the condom and drop it by the bed.

Gross.  Seriously gross, and disrespectful.

He tries making her think she was the one in control, even though his internal narration showed us he manipulated everything to what he wanted.

For a moment she seems distracted, then she tilts her head to one side and smiles. “If you imagine for one minute that I think you ceded control to me, well, you haven’t taken into account my GPA. But thank you for the illusion.”

HAHAHA!  Her GPA.  She was supposed to have gotten through university with a 4.0, yet she never used a computer and had no idea what a butt plug is, and doesn’t understand literature.  I’m convinced her degree is honorary.

He railroads her all of a sudden, and makes a birth control decision for her.  He’s going to have his own doctor, Dr. Baxter (I don’t know yet if this is a typo or if Baxter shouldn’t show up and that’s why Dr. Greene does instead…and I just realized that the girl who played Alice Cullen is Ashley Greene, which, knowing James, is another Twilight reference, just like the name James), meet at her at his apartment.  Her only say in this is his place of hers.

She’s accepted the car as she should, but after all that champagne she shouldn’t be driving. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Did you get me tipsy on purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you overthink everything”

And there we go again.  He’s admitting he’s trying to impair her thinking.

“You’d kidnap me?”

“Oh yes.”

“Hold me against my will?”

“Oh yes.” Now, that’s an interesting idea. “And then we’re talking TPE twenty-four-seven.”

“You’ve lost me,” she says, perplexed and a little breathless.

“Total Power Exchange—around the clock.” My mind whirls as I think of the possibilities. She’s curious. “So you have no choice,” I add, with a playful tone.

That’s not playful.  That’s making sure she knows attempts to exert control over her own life are futile since he’ll just kidnap her and hold her against his will and rape her.  May as well go along to make it less painful.

THAT IS NOT CONSENT.

“Anastasia Steele, did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“No!”

“I think you did. What did I say I’d do to you if you rolled your eyes at me again?” My words hang between us and I sit down again on the bed. “Come here.”

For a moment she stares at me, blanching. “I haven’t signed,” she whispers.

“I told you what I’d do. I’m a man of my word. I’m going to spank you, and then I’m going to fuck you very quick and very hard. Looks like we’ll need that condom after all.”

Will she? Won’t she? This is it. Proof of whether she can do this or not. I watch her, impassive, waiting for her to decide. If she says no, it means she’s paying lip service to the idea of being my submissive.

And that will be it.

Make the right choice, Ana.

Her expression is grave, her eyes wide, and I think she’s weighing up her decision.

“I’m waiting,” I murmur. “I’m not a patient man.”

Right after he tells her he’d have no problem kidnapping and imprisoning her, he’s still trying to make it out like she has a choice.  When the choices are to do as ordered or face abduction, there is nothing legal.  What Grey is doing would get him tossed in jail.

Ana is trying to get away by saying she hasn’t signed. Grey thinks if she says no (she won’t, she’s too scared to), that she’s paying lip-service because…hell if I know.  He knows she’s scared.

The right choice for her is the one that is freely right to her, not the one manipulated out of her.  He’s furthering that manipulation by telling a scared woman that he’s not patient, which is forcing a quick decision.  Again, she gets to decide between being hit when she doesn’t want to be, or to risk abduction, imprisonment, and rape.

After he has sex with her, he gets annoyed that she’s wearing cotton.  He says she “should be in silks and satins.”

Dressmaker complaint: Silk is a fiber.  Satin is a particular way a fiber is woven.  Silk satin is lovely.  Poly satin makes me cringe.  Think of silk like whole wheat flour.  You can make a lot of things using it.  Let’s say satin is bread.  Bread can be made out of whole wheat flour, or rye flour, white flour, almond, you name it.  “Silks and satins” is like saying “whole wheat flour and bread.”  Silk is basically an ingredient, and satin is the finished product made from the ingredients.

I make high-end couture for my day job. So this stuff irks me.

Anyway he disregards her saying she likes cotton.  Of course he does.  He doesn’t respect her enough to accept her having her own likes and dislikes.

Taylor picks Grey up, and this part is worth noting:

“Good. That reminds me. Can you collect her old Beetle tomorrow and dispose of it? I don’t want her driving it.”

“Of course. I have a friend who restores vintage cars. He might be interested. I’ll deal with it.”

Two reasons, one for each paragraph.  Grey didn’t ask Ana if her Beetle could be taken away.  This is theft.  And Taylor’s going to see if his friend is interested, which will be important in a few chapters form now.

He goes to his computer and sends her an email where he tells her not to drive her Beetle again, and orders her to take Advil.  He doesn’t need to tell her not to drive her car when he’s ordered it to be stolen, and if she doesn’t need any pain medication, it’s stupid to order her to take it.  Also, as someone allergic to ibuprofen (the active ingredient in Advil), I personally cringe at being ordered to take it.

Ana replies that caning is a hard limit.  Surprisingly, Grey says he “accepts” it as a hard limit.  But we all know Grey will do what he wants anyway.

He replies (good lord, these two can’t just TALK to each other, can they?) that he’s going to have Taylor get rid of her car.  Nope, not asking her.  Telling her.  Ana isn’t happy.

Dear Sir,

I am intrigued that you are happy to risk letting your right-hand man drive my car but not some woman you fuck occasionally. How can I be sure that Taylor is the man to get me the best deal for said car? I have, in the past, probably before I met you, been known to drive a hard bargain.

Ana

Even though they’re rare, I love when she calls him out on his crap, like how he’ll let Taylor drive her car, but not her, and she even refers to herself as a casual fuck-buddy.

I have to take a deep breath. Her response irks me…no, infuriates me. How dare she talk about herself like that? As my submissive she’ll be so much more than that. I’ll be devoted to her. Does she not realize this?

Um…because that’s all she is to you?  Also HAHAHA to the lie about being devoted to her.  He NEVER stops going to Elena on the side.  He’s NEVER faithful to her, even when she gets pregnant not two months from now.

And she has driven a hard bargain with me. Good God! Look at all the concessions I’ve made with regard to the contract.

What concessions?  No fisting, no suspension, that’s it.  He ignored the rest of her no’s.  Yes, he did.  He’ll do everything else later.

In his reply, he says that Taylor is ex-Army and capable of driving everything from a motorcycle to a tank.  Okay.  So.  That does no good if a vehicle is inherently unsafe.  If brakes fail or a tire blows, there’s not a hell of a lot you can do, especially when you’re going 65MPH feet feet from cars on either side of you.  Being ex-Army doesn’t give you the superpower to overcome high-speed vehicle failures just because.

Now please do not refer to yourself as “some woman I fuck occasionally” because, quite frankly, it makes me MAD, and you really wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t like him even when he’s not mad.  And apparently, neither does Ana.

Dear Mr. Grey,

I’m not sure I like you anyway, especially at the moment.

Miss Steele

As to be expected, Grey’s sudden concern is no more sex.

Shit.

Is she saying that’s it?

It doesn’t matter.  He’ll just break into her apartment again and rape her, or kidnap her and lock her up.  He’s got no reason to worry.  He’ll get his way, and never have consequences for it.

A Turning Point

I have been thinking for a while about how my books have failed to capture much of an audience, despite them having a very important message about how abuse has no place in romance unless the abuser is getting his balls ripped off and shoved down his throat.  This is still something important to me.  As a mother of a daughter growing up in a world where her rights are up for public vote and can be revoked by conservative politicians who believe a woman’s place is pregnant and at home under the authority of a man, regardless of what she wants, I just can’t let this go.  I’m just plain too scared to.

I need a way to get these books into a larger spotlight, and that won’t happen at the rate things are going.

Allow me to just spit this out.

After the third book in the Sacred Trilogy, the one that has been stagnating while I mull over my options, I’m going to leap over to general romance, and try to be more subversive with the messages I want to send.  I could pump those books out faster, and no one expects stellar writing.  With all due respect to Nora Roberts and Lisa Kleypas, my gateway into reading romance when I was a teen, the writing in those books isn’t the greatest, and Roberts’s work especially reads like first drafts.  At the rate she pumped out those books, I suspect they were.  Roberts, though, unlike Kleypas, didn’t usually feature weak heroines taken advantage of by a bunch of Bow Street Runners in storylines I now realize are sometimes bordering on rape, if not outright rape.

There’s really nothing to lose.

The next Grey recap will be up tomorrow.

Robin Williams, and the world a year later

Suicide Prevention Lifeline, inside the US: 1 (800) 273-8255
International Suicide Hotlines, outside the US: Click the link, then your country

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One year ago today, the world lost Robin Williams.  Since then, the world has learned that our funniest people are often harboring demons that all the laughter there is can’t vanquish.  We’ve learned that a lot of comedy has lost its luster now that we know what it’s often concealing.

For many, this was their first experience with suicide.  Robin had been in our homes so many times that many of us felt that we knew him.  For me, I was in his daughter’s place almost twelve years ago.  For all of us, the news was shocking, and it felt like a bad dream.

A couple days ago, my husband and I watched Dead Poets Society, possibly one of Robin’s best films.  John Keating’s name isn’t a household name.  More people are familiar with The Birdcage, Mrs. Doubtfire, and Aladdin.  He was a very versatile actor capable of playing Peter Banning as an adult Peter Pan in Hook, a career-centered man who grows up to be a child again and rediscovers the love of his children and the wonder of imagination and fun.  He could also perfectly portray Daniel Hillard as a father who wouldn’t grow up until his wife divorced him and he realized he had to learn to be an adult for the sake of his children.  I remember watching Mrs. Doubtfire and being stunned that the typical happy ending of a family reunited under one roof didn’t happen, and yet the ending was happy anyway.  He played gay man Armand Goldman in The Birdcage with a sensitivity that allowed us to laugh without making a mockery or a joke of gay people.  That right there is some incredible skill.  The entire cast was fantastic, actually.

But Dead Poets Society is the one that sticks out the most.  As Keating, he encouraged a group of boys who were being forced into predetermined careers and to deny who they are to instead take control over their lives, to let themselves feel, to be who they are and to “make their lives extraordinary.”  This film takes on a modern poignancy when you watch one of the teens, who could no longer take the pressure from his father to fit into the mold of a doctor with no outside interests, succumbs to the pressure, and shoots himself.  In a terrible twist, it mirrors what what going on within Robin.  Yet the message he taught through Keating is an important once, about making the one life we each have matter in some way, and to try to put out something good, and make the time we have worth something more than the sums of who we each are.

Who was Robin Williams?  We knew him as a funny man who could carry any role with an amazing believability.  His family knew him as husband, father, and son.  To others, he was a friend, a father by proxy, and a personal role model.  But how much did he let anyone in before he died?

I learned, through tragic and personal experience, that it’s often not until after someone dies that you can see the signs that something was concealed.  All the little signs, from my dad having me stop sanding a table we were refinishing to tell me to listen to Bad Company’s Seagull and asking me if I knew what it meant to him (I didn’t, and he wouldn’t tell me) just two days before he died, to quick moments of him wondering things aloud that I can’t bring myself to type.  Only in retrospect did I realize there was someone in there I didn’t know was there.  Tragically, Robin had that same person within him, a demon that can destroy our lives in an instant.  This is something survivors know all too well, and it the knowledge usually comes too late.

When Robin died, I had my first real days of crying for my dad, once I was far enough removed from having to try to carry the world on my shoulders.  And I was relieved to see that everyone was suddenly talking about the importance of mental health help and being open about depression and mental illness.  But, as always happens when someone dies, the rest of the world moves on and forges until reminded.  But mental illness doesn’t forget.  Depression doesn’t forget.  The demon that steals lives doesn’t forget.  Families?  We don’t forget.  We don’t move on.  We learn to exist with the pain, and to hope that no one else has to experience the devastation we have.

Seagull, you fly across the horizon
Into the misty mornin’ sun
Nobody asks you where you are going
Nobody knows where you’re from

Here is a man asking the question
Is this really the end of the world?
Seagull, you must have known for a long time
The shape of things to come

Now you fly, through the sky never asking why
And you fly all around ’til somebody, shoots you down, down

Seagull, you fly, across the horizon
Into the misty mornin’ sun
Nobody asks you where you are going
Nobody knows where you’re from

Now you fly through the sky, never asking why
And you fly all around ’til somebody, yeah
Shoots you down, yeah

Seagull you fly, seagull you fly away
And you fly away today
And you fly away tomorrow
And you fly away, leave me to my sorrow

Seagull go and fly
Fly to your tomorrow, leave me to my sorrow, fly

Conditioning bullies through modern acceptable adult behavior

This may be disjointed.  I’m awfully tired.

I’ve had a growing concern for a while.  Quite often we see people blasting anyone who dares to criticize certain manners of dress, or anyone having an issue with jokes (aside from race and sexuality and gender jokes, since it’s okay to always be mad over those jokes).  What society says these days is that, if other people have a problem, then other people have the problem, and so do what you want, wear what you want, say what you want, other people be damned.

In past decades, how we dressed, what we said, and what we did all took into consideration the way other people would feel.  When you’re doing something, you’re the active party.  They, by doing nothing more than existing in the same space, are the passive party.  When you left home, you dressed neatly without underwear and butt cheeks hanging out.  You didn’t openly criticize people for fun (I’m more than aware of how passive-aggressiveness was made into something of an art form, though people were still nicer about it).  Even if you didn’t genuinely care, you were courteous and used good manners since it was the right thing to do.  When being active, use manners.  You, the active party, chose your actions to show courtesy to others.  The passive ones, the other people who happen to exist, were owed that much, and everyone behaved this way toward others.  People who didn’t were seen as crass.

But these days, that’s dead.  Everything is about yourself rather than about those around you.  You can actively be an asshole, and still the passive people who exist around you are supposed to suck it up and approve.

Tonight I was at a wedding, and I fell down the stairs.  I landed on my tail bone and am swollen.  I went down the stairs hard enough to destroy a show.  My left arm hurts, and my abdomen is hurting enough that period cramps would be preferable.  A lot of people saw this.  I went home to change, mostly so that I might be less recognizable when more people got there.

When I got back, I found out that everyone knew, and despite the dress change, it’s not hard to know who is being talked about when there’s only one redhead.  Rather than concern, I was teased.  I can count the number of people who were concerned on one hand, but I could’t begin to count how many people joked, at my expense, about falling, demanding to see my shoes and joking not to fall again, even someone who demanded to see my shoes (low heels) and saying, jokingly, didn’t I learn the first time.

Guess what.  It’s not a joke when the target isn’t laughing and is having trouble walking.  Yet by today’s standards, since I’m “the other person” to each and every one of those other people, I’m the one whose supposed to deal with it.  If I have a problem, I’m the one whose supposed to deal with it.

My husband was in the wedding party.  He and our daughter sat at the head table.  Though I was invited to join (he was the only person with a partner who wasn’t in the party), there wasn’t an open seat.  So I wandered around until I found one.  I dealt with jokes about not falling, but not a single concern.  It’s okay to be the active person and laugh as the passive injured person.  I found a seat, but was teased a bit, then ignored by the people who knew each other.  I, as an outsider to their group, didn’t expect to be included, but I didn’t expect to be teased.

In the end, I missed dinner since I was inside the mansion crying and texting one of my best friends.

The thing is, I know none of those people saw their chosen actions as wrong.  As far as they were all concerned, they were joking, and if I didn’t like it, I could deal with it since anything else would be censorship or something.  None of them would have a problem with their behavior since society deems their chosen behavior toward someone’s existence as acceptable, with the burden on me.

A joke is funny to both parties.  I have friends who I can joke with viciously.  We know our limits.  We don’t joke with someone who is flustered as a result of our joking, or someone who isn’t laughing too.  When someone’s not enjoying it, the appropriate response is to apologize and stop, not to keep laughing.  That crosses the line into bullying.

Our society is conditioning bullies.  Bullies care about themselves.  If they hurt other people, who cares.  The targets, the victims, should suck it up.  How can our kids learn differently when the example set for them is to care about yourself only instead of caring about other people first, and then yourself?  I know there’s always been a problem to some degree of bullying.  Kids used to get to work it out, though these days, the passive party, the victim, will get punished.  Our society now says all the victims should remain passive for the sake of the bully.

While we adults might not take is as far as the stereotypical playground bully, it’s still bullying, and it’s still setting the example for kids that being self-centered is good, and other people expecting you to care about others is bad.  How awful that it’s okay for everyone to care about themselves to the exclusion of others.  No wonder rudeness is so common!  Be rude, and you get rude back, and it’s a snowballing cycle!

If we want to be effective in lowering the rate of bullying, we really need to start caring about others again, and to try to make choices, from dress to words, that show courtesy and consideration for others.  Our kids need to see us not dressing in see-through clothing while saying other people can suck it up since their opinions don’t matter.  Our kids need to see us using our manners, saying “please” and “thank you” and not trashing people behind their backs.  Our kids need to see us stopping the jokes before the butt of them is hurt, and apologizing if it goes too far.

It just really all clicked in tonight when I was crying and hungry and not wanting to go deal with more teasing, that those people didn’t see their actions as bullying since our society protect bullying by saying it’s “just joking around.”  It’s not funny.  It’s really not, and things need to change.  Right now, kids are learning that bullying is okay.  I think this is why we have such a growing problem.

Stop and really think about all the myriad ways targets of different chosen actions are expected to just suck it up because society excuses the active person’s bad behavior that is no longer bad because the respect is supposed to be for whatever choice the active person makes, instead of for the passive.  We MUST start showing courtesy again to other people in all things we do, and consistently, if we’re to have any hope of cutting bullying, and this means looking at our own behavior to see where we take it too far and send the message that others don’t matter.

I’m not sure if my back or my feelings are more hurt right now, but I do need to law down and try to sleep through it.  I’m pretty bony, and can feel my sitz bone on the right side, but my left, which took the majority of the force, is so swollen that, even when I press as hard as I can bear it, I can’t find the bone.

Grey, Chapter 11: Thursday, May 26th, 2011, PART 2

I didn’t mean to go a whole week without an update!  I spent last week doing some volunteering and then an event for a young child who is in her last months of life.  That took priority, so what should be an obvious reason.  This week I have work to catch up on.

This chapter is so freaking boring I can’t stand it!!

(Directory of recap links)

Where did we leave off?  Oh, that’s right.  James used real people and made them look bad since they stood idle while Grey accosted Ana, and the person who did something did nothing more than look like a shallow, horny fool for Grey.

Kate’s demoted to being called by her last name as a sign of Grey’s disliking of her.  Sure, I do the same thing with Grey, but he deserved it!  Kate’s done nothing more than not bought into all of his crap so far.  But now she introduces Grey as Ana’s boyfriend, which pisses Grey off since he is nobody’s boyfriend, and Ana certainly isn’t his girlfriend!  Remember this for just a few paragraphs from now.

“Hello, Ray,” Kavanagh says, and she kisses a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit standing beside Ana.

Just can’t resist taking a dig at the not-rich guy.  Most men don’t own tuxes, and a large number don’t own suits.  How many men wear either of them often enough to justify the expense every time they change sizes?  We’re an unusual household in that my husband and I go to formal events enough, but we don’t stand there mentally snarking a people at graduations who don’t have perfectly tailored suits.

He and Ray shake hands, and he snarks on Ray’s hands being rough since he works with them.  I honestly believe you have no right to snark or look down on the people who do the rough work that make your life possible.  This goes for plumbers, carpenters, the immigrants who pick the produce that goes on our tables for slave wages, the checker at the store working her second job of the day to pay her bills.  It’s hypocrisy at its worst to demand the benefit of services of people who you’ll look down upon for providing those services.  So Grey?

Kate introduces her brother, Ethan, who Grey assures us is a bum.  Oh, I want to know what he’s going to say when that bum, the Jasper-expy, marries Grey’s sister, the Alice-expy.  Since Ethan has the audacity to give his long-time friend a hug, Grey’s pissed.

Now stop pawing my girl, you fucker.

Uh…  She’s not your sub or your slave.  If she’s also not your girlfriend, then how is she your girl?

“Ana, baby,” I whisper, holding out my hand, and like the good woman she is, she steps into my embrace.

Because, don’t you know, she’d be a bad woman if she said no?  Alarming how he said she can leave if she wants, yet she’s so clearly to scared to do anything more than to skip asking “how high” when he says to jump, and will just do it.  He made his desire known in front of her family, and she immediately complied.  Nothing in her actions says she is happy to do this.

Ray asks how long they’ve known each other, while eying his daughter.  He very much seems to be the concerned father, while Grey is trying to arouse her with the way he’s stroking her shoulder.

Grey distracts Ray by talking about fishing, and for once, a conversation happening is plausible for the area.  I’ll spare you the details.  I like to fish, but don’t care to listen to men one-up each other on whose is bigger.  Ana doesn’t care for it either, and quickly bolts away from Grey over to Kate.  Naturally, he’s not pleased.  The only thing Ana can do right to him is to spread her legs after giving him a blow job.

The conversation turns to her car, and Grey starts with a lie.

“Great car, the Beetle. I’m a fan of German-made cars.”
“Yeah? Annie loves that old car, but I guess it’s getting past its sell-by date.”
“Funny you should mention that. I was thinking of loaning her one of my company cars. Do you think she’d go for it?”
“I guess. That would be up to Annie, mind.”

Yes, Grey lied about the Beetle being great.  He can’t wait to force it away from her.  He’s also lying about the company car, though not in the first way you may think.  See, he won’t be letting her drive the car he gives her.  He will tell her it’s hers, but it’s hers only in the way that company property is yours when you are given a loan.  He will tell her when she can drive it, where, and other rules.  So he’s actually telling he truth about it being a company loaner.  It’s to Ana that he will lie.  Too bad he won’t listen to Ray about it being Ana’s choice.

“She’s a gentle soul.” He gives me a pointed look. Oh. A warning from Raymond Steele. I turn it into a joke.

Ana’s dad being concerned is such a funny matter….

Ana returns, and Ray heads to the bathroom.  Once alone with Grey, she stares up at him, and he tells us she’s nervous.

Let’s have a quick recap.

He was pissed she didn’t reply, stared her down from the stage, reprimanded her on the stage, forced her into a closet afterward, and quietly ordered her to leave her family and friends.

She damned well should be nervous!!

Grey’s thoughts go back to the only thing he can think about more than a few second, and he tries arousing her again.  This is seriously disgusting.  He tells her she knows it’ll be good, and she shoots back that she wants more.  And he’s, what else, pissed that she wants “hearts and flowers.”

“Of course; she’s never had a relationship before. “You don’t know much.”
“You know all the wrong things,” she breathes.
“Wrong? Not to me. Try it,” I plead.
Please. Try it my way.

I am disappointed to say that he finally breaks her down.  He knows she doesn’t want to be used and thrown away, but that’s all he wants.  This is where she breaks down and tells him fine, he can have his way.  He’s on top of the world since he finally managed to break her.  When Ray returns, he gives Ray one answer while telling us sarcastic replies.  “Look after my daughter, Grey.” “Sure thing.” Then thinking, Yeah, if only you knew.  That sort of stuff.

I’m really sad here.  Great place for it since that’s the end of the section.

The next starts with Taylor picking him up and telling him the new car has been delivered.  Grey says it’ll be a gift.  No, it won’t.  It’ll have tons of rules and catches, and be very much the company car.

He realizes its his last night in Portland, and “almost” Ana’s.  To that, I wonder WTF?  Does he think she won’t go back after he’s finished destroying who she is as a person by making sure she knows she’s worth only a vagina?

He stares out the window at a couple carrying bags overflowing with groceries.  I’m baffled.  Where on earth did they go grocery shopping downtown?  Answer: This is James knowing nothing.  That couple, and another, cause him to bitch about how women always want more, and there’s nothing he can do about that.

Yes, there actually is.  Kink communities thrive in the area.  Sex clubs THRIVE here, to the point that Portland debatably has the most per capita.  We’ve got everything from vegan sex clubs to Ron Jeremy’s official club.  Some, like the Pitiful Princess, are just plain mean-spirited, while others, like Dancin’ Bare, are about fun.

Grey could definitely find like-minded kinksters.  So what he can do about women “always” wanting more is to seek out those who want the same thing he does.

And because he likes to complain, he complains about the “enforced socializing” he had to endure for a few hours.  Oh, the horrors.  When you work in business, socializing helps build connections.  That’s what he was doing, more than anything but intimidating Ana.

When I read,

ONCE I’M SHOWERED AND dressed and back in front of my laptop, Ros calls via WebEx to check in and we talk for forty minutes.

it’s pretty clear we’re about to read a bunch of stuff put in to fluff up the word count.  And…skimming…skimming…skimming…there’s nothing at all worth mentioning, even sarcastically.

Grey ends the meeting.  By the way, in the US, if you want to video-chat, Skype is VERY common for businesses, not WebEx.

Right away he emails Ana about soft limits, and tells us she needs a more reliable form of communication other than her phone since she doesn’t always have that with her.  I don’t know what can be more reliable than a phone unless he’s planning to have her stalked and slammed to the ground if he wants to call her and she doesn’t have her phone with her.

He decides to get her a new Blackberry (those phones have long fallen from use, though James and her husband don’t know that, and her husband and I had a verbal tiff over it), and somehow has her email long-in info, and tells Taylor to order said-phone and put her log-in info into it.  The only way to get someone’s log-in info without them giving it is through illegal means.  There are so many layers of encrypting that even providers can’t get that info for you if you lose it.

He sits there reading Forbes (or so he says), while thinking this:

Given that they aren’t related, they’re remarkably similar.

This made me laugh out loud.  A couple of my friends, Leila and Lexi, as so like me that it’s eerie.  I’m not related by blood to either, and have not even met Lexi in person, yet we’re very much alike.  A LOT of people are very much like people they share no blood with.  In fact, many people are polar-opposites of the people they share blood with.  DNA literally plays no role.

His mom calls, and we get another conversation that serves no purpose.  Ana emails and says she can come over that night to talk about limits.  He takes a jab at her car, and decides to deliver the new car to her.  He prints off another contract.  Trees died for that crap.  And then he shoves some condoms (plural) into his pocket.

I might get lucky.

Luck has nothing to do with it when you’ll just rape her anyway.

And there are 48 pages left in this chapter.  This is as good a place to stop as any. I need some wine and a wall to bang my head against.  That’s got to be more interesting.