50 Shades of Grey, E. L. James; Chapter Seven

I feel like I’ve been away for a long time. That said, I realise this is hardly one of those books that you forget where you were up to when you put it down for a bit, so there’s no need for a “previously…” recap.

 

Ana has just stepped into Christian Grey’s “playroom,” an expensively decked out BDSM dungeon.

 

The narrative runs between being acutely naive

 

“It’s called a flogger.” Christian’s voice is quiet and soft.

A flogger… hmmm. I think I’m in shock. My subconscious has emigrated or been strick dumb or simply keeled over and expired. I am numb.

 

— and sounding like it’s from a catalogue describing home dungeon packages. (I assume someone offers this since there’d definitely be a buck in it, particularly given how popular this book is.)

 

The description of the room and all the implements feels superfluous, especially since Ana is meant to have no idea what any of this stuff is and the descriptions sound far too seasoned. The result is a weird mismatch of narrative dissonance.

 

To summarise, he has a room full of BDSM gear and a four-poster bed. The furniture is dark red wood, which Ana somehow knows is mahogany (this annoys me, too: how the fuck does she know what type of wood this is? …remember, she doesn’t know anything about DIY or carpentry, people).

 

Ana looks around the room and is in complete shock. And I actually feel a bit bad for her, and hate Grey even more because it’s clear that she’s fucking clueless and he’s totally not made things clear until now. That’s mean. Especially since the whole thing about this sort of stuff is meant to be about trust and a level of communication and, well, maturity. Both of these people suck at maturity and communication.

 

What is the appropriate response to finding out that a potential lover is a complete freaky sadist or masochist?

 

Eek. That sentence. It sounds like it’s written by a 14 year old who’s never heard of this stuff or like it’s been recycled a few times by Google Translate.

 

Fear… yes… that seemes to be the overriding feeling. I recognise it now. But weirdly not of him– I don’t think he’d hurt me, well, not without my consent.

 

Awesome: she can recognise feelings. This may make her slightly less fucked than Grey (we don’t know about his ability to recognise his feelings yet. I’m sure it will be a point of interest down the track).

 

 

Firstly, that section sounded so clunky and awkward that I’m wanting to do things to the editor which would probably make Christian Grey look like a balanced, normal human being. Secondly, what Ana and Christian have demonstrated in their capacity to understand “consent” is horrifying.

 

Um, Ana: this is the guy who said he wouldn’t touch you without written consent and then changed his mind on a whim and slammed you up against an elevator, using restraint tactics that would make even the dodgiest security guard go, “Nope, not going there, I’ll get sued,” pulling your hair and hurting you and not even giving you the capacity to refuse his advances or not consent, so hearing you talk about what you think he would or wouldn’t do without your consent is a moot point.

 

 

“Say something,” Christian commands, his voice deceptively soft.

“Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”

His mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.

 

Oh god. It makes me think of that really creepy smirky smile thing that Kristoph Gavin does in one of his sprites in Apollo Justice. And that guy has been described as High Octane Nightmare Fuel on TVTropes.

 

And it just gets better.

 

“People?” He blinks a couple of times as he considers his answer. “I do this to women who want me to.”

 

You hear that, kids? He seems genuinely tripped out to hear Ana referring to his past vict– I mean, partners– as people. That’s okay, they’re just women. With submissive/masochistic/non-existent self-esteem/whatever tendencies; they’re not, like, you know, people. I think that this is seriously one of the most horrifying things I’ve read in awhile, because even with context, it’s still pretty damned awful.

 

I don’t understand.

 

And that just makes it even more horrifying, Ana.

 

“If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?”

 

Because they got mouthy and had to be disposed of, Ana, and it looks like you’ll break like a match stick.

 

“Because I want to do this with you, very much.”

“Oh,” I gasp. Why?

 

Her complete naivete about this is really scary and awful.

 

“You’re a sadist?”

“I’m a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching grey, intense.

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

“It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.”

I frown at him as I try to assimilate the idea.

“Why would I do that?”

“To please me,” he whispers as he cocks his head to one side and I see the ghost of a smile.

 

Please him! He wants me to please him! I think my mouth drops open. Please Christian Grey.

 

Oh, fuck. Where to start? Let’s begin with the fact that there is a world of difference between liking some sadomasochistic kinky sex and a complete lifestyle total power exchange thing. It’s a bit like comparing, I dunno, enjoying a French film every now and then to going, “Fuck this, I’m moving to France forever. Au revoir.” Let’s continue with the notion that clearly there’s more to this than just domination and that there has to be at least *some* level of sadism going on here given his range of equipment (and stuff that gets mentioned later on in the chapter) and that it is possible for someone to be dominant and masochistic. Grey’s skeleton explanation is coming across as really freakish and controlling. Sorry, but you’re into this stuff and you want to do it with someone else who is clueless? You damn well owe them a proper explanation of what’s going on and more than vague answers.

 

Finally, what’s with him cocking his head to the side all the time? Inner ear problems? We’ve had a few of these mentions. It’s happened enough to look like a tic.

 

Ana decides that yep, with the limited understanding she has of things, she wants to please Christian Grey above all else, and asks how to go about that. Grey explains he has rules and that if Ana doesn’t follow them, she’ll be punished. Grey says some malarky about trust and about gaining Ana’s, which is another moot point since she quite clearly already trusts him so much that it’s already like reading The Walrus and the Carpenter from Alice’s Adventures Through the Looking Glass and knowing that this is not going to end nicely.

 

For the first time ever, Ana asks what she gets out of the deal. Him. Um, all right. A mutual exchange of trust? Some great sex? Her desires catered to? Nope. Him.

 

They leave the room because Grey is finding it distracting having Ana in there and clearly the guy has control issues including some very flimsy self-control by the sounds of it. A light finally pings on in Ana’s brain and she realises that she’s out of her depth and that the guy’s dangerous.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Anastasia.”

I know he speaks the truth.

 

Yeah, Ana, those floggers and that talk of punishment is just for dramatic effect. Unless of course, he’s not going to hurt you provided you do everything he says. I’ll just meditate on this idea for a few moments. Yep. Still fucking creepy. Actually, on levels of creepiness, I’ve come across Snape/Harry fic which has been far less creepy than this.

 

Grey takes no time in then showing Ana a room with a lovely view, all in “sterile, cold white” and a double bed.

 

“This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here.”

 

Wow. Presumptuous, much. Thankfully Ana is horrified, but Grey reassures her that he doesn’t mean he wants her moving in for reals, just from Friday through Sunday. No more weekends of drunken wenchery for you, Ana. He then tells her that they “have to talk about all that, negotiate.” If Ana wants to do this, of course.

 

Sleeping arrangements are discussed. Ana will sleep alone in there. Grey sleeps elsewhere.

 

My mouth presses in a hard line. This is what I cannot reconcile. Kind, caring Christian who rescues me from inebriation and holds me gently while I’m throwing up into the azaleas, and the monster who possesses whips and chains in a special room.

 

Please don’t let it be just me who is thinking, “If you’re this bothered by his kinks, then maybe you should be going, “Okay, that’s a dealbreaker”? The BDSM dungeon and even his preferences don’t make him a monster. His treatment of you, his attitude towards women, and his creepiness which has been evident from day dot are what makes him a monster.

 

There’s more of Ana saying she’s not hungry and Grey pushing her to eat because this is a recurring theme, and they sit down to some grapes and cheeses and then Grey allows her to ask some questions. And they talk about setting limits, which is again seems like a moot point since he’s already demonstrated that he’s reckless to her consent, but hey, why let that get in the way of E. L. James demonstrating that she’s watched Secretary and had some BDSM fantasies of her own?

 

“And if I don’t want to do this?”

“That’s fine,” he says carefully.

“But we won’t have any sort of relationship?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why?”

“This is the only sort of relationship I’m interested in.”

 

Um, Ana, this is the bit where you realise that he isn’t interested in you as, you know, a friend or a human being, but as a thing to fuck and control, and this is where you go, “Um, fuck off, creep.” Hate to tell you, sweetheart, but relationships don’t just come in “sexual,” and if someone decides that you’re not even worth much as company because you don’t want to have sex their chosen way, guess what? They’re not interested in you for your brains or your personality or whatever else. Get out before he starts getting insanely creepy and before you get used, because quite clearly you’re in it for the emotional gooey stuff and he’s made it crystal clear that he’s not. He doesn’t even see you as human. You’re just a woman.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s the way I am.”

 

Okay, dude, you realise that. In addition, you realise you’re this domly powerful manly thing, and you know what? With that power comes, well, responsibility. If you know yourself that well, you owe it to people you want these sorts of relationships with to not be a douche. You be upfront with them about what you want and what they can expect from you. And you don’t, for the love of god, lead idiots or feeble-minded children down the garden path for kicks. If you’re responsible enough to be domly, you’ve seriously got to have some idea of what abusing power looks like. And, well, Mr. Grey, I’d say you’ve got a metric fucktonne of learning to do.

 

“How did you become this way?”

“Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese? Mrs. Jones– my housekeeper– has left this for supper.” He takes some large white plates from a cupboard and places one in front of me.

 

We’re talking about cheese… holy crap

I don’t know about anyone else, but that last line cracked me up. Ana’s inner monologue sounds like someone who’s smoked a lot of weed and who is tripped out by a discussion about cheese. I don’t know why talking about cheese is so intense, but apparently it is.

 

Anyway, Ana asks about the rules, Grey says they’ll talk after she’s eaten, she doesn’t want to eat (anyone else seeing a pattern here?) and he tells her She. Will. Eat.

 

They talk a bit about the situation, there is a completely not cliched moth-to-flame reference, and Ana asks how many women have gone before her. Fifteen, apparently. And she’s number sixteen. And surely I’m not the only one getting really hideous Dexter flashes, am I?

 

Ana asks a bit about these women, if he’s hurt them (yes) if he’ll hurt her (there’s a roundabout way of him saying yes) and she sips more wine, deciding that alcohol will make her brave. Oh no. All I’m doing now is sighing. Not long ago she was iffy about alcohol because of her drunken escapade the previous night. Now she’s deciding booze will make her brave.

 

Anyway, they head to the study and he goes through the rules, which are grouped into categories. Basically, Ana will do anything Grey says in following instruction and agree to any sexual activity deemed pleasurable by Grey. Since Grey is the master of objectivity and self-control, we all know nothing can go wrong there, right?

 

Anyway, blah blah blah, Ana will sleep at least seven hours a night, Ana will “eat regularly to maintain her health and well-being from a prescribed list of foods,” and “not snack between means with the exception of fruit.”

 

Fuck you, you motherfucking control freak shithead. Seriously, what if the girl has fucking food issues (as PLENTY of women in Western civilisation do?) Who made you a dietitian? Why is this meant to be sexy? OMFG, this was the point where I wanted to throw the book across the room. Just… fuck. If you’re going to fuck around with this stuff, bloody well have some sort of idea of what you’re doing. OMFG. Rageypants time, hardcore.

 

 

Also, while we’re on food, compare with the way food is used and mentioned in the other series I’m reading.

 

The other rules include clothing (Grey gives her a clothing allowance but chooses how she dresses); exercise (Ana will see a personal trainer four times a week for exercise, personal trainer will report back to Grey on her progress– just in case controlling what she eats doesn’t already fuck with the girl’s body image); personal hygiene (Ana will stay clean and tidy and “keep herself waxed and shaved at all times” and attend beauty salons of Grey’s choosing and undergo whatever treatments Grey wants her to– you thought Kate’s makeover was horrible, Ana…? Also: hate to state the obvious, but there is nothing dirty about having, er, body hair); personal safety (Ana won’t drink, use drugs, smoke or put herself in danger) and other crap under the heading of “personal qualities” (Ana will be respectful and modest and not have sex with anyone else and do nothing to embarrass Grey).

 

Reading all that I thought, “Well, fuck. If this is the book that is saving marriages, I think I want to write myself out of humanity.” Seriously, this is depressing. And surely a dude with that much cash and time on his hands could get himself a Real Doll, right?

 

Another thought I had on this: does everyone remember when The Surrendered Wife was all the rage in the self-help section and it was apparently saving marriages? (I still don’t think it’s “saving a marriage” if one party caves in completely to the other’s whims. That’s a bit like saying that we won’t have to worry about wars if one of those pesky sides just gives up and lets the other one take over all their stuff and kill all their people.) This is like a really crappy, fictionalised version of the excerpts of the book that I read, only with added, poorly-researched and some sort of hella problematic bastardised version of BDSM.

 

There’s negotiation about the clothes which ends with Grey telling her he wants to splash cash. There’s a bit of a disagreement about the amount of exercise. And that’s it.

 

Oh, Grey has limits, too.

 

No fireplay. He’s probably scared Ana will set the place on fire in rage for being treated like dirt once she cottons on to the fact that he is using her.

No scat/urine stuffs. Thank fucking god is all I can say to that one.

No blood play. Or piercing play.

No gynecological instrument stuff. (What? This one seems like a random inclusion. I’m having visions of E. L. James doing very basic kink research and suddenly realising what some people get up to and going, “EEERRRRRGH! Not writing that stuff!”)

No bestiality or pedophilia. Thank fucking Christ for that. Or not: perhaps the book wouldn’t have had such wide appeal if that stuff HAD been included.

No breathplay. No permanent marking of the skin. No direct contact of electrical currents (don’t taze me, bro!) and again, no fireplay. (Is there some backstory involving Grey having some sort of fireplay-gone-wrong thing happen to him? Is that what made him such a nasty little prick and control freak?)

 

And you know what else? No fucking safe word. Probably the most alarming of all of this: it doesn’t even bear mentioning, which is scarier than any of the rest of this stuff, especially if we’re talking about anything barring some very out there and extreme limits and people with unknown pasts, a major fucking lifestyle situation as opposed to casual fun sexytimes, someone who really has no idea about consent and saying “no” and that the whole lot is meant to be erotic and sensual and hot stuff.

 

Look at it this way: even in some of the most extreme settings ever– including ones which go beyond Grey’s limits– people will use safe words. Reference to The Administration again: one of the first things Warrick and Toreth actually do is sort themselves out with safe words before they get their kink on, and Toreth is meant to be a sociopath according to most people.

 

 

Another point worth making: it’s more realistic. People actually do that stuff IRL.

But not these two.

 

The chapter ends on the fun-filled note of Grey asking Ana what her limits are, Ana sort blushing, and admitting that she doesn’t know because she’s never had sex before and doesn’t know what she doesn’t like. Grey flips out and gets pissed because apparently Ana’s virginity should have been mentioned to him before now and is a topic of extreme importance.

 

 

I felt dirty after reading this book. Not in an ooh-la-la sexeh kind of way, in a “Ew, need shower” kind of way.

 

Mind Fuck, Manna Francis; Chapter Seven

Toreth’s back at work after his SimTech-related shenanigans, only to be advised by Sara that his boss wants a word with him and that he doesn’t sound happy because he took a day off without holiday leave scheduled.

 

We haven’t heard much about Tillotson yet (other than the rumours that Toreth is sleeping with him in order to get the good cases: a rumour which is all the more ridiculous when you meet Tillotson in the series) but he’s another one of those believable, easily-recognisable public servant characters, like Chevril. Unlike Chevril, though, he’s presumably a lot more ambitious, a lot more by-the-books, and a hell of a lot less fun. The fact that a guy like Tillotson is a manager isn’t just convincing, it’s bloody typical. Personal bias has tainted my view of Tillotson: I can’t stand him because I recognise him in a lot of ineffective, micro-managing, mired-in-irrelevant-details, pompous, managerial types I’ve encountered. He’s so believable and typical and blank that I wonder if I have a normal reaction to him or an attitude problem. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

 

Promising to tell Sara about Warrick later on, Toreth goes in to see Tillotson after requesting a coffee from his admin. Sara frequently uses coffee as a way of smoothing over edges, and in some cases, Toreth uses asking Sara to make him a coffee as distraction. (I love their dynamic.)

 

If Toreth’s apprehensive about a meeting with Tillotson, it’s understandable. At I&I, the only people scarier than the lower-level workers are presumably the ones who have worked up from that position and who are more skilled and adept at dealing with people than them. I mean, who else wants a senior level interrogator for a boss when it comes to those awkward getting-called-into-the-office moments? And Toreth, after his running up costs at the restaurant and the hotel for not-really-professional means, knows exactly what he’s dealing with.

When Tillotson decided to elicit confessions of illegitimate time off or expense account fiddling, he tended to go in for heavy-handed verbal traps.

Fun. Not.

Surprisingly, though, and thankfully, for Toreth, he’s not hear about that, he’s asking about the Sim seminar and how that went– and advising Toreth that he has a new case for him when Toreth gives him, well, some of the truth. (And omitting the rest.)

 

Phew, right? Except for the bit about how the new case is involving SimTech because someone died there. Toreth doesn’t declare any personal involvement with the players in the case because he’s curious (and presumably doesn’t want to get dropped for conflict-of-interest issues) and because he doesn’t feel his interactions with Warrick constitute anything serious enough to warrant disclosure.

 

The dead woman was Kelly Jarvis, a grad student with a seemingly unspectacular spotless record. Not the sort of thing which I&I usually deal with, though Toreth is then advised of the other part of the case: Jon Teffera, a corporate big name has also died and while the media reports have said it was from natural causes, they left out the bit abuot how he was found dead on a sim couch.

 

“[…] I didn’t think they were for sale yet.”

“They aren’t, except to corporate sponsors and their close, influential friends.”

 

Hearing about the case– and the issues surrounding it– gives us a peek into the bureaucracy that is the Administration. It hasn’t been a straightforward case up until this point; with the Justice department calling it corporate sabotage only to change their minds and decide to head down anyway. Just like in other government organisations, it seems that some relationships between departments are a trifle strained, and I&I and Justice seem to be two with such issues. Departmental reorganisation is something they still don’t have down to a fine art in the Administration’s time. (The beauty of it, again, is that it’s something all too familiar to life in the world of today.) So under the veil of everything being perfectly controlled, we still have companies fighting amongst themselves, and the government departments who are meant to be keeping everything in check fighting amongst themselves.

 

I&I, we learn, now focusses its attention on political or politically important crimes, while Justice gets the lower-end civilian stuff– where previously I&I seemed to get everything that had a rather extreme (death or the ominous-sounding re-education) sentence attached to it. (Presumably, too, the shift in responsibilities would have pissed off Justice employees who would have lost the more “prestigious” cases.) This case falls uncomfortably between Justice and I&I with a “regular” civillian death, and one of a powerful more noticeable figure… which suggests corporate involvement.

 

Anyway, Tillotson wants Toreth to sort everything out, and quickly, and he’s given him the order to clear everyone else away and get things wrapped up.

 

Toreth arrives at the research centre to see a heap of Justice officials and one of his investigation team members, Belqola.

The interactions through the book  between Belqola and Toreth are again, realistically crafted, and they add to the story. (I love hearing about Toreth’s team and their interactions with him: he has a knack for getting the good ones and is apparently high in demand, and like everything he does professionally, he has educated reasoning behind it even if other people can’t see things the way he does. He assembles a really good team of subordinates, for the most part.) Belqola was presumably chosen because he had very good training grades, and while Toreth has a policy about not sleeping with his team members, he’s also easy on the eyes. Belqola is flaky, though, having run late from home, and now been sanctioned to outside the investigation because he has no supervisor present. Toreth isn’t impressed though he doesn’t really have time for this shit and gets to work securing the investigation.

There’s a bit of quibbling with Justice who still want the investigation, but Toreth moves them off fairly easily and his own team arrive, so he hands the paperwork and liaising with Justice part over to Belqola. (Ouch.) When the others– and some temps– get there, he gets them working on their respective parts in the investigation and goes off to talk to the legislator’s admin who was on the scene with Justice earlier. (And presumably, whose presence necessitated getting the whole thing sorted out quickly.)

Keilholtz was waiting for him in a small office on the first floor. As Toreth entered, he stood up. Ten years experience had taught Toreth that many people who saw an I&I uniform approaching under these circumstances appeared a little apprehensive.

Again, loving the details here; revealing without obviousness. Toreth is clearly competent and experienced in his role (and a good manager of people– which possibly explains why he’s not in Tillotson’s role– ha!)– and also, the mention of the influence of the I&I uniform is interesting to note as well. The Administration likes uniforms, it seems: the admins wear grey, presumably office-type garb, the Justice officers wear blue (which makes it easy to imagine that they’re in a police-type role), and I&I– have a somewhat ominous, sci-fi series bad guy black getup.

However hard the Administration pushed the line that the Investigation and Interrogation Division was a virtuous force for ensuring the safety of citizens against terrorists and other criminals, for those caught up in an investigation, the second “I” tended to take on overwhelming significance.

 

Again, I love this. I love that there is fear and distrust about the division and the system, despite the fact that speaking out against it is regarded as an act of sedition. And in spite of that, the Administration still uses publicity and fear-mongering about terrorism– to try and mollify the population. Very human, and all too reminiscent of how things operate at the moment. Clearly terrorists are still scary in the future, though later down the track and with some more clues about the world they’re living in, it’s possibly easier to see that there could be a tad more justification there than there is, say, right now.

Toreth begins the interview with Keilholtz who explains that he’s there on behalf of the legislator– the Science and Technology Law Division need to keep in mind that there needs to be regulation around virtual worlds and the technology allowing for them. (Which all sounds smart– and typical. I can’t help but think about how long it’s taking the world to get its shit in order regarding legislation around the internet and copyright– the technology surpassed the authorities in governing it and slapping down laws on things. After that, you can understand why they’d be a bit quicker on the uptake when it comes to technology used to create virtual worlds.*)

 

* By the way, an article I was reading last night suggested that in ten years, we’re going to have graphics which will be indistinguishable from reality. I always thought it was going to happen, but didn’t know when and assumed it wouldn’t be in my lifetime. I would also like to point out that this world– even with its advanced technology and its characters who may be extraordinary in some ways (but who are still well-rounded enough to be believable) is still far more skilled at suspending my disbelief than a certain other thing I’m reading at the moment which is set in modern day America. Basically, I believe that the events in The Administration are more likely at some point in time, than any of the batshit crazy that is in 50 Shades of Grey. There. I said it.

 

Clearly the legislator realises the potential of the sim and what it could possibly spell for the world. While Toreth points out the prohibitively expensive nature of the technology, the legislator Keilholtz is representing, Legislator Nissim, is of the opinion that one day it’s going to be affordable and accessible for everyone. (Hmm. I’m inclined to agree when I think about how IBM thought there’d be a market for eight computers way back when… but I’m also thinking about all those “future technologies” TV shows that were on the air when I was a kid which told us that in the year 2000, we’d have flying cars and Trekkie technology.) Nissim clearly has an interest in the sim and seems to be in support of SimTech and all for assisting them.

Toreth turns the interview back to the case and asks about the dead grad student. Keilholtz has no idea who she is, and was only here because he was meant to be having a demonstration of the sim himself. He explains that the legislator already has the sim technology at home and that once the murder was discovered, Justice moved him out of the way.

Since he’s the admin of a legislator— and he doesn’t seem to have much else to say– and he’s going to be inconvenienced by remaining in London when he’s due back in France– Toreth lets him go, and has a look at the crime scene for himself. He doesn’t know the dead girl, it wasn’t the same room he’d used with Warrick– he thinks.

Over his career Toreth had learned not to rely on anyone’s recollections, even his own; he had heard too many witnesses give honestly recounted but wildly inaccurate stories.

Hmmm. While that’s actually true and can be backed up with psychology references, it’s probably further exemplified when torturing information out of someone is a legal part of the interviewing process.

The forensics people are already there getting a handover from the Justice forensics people, and we get a bit more insight into intradepartmental politics: the service providers get a rather enviable position of not really being in conflict with any of the other departments. (Again, it makes perfect sense.)

After introducing himself to Toreth, the head of the Justice forensics team explains what’s going on with the dead girl, which only gives reason for more questions.

“[…] How, when– all the usual.”

“Twenty-two hundred, give or take a little. How, you’ll have to ask them.” He gestured to the I&I team. “Although there were lots of things it wasn’t. She hasn’t been shot, stabbed, strangled, beaten to death or poisoned with anything I can pick up here.”

“Give me a guess.”

The man looked pained. “I’m not psychic.”

“Come on– you’ll never have to see her again.”

The man smiled wryly. “There is that, Para. If you insist– I’d say she stopped breathing. That’s what it looks like to me. I know–that’s only a symptom, But I’m not going as far as a cause; you know what’s likely as well as I do.”

So there’s nothing decisive yet, just more questions about the how, the why, and the overall nature of her death.

Bringing his own trusted forensics people in, he gets them looking at things, and goes on to see Warrick.

 

So here we have the beginning of the investigation, and, as a reader, the realisation that there is a HEAP of stuff going on, and the subplots and the details and even the most random of characters are all fleshed out wonderfully. The writing is also tight and concise; with this much going on it’s amazing that it doesn’t get really fucking wordy, but the pacing is done well: while you’re not stuck in one spot for too long going, “Damn, I’m bored, I think I’ll go read something else/Hey! I’m going to watch an entire season of anime!/Hmmm… you know what I’ve always wondered about? Thermodynamics. Let’s start reading as much material on that as possible…” you’re also not whisked through everything too quickly for it to have any meaning or personality.

I love, too, that the sexual relationship between Warrick and Toreth doesn’t overshadow the thriller aspect of the novel, and it doesn’t feel like it’s been pasted in to spice up a futuristic crime novel either. It’s just a beautiful combination of so many rarities all at once.

Mind Fuck, Manna Francis; Chapter Six

Sometimes, the best part of a romance is in those first kick-off moments where two parties are getting acquainted and testing the waters with one another and holding off on doing anything too overt. And sometimes, once all that’s over, and the parties get comfortable with one another, it gets boring. Some spark is lost, and there’s no room for movement, and familiarity breeds contempt or something, and then you’re stuck in a marriage that is so intolerable that you need to find salvation in Twilight fanfiction and…

The good news is that Toreth and Warrick don’t wind up there. The other good news is that the opening bars of their relationship, the dabbling around with one another, the game aspect– is awesome as well. They’re one of the few couples with whom I don’t want to instantly fall in love/lust/like with one another, because watching them in their early stages is compelling enough anyway.

 

So, Toreth (with his fake name) and Warrick (who realises that Toreth is using a fake name), round two.

They’ve both arrived at the proposed restaurant. Not at the same time; Toreth has been waiting, and making every effort to look effortless and unruffled by this; Warrick is late, with equal levels of disaffectedness about it.

And they’re both completely switched on to what they’re dealing with, from Warrick refusing a pre-dinner drink until he’s eating, and Toreth catching that suspicion just after the refusal. Nonetheless, it’s clear that he wants to control the way things move throughout the night, and that he’s still confident enough to believe that he can.

“What shall we have to start with?” Toreth asked as a silence filler.

Warrick turned the page back and studied the selection. “Well, to start with, you can tell me your real name.”

Score one, Warrick. That was fucking smooth.

Toreth blinked. Damn it, just when he thought he had a handle on the situation the man managed something else unsettling. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

Warrick’s gaze flicked up long enough to catch his flustered expression, and then returned to the menu. “I think now that this has extended to dinner, a real name is only polite since you know mine. Usually I ask before letting someone come in my mouth, but I think, under the circumstances, that really didn’t count.”

I love Warrick’s sense of humour. And I can so see him saying it, too, perfectly deadpan.

Toreth, of course, is realising that he’s trying for a reaction, and because Toreth does not like losing control– and has no desire to do it again– he tries to think of a response and–

“Very well, if you insist, I shall guess.” He laid the menu down and steepled his fingers. “Mm, let me see. Something like Toth, I imagine, because that makes it easier to respond to naturally. And you don’t look like a Marcus, so let us discount that completely. Something like… Valantin Toreth, perhaps?”

Oh, score. Again, I can so totally see this happening in my mind, and Warrick looking ever-so-slightly triumphant but being so calm about it all that it seems so fucking unfair that this isn’t a TV series.

 

(Also, Valantin is a fucking awesome name. I love the names these charactars have. The setting described seems to take into account the shift in trends that occurs every few ages with baby names, and the names this generation of characters has have a futuristic yet familiar-enough feel. You could name your kids after characters in the series and people wouldn’t go “Lemme guess, you’re a fan of [insert franchise here], aren’t you?”– they’d just think you’ve chosen something a bit obscure.)

 At this rate, speechlessness looked set to become a permanent condition. After a moment, he managed to say, “It’s Val Toreth. And I always go by Toreth.”

Statement confirmed, Warrick then quite casually resumes the conversation where it was before he’d interrupted it with that, and orders dinner.

That’s something else about this series that bears mentioning: while nothing gets bogged down in wordy description, Manna Francis frequently uses food to help set a mood. It’s a bit of an in-joke amongst fans of the series, with one happy reviewer saying

 ‘Wow: sex, food, torture, conspiracy and family gatherings!’

of the series in the early days. All the things that a lot of writers can’t do well or ignore, but which are written beautifully here.

And it’s done seamlessly, too; it doesn’t feel clunky and like the writer is trying to put her own “special twist” on the story; it feels like just part of the world, a little piece of the puzzle which subtly shows the reader what’s going on. Not being much of a foodie myself (my mother once said that I would rather take a pill than sit down and have a meal– and she was correct. Even now, my attitude to food is, “Does it contain animal products?” and “Is it palatable?” and if the former is a “no,” and the latter is a “yes,” that’s good enough for me. I’m a total black sheep in a family full of people who love food and cooking.) usually this sort of thing goes over my head, but it’s done well and in a way that compliments the story, so even when the technical details go over your head, you can appreciate it as part of the environment.

Toreth, of course, is dying to know how the hell Warrick blew his cover. Warrick obliges: everything was above board, of course: there was no reading top-secret files on I&I employees; Warrick merely used his charm in a manner that could be described as …social engineering. Not only does he explain this to Toreth, but he manages to spread on a healthy layer of flattery, too. And it’s working; Toreth is aware of it, too, and his awareness of losing ground combined with his determination to win this thing is only adding to his stress and causing him to unintentionally reveal his hand.

And of course he’s reading below the surface, and is very much aware that Warrick doesn’t trust him.

 The upfront revelation that he knew Toreth’s name was a clear signal saying “I know who you are and you can be damn sure that someone else knows I’m here.”

Another small detail I love is how they’re eating their hors d’oeuvres:

Toreth picked up one of the little biscuits, topped with a fish and herb roulade arrangement and disposed of it in two bites as Warrick began another delicate deconstruction.

I love the way we get to see these subtle — but completely opposite– differences not explicitly stated, but quietly shown, especially when you consider that in many ways, they are quite similar.

The signals were intriguing– wariness and definite interest. Some people had a thing for interrogators, and, by extension, for para-investigators. They were usually people who had no firsthand experience of the profession. Toreth couldn’t understand it. There was nothing sexually exciting about interrogation — it was a skilled, technically demanding, and occasionally boring job. On the other hand, despite the general distaste with which I&I staff regarded “interrogator junkies,” Toreth had no moral objection to taking full advantage of the kink when the opportunity arose.

Of course, he’s wondering if that’s Warrick, though comes to the conclusion that it isn’t– Warrick’s probably has a good idea of the reality, and his disgust and reaction in the sim were genuine.

Yet here he was. Interesting. Suggestive, maybe, that Warrick had some deeply hidden fascination in there after all. That would be a nice little piece of self-knowledge to give him.

In good time, of course. Being a professional people-reader has its advantages, and Toreth isn’t about to do anything right at the moment.

 

Warrick asks Toreth how he found his experience in the sim. And that’s where we see Toreth’s manipulation subside a little; he quite earnestly tells Warrick how amazing it was. Maybe he’s caught off guard. Maybe he’s able to appreciate that a crafty liar will pepper lies with enough truth to make the lies look like they could be honest. Or maybe Toreth’s just dropped the game because hey, the simulated reality offered in the sim is fucking amazing and it’s the sort of thing Toreth isn’t used to. (Presumably the novelty could dull for those used to it, but for a guy working strictly in a very real—and often, presumably, bleak—environment, the sim was a bright ray of something rare for him: escapism, beauty, fantasy. I can completely understand the appeal of the sim. I can understand it even moreso for someone like Toreth who says it’s magical and the scenery is stunning.)

Warrick notes Toreth’s enthusiasm, though the defences are still up for him: Toreth’s line of work is called into things again: others in his field, as Warrick says, have no problem seeing past the beauty of the sim.

“You can’t blame the Administration for appreciating the technology.” Time to throw out an opening. “Or the potential applications.”

“Applications.” Warrick grimaced. “No, I suppose not.”

One thing that really interests me is the way language is used by those in the Administration surrounding the activities of I&I. I wouldn’t call it dehumanising, but sanitising, distancing language—and it’s something consistent with language used in areas where others are harmed “all in a day’s work.” It’s fascinating and haunting at the same time, and the way Toreth casually describes the idea of using the sim for torture (or serious headfuckery) as “potential applications” is just so… blasé. And yet realistic.

And Warrick is still disgusted by the notion.

 

Even though the conversation seems stopped, and they shift to talking about the food they’re eating (Warrick picks apart his meal because he doesn’t like the pastry it comes with: I’m loving Warrick’s finicky food dissection, actually), Warrick is still clearly bothered—or trying to throw Toreth off-guard—and continues asking about his line of work.

With some very subtle Toreth-prompting, of course, but Toreth is aware that some part of him is interested.

“Why do you enjoy it?”

Not, Toreth noted, Do you enjoy it? “The money’s decent,” he said. “The hours aren’t bad. There’s a lot of variety.” Warrick watched him, silently assessing the reasons as he offered them. “I like the people I work with, and even some of the people I work for. It has an excellent career structure. And I’m good at it.”

Er, wow. I think that’s the sort of statements government departments actually want people to give when they’re collecting material for recruitment promos. It’s an interesting comparison to public service in the present; almost like the job satisfaction is another aspect of the future that seems to have been sorted out in government departments. (Though there’s still the human dissatisfaction, as shown through people like Chevril and the anonymous greenery thieves and the workers perusing the newsletters considering work outside the department yet still in associated industries. Though I don’t at all doubt Toreth’s sincerity here, either.)

“You make it sound like any other job.”

“It is like any other job.”

Something probably worth pointing out is that Toreth has a different vantage point to Warrick. Not working in a particular area, and hearing about the worst aspects of employees of, or practices within an organisation is going to shape the public’s view of those people and organisations. People will know a little bit and assume a lot. (As has been demonstrated by the existence of the clueless—though amusing— interrogation junkies.) For what we know at this point, ninety per cent of Toreth’s job could be paperwork in the office, investigating crime scenes and talking to witnesses (and I mean actual talking to, not euphemism-for-interrogation “talking to”), reading through company reports, writing reports for his managers to justify expenditure—but in someone like Warrick’s mind, all of that is overshadowed by the fact that paras are allowed to torture people in interrogations and suddenly it becomes the main feature of the job. It’s in no way writing off that part of Toreth’s job does include torturing people, but I can see how it might not be at the forefront of Toreth’s mind: he’s got a more holistic idea about what he does, Warrick does not.

Neither of them are objective about Toreth’s work, and Warrick’s work doesn’t contain elements that are explicitly (and publicly known) about hurting people. It’s an interesting situation, especially when you take into account the fact that Warrick admittedly is fine with playing in an unbalanced-in-his-favour arena, and Toreth has demonstrated that there’s nothing at all personal in what he does. (But hey, a system is made up of components, and here’s where I want to start bringing in discussion about Milgram’s famous experiments with the “electrocution” and Asch’s conformity work which essentially showed that people will do something even though they know it’s wrong because everyone else is doing the same thing, and for a lot of people—normal people—it’s scarier to do the right thing and risk “rocking the boat” by not doing it. And talking about social psychology relating to this stuff would be incomplete without mentioning three words: Stanford Prison Experiment. But that’s all for another time, right?*)

 

* I could actually geek out about this stuff until I drop dead; the idea of “what makes ordinary people indifferent to harming others?” is one of those things which has fascinated me since I was a kid. Conformity, deviance and social systems and how people work is interesting stuff, hey.
All of this is beautifully encapsulated in the series, which is probably one reason why I adore it. Another thing is that Manna Francis isn’t at all a biased narrator. This series could have failed amazingly if other people had written it. It could have been a “patriotic” series with pro-right undertones about the system is great and good and that while Toreth might be a bit cold, he’s on the right side and that people even questioning the use of torture aren’t patriots and they’re obviously terrorists. It could have been a floppy lefty “Everything is a big horrible dictatorship and everything needs to be overthrown and we shall all have our freedom” thing. It wouldn’t be hard to turn the series into thinly-veiled ideology, and Manna Francis hasn’t done that at all, and it’s amazing. In interviews, you get an idea of how Manna feels about the world Warrick and Toreth are in, but in the narrative, not at all. It’s a rare treat when the reader is allowed to make up their own mind about how they feel about things.

 

The suspicion from Warrick still hasn’t abated by the main course (he was scared that Toreth is going to try drugging him when he nicked off to the toilet!) which he picks apart in the same sort of way he ate his hors d’oeuvres. Again, I’m loving the attention to detail here, and the interaction between them crackles.

Guided by Warrick’s behaviour, Toreth is certain that there’s some interest from him… he just needs to convince him that he’s safe. A bit of a tall order when you’re a para, I suppose.

In the flash of a second, taking advantage of a small window of human error—Toreth slips something into his drink.

 

We don’t know much about the drug, though the idea is that it’ll be something to help Warrick relax—and I’ll be perfectly honest, there is no way ever that this ever looks non-creepy. And it’s not meant to. Toreth has a funny way of coming across as quite charming– or human, at least– and then when least expected, pulling off a move or dropping a bomb that is heart-stopping.

Further to this point, though, he acknowledges to himself that he’s cheating at the game.

 

Dinner over, Toreth finally goes in for the kill.

“Would you like to come up to my room?” Toreth asked.

Warrick laughed incredulously. “Excuse me for asking a rather obvious question, but do you think I’m insane?”

Oh, snaps to Warrick. That was awesome. I think I may just borrow that line.

Slightly taken aback by the directness of the answer, Toreth shook his head.

“Ah, stupid, then, neither of which I’m afraid is true.” Warrick eyed him, assessingly. “You are, what, half a head taller than me? And a good few kilos heavier, all of which is muscle.” Toreth recognised the flattery slipped so casually into the conversation again, but, buoyed by half a bottle of wine plus extras, he enjoyed it anyway.

“So insanity or stupidity would be required for me to place myself in a situation alone with you.” Warrick took another sip of his drink, savoured the flavour for a moment. “And in any case, I don’t sleep with torturers, Administration-approved or not.”

 

Yeah. Definitely not an interrogation junkie. Also, I was disappointed for Toreth here, even though Warrick is perfectly right and Toreth has just drugged his drink, so he’s got the same sort of trustworthy factor as a dodgy politician. But something makes you root for the guy all the same. He’s like the coyote on the old Warner Bros. cartoons and you kind of feel bad for him that he’s looking so easily dismantled and so obviously outclassed.

Warrick finishes his drink, and by the end of it, though, and with a little reassurance from Toreth, he’s changing his mind.

“I wasn’t planning to hurt you.”

That got a sharp glance and Toreth had the sudden impulse to add “Unless you’d like me to.” However, that would have been too much. Instead, he spread his hands. “It would be stupid of me to even think about it, wouldn’t it? You know who I am.”

Warrick appears to reconsider his earlier rejection and says that maybe it’s a deal if Toreth tells him how he felt in the sim.

Diabolical and yet perfectly in character: presumably Warrick does have to deal with making deals with various people involved with the sim and its funding and projects. And for Toreth, who didn’t mind the experience—but for the feelings he was having whilst going through it—presumably talking about that crowning moment of glory isn’t really on his bucket list.

 

They head to the bar to talk, and Toreth takes it slowly, admitting that he did enjoy it until Warrick shuts him down, reminding he wouldn’t have called it rape if he had truly enjoyed what had happened in there.

 

Random reader moment of “thank fucking god.” Seriously. These people act– and interact– like adults. They are talking about issues of consent. They’re not pretending that everything was above-board or that it didn’t happen or that consent not being an issue is okay when one party decides they had a good time after all, or all the other bazillion really fucked up things I’ve encountered in fic (both published AND of the fan variety, by the way). I don’t follow the whole “everyone needs to give explicit, obvious consent to everything or else it’s rape” idea in fiction, but when clearly there are at least dubious consent issues and one character does call what happened “rape” there’s no “let’s just make them fuck consensually and we’ll pretend that bit didn’t happen” which I have unfortunately seen before.

It’s not about absolving anyone, either. It’s about acknowledging something that occurred.

“You know what I felt. Code word or not, you trapped me and you humiliated me.” He shied away from the vivid memory of his own pleading voice in the sim. “You took away my control and you made me beg you to fuck me.”

And, well, brought him here. Describing it. Getting humiliated by the flashbacks.

Toreth is a step ahead of me as a reader (by this point, I’ll admit, I’m very much, “Warrick, you shit.”) and realises that Warrick’s projecting his own wants and desires onto Toreth, and because it’s probably not the easiest thing in the world to ask someone to do that to you, he’s gone and done it to someone—a gifted people-reader—and that person– him— has figured him out.

 

There’s some more thrashing about from them—verbally, of course—while Toreth lines up Warrick to get him to “beg for it.” Which he does, via being asked for—and providing—an apology for what he did to Toreth in the sim.

Warrick’s apology is interesting, though, and possibly serving more than just the request from Toreth: I can’t help but think that somewhere, there was genuine remorse and a sense of “shit, I’ve gone way too far here” from Warrick. Even though it doesn’t look like it:  rest assured, everyone, this isn’t the end of their game-playing (YAY!).

Toreth thought it was the most beautifully unapologetic apology he had ever heard. “Apology accepted. Now…” he said, pulling the pause out, “…what can I do in return?”

Silence, and Toreth smiled. His catch was hooked, and only barely still resisting the pull to the net. “Very well, in that case let me guess. Something like the sim, but not quite. Changing places. Losing control for a little while. And some danger—just enough to give it an edge.” His smile slipped into something almost predatory. “A different kind of game.”

Bingo. I love the play on this, too: it’s so similar to when Warrick was in this role showing Toreth that he knew who he was by name.

Warrick stared at him, as if hypnotised, then nodded slowly. “That’s…a good guess.”

“I read people for a living,” Toreth said casually, and relished the delightful contradiction of the grimace of distaste on Warrick’s mouth and the sharpening of desire in his eyes.

God, he loved being right.

And Toreth emerges as completely fucking awesome here. And this is the bit I think he relishes about his work, exactly what he’s enjoying here: cracking Warrick. Figuring out both what he wants and how to get him to admit to it even though he really doesn’t want to.

And again, it’s a fascinating comparison, because some of Warrick’s actions later down the track deal with that, but with… systems. (He’s already admitted to social engineering in order to learn Toreth’s name, too, remember.) Toreth erm, hacks people.

 

And that’s when Warrick trusts him enough to go back to his hotel room. Warrick is, amusingly, given all his time in virtual reality—completely tripped out by what’s going on.

Toreth wastes absolutely no time in offering Warrick the domination he’s asked for, and gets him to choose a safe word. This is where the world gets one of the funniest—and cutest­—safewords ever used in anything ever. Obviously Warrick remembers the pensive bath he was having in the sim prior to dinner, and chooses “Plastic duck.” And, SPOILER– this gets carried right through the series.

 

(And because this is pretty much such an obscure fandom, and because beyond the books themselves there is no associated merch [I saw a Shades board game the other day on eBay. Fuck knows what you have to do to win that, but really, people], it’s become a little bit of an in-joke with me and the plastic ducks. Absolutely no one gets it, either, but it means that I can have fannish desktop backgrounds on my work computers and no one is going to look at a plastic duck like I’m a fucking pervert.)

And now that they’ve set that up, Toreth takes his cue.

“Close your eyes.”
“Why?”

Too fast for Warrick to react, Toreth slapped him across the face, rocking his head back and bringing a heat to his cheek that set off an echoing flash of warmth in his stomach.

“Close your eyes,” Toreth repeated calmly.

Warrick obeyed. The handprint still glowed on his skin, each finger distinct. He felt himself hardening, the tell-tale response out of his control.

“You liked that?” Toreth started to move round him again, touching, rough and gentle, pain and pleasure, oddly impersonal and intensely arousing. “What else do you like, I wonder? Do you want me to fuck you? Not that I care whether you want it—I’m going to do it anyway. You were right to think twice about coming up here with me. Still think you made the right choice?”

Of course, Warrick’s got a way of stopping anything he doesn’t want, but until he utters the safe word, it’s not something either of them are giving much thought to.

And both of them somehow get what they want and they were wanting from one another from much earlier on than either of them admitted. I could quote and offer commentary on the sex, but to be honest there’s not a great deal to say that the scene itself doesn’t. It’s nicely written, in character for both of them, and there’s thankfully no purple prose or hideous euphemisms. (There are only so many manrods and boypussys a girl can handle in a lifetime, and I’m pretty sure fanfiction has thoughtfully gifted me with someone else’s quota too.) There are some nice little touches; Toreth makes use of his restraint training (and wishes he’d brought handcuffs—if only he’d known that was what Warrick wanted…), for example, and Warrick is still analysing things, realising that the sim fails to replicate incidental background noise and maybe that should be addressed. It’s very much real-and-them without turning into a different narrative, either, which is also refreshingly awesome.

The situation itself is—and this is a wonderful metaphor for the relationship between Toreth and Warrick which follows—“imperfectly perfect”, in Warrick’s mind. It’s a bit messed up. It’s a bit dangerous. It’s not really meant to last. It’s imperfectly perfect.

And that’s the appeal.

And it’s gorgeously in sync with who they are and what they like. There’s an element of role-playing to an extent only: part of what they’re bringing are very real and day-to-day parts of who they are.

 

Toreth is thoroughly pleased with himself afterwards, and he walks off to have a shower when Warrick has come down, whistling to himself as he tends to when he’s in a “job well done” frame of mind. He vaguely considers that he wouldn’t mind doing it in future, though Warrick’s going to have to contact him for it. (Toreth doesn’t like doing the chasing. Or at least, his pride doesn’t allow for him to look like he’s doing the chasing, and he’s well aware that Warrick is observant enough to see through his bullshit.)

Things are a bit different for Warrick.

The realisation of who Toreth is—what he does for a living, that

Toreth’s job left him adept at knowing how far to push, how much pain to use and how to read the response to it. And, God, he’d loved it. Loved every minute of it, knowing who and what he was. What those hands did for a living.

–gets at him. He decides that this is most definitely a one-off and that it’s never going to happen again.

 

Both of them are considering what they’ve just done, and thinking about what the other is thinking. Another round over, the game still, somehow existing even though Toreth probably won that round and it should have been over now. But there’s a hesitation as Warrick leaves the hotel.

 

Like hell it’s over.

50 Shades of Grey, E. L. James; Chapter Six

Chapter Six is where, oh my, stuff starts to happen. Normally I’d snark about being this far into a book and only NOW seeing some action, but you know what? It held my attention for most of my train ride into work this evening, and that’s the first time it’s done that, so I’m not going to jinx it with nastiness.

 

Besides, there’s plenty of other stuff to snark about.

 

Grey drives Ana home. In addition to his other dislikeable qualities, he’s an SUV driver as well. (I know: wtf? Dude is a bazillionaire and this is the best he can do, wheelswise?) I could understand him having one if he had kids whom he took camping every few weeks (oh god, he doesn’t have kids, does he? Please don’t tell me it procreated) or if he’s doing animal rescue… or he needs space to lug his DIY home improvement stuff around in or something, but for a single dude in the city, clearly he’s just being a wanker showing off about his status symbol. And compensating for something, most likely, because he’s too young for a midlife-crisis-mobile.

Anyway, within the confines of his big, hard extension of himself/monument to his manhood and virility, they don’t talk about what happened in the elevator. This isn’t comfortable no-need-for-words not-talking, this is just them being children and not dealing with their issues. It was Ana’s first kiss. Consent was just as much a non-issue as it was when Jose tried that schtick.

Being mature and rational and not-at-all delusional, Ana decides to

 

[…]assign it mythical, Arthurian legend, Lost City of Atlantis status. It never happened, it never existed. Perhaps I imagined it all.

 

Who needs Grey fucking with your head when you’re gaslighting yourself?

 

No. I touch my lips, swollen from his kiss. It definitely happened. I am a changed woman. I want this man desperately and he wanted me.

 

Wow. What’s she going to do when they actually screw? Explode?

I glance at him. Christian is his usual polite, slightly distant self.

 

Whoa. Back the fuck up there: polite? There are lots of words we could use to describe Christian Grey, many of which aren’t polite, but the ones that are well, don’t include “polite.”

Unless I have a crappy grasp of the English language and my thesaurus and dictionary functions are broken: Grey talking down to, commanding, bossing around, and scolding Ana for acting like a typical (albeit, ditzy) twenty-something– not to mention being really fucking creepy in between his Batman-sized emo moments– I wouldn’t call any of that polite. Maybe he looks polite compared to a guy who repeatedly asks you out whilst ignoring your flat-out rejection and the friend who plied you with margaritas and then tried to date-rape you, but “not hideous” doesn’t equal polite.

There is music playing in the car while Ana thinks.

The car interior is filled with the sweetest, most magical music of two women singing.

Hey, that’s just reminded me: New Tegan and Sara album out. Please let them be listening to Tegan and Sara.

“What are we listening to?”

“It’s ‘The Flower Duet’ by Delibes, from the opera Lakme. Do you like it?”

Oh. Sadface. It’s not Tegan and Sara.

He likes opera because he’s cultured and intelligent and stuffy and rich and that’s not at all a stereotype of billionaires. The song in question is one I didn’t recognise until I looked for it on YouTube. I remember it from a TV commercial when I was a kid… and now that I’m writing this, I’m trying to remember what it was for. (Furniture? Luxury cars? Funeral home?) But it’s one of those songs that everyone’s heard at least once somewhere. This thing is like the Pachelbel’s Canon of opera.

[F]or a fleeting moment, he seems his age: young, carefree, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. Is this the key to him? Music?

This is the part where, I swear to a god I don’t actually believe in, if E. L. James brings an otherwise awesome band down by ‘Do the music for the movie of this book,’ I will turn fucking murderous.

Something I’ve wanted to elaborate on before reading this chapter was the whole situation with Muse and Twilight, but I guess this has cropped up now because of the music mention, so I’ll say it now: please, for the love of all that is good and holy, don’t let E. L. James corrupt and co-opt a good fucking band to prop up this drek. And please, musos, don’t jump on this bandwagon. We will laugh at you, not with you.

Leave the soundtrack to an experimental Justin Bieber or Little Mix or have Nicki Minaj do it and take the piss without most people realising. Or something.

Ahem.

 

Ana asks if he likes classical music.

“My taste is eclectic, Anastasia, everything from Thomas Tallis to the Kings of Leon*. It depends on my mood. You?”

Cue Sex on Fire reference somewhere.

E. L. James demonstrates that she knows Thomas Tallis– Tudor, church choral music (nicely broody for times in a Darker-than-Grey funk, I guess) and then Grey presses a button and Sex on Fire starts playing.

Wow. I’m fucking psychic, aren’t I?

 

Also, how good is his technology? I wish I had a car stereo which could magically do that for me at the touch of a button. Or is this one just like all his other employees and scared shitless of Grey’s supreme ultra alpha maleness?

The song is interrupted by Grey getting some phone calls and basically being “cold and controlling” (now that sounds more accurate than “polite”), and Ana being surprised that his job is just about getting “nagging phone calls” all day. I don’t know what she thinks a CEO does: nakedly frolics in swimming pools full of money all day? Buy a few senators and try to get labor laws changed and the minimum wage lowered? It isn’t really much of a stretch that people contact him with the expectation that he keep things in line, make decisions, and give his approval on things.

 

Anyway, who should ring next but Elliot? First thing he asks is if big bro got laid. Total fucking class right there, especially when you consider that Ana was passed out when Grey took her back to the hotel. (And who asks their siblings these things off the bat anyway? I’m fairly openminded and willing to give pretty much anything at least a passing thought, but I don’t want to think about anyone I’m related to “getting laid.” Ew. And even if my sister and I were close enough to have a civil conversation, I sure as fuck wouldn’t be asking her that. She mightn’t have the same scruples, but that’s one of the reasons I don’t talk to her any more.)

“Hello, Elliot– I’m on speakerphone and I’m not alone in the car.” Christian sighs.

“Who’s with you?”

Christian rolls his eyes. “Anastasia Steele.”

“Hi, Ana!”

Ana!

“Hello, Elliot.”

What did I miss? Why was Ana’s wantonly red-hula-skirt-wearing subconscious getting excited about him calling her Ana?

 

“Heard a lot about you,” Elliot murmurs huskily. Christian frowns.

 

Oh god, don’t tell me he’s going to be another one? I swear, there are so many creepers in this book, I could be playing fucking MineCraft.

 “I’m dropping Anastasia off now.” Christian emphasises my full name. “Shall I pick you up?”

“Sure.”

“See you shortly.” Christian hangs up, and the music is back.

“Why do you insist on calling me Anastasia?”

“Because it’s your name.”

“I prefer Ana.”

“Do you now?”

Hang the fuck ON. We have now arrived at double-standard city, folks. Remember Grey’s broody “No one calls me Christian without express permission” thing a few chapters back? How come he gets to ignore Ana’s preference about this? The girl prefers a shortened version of her name. Not for you to decide, buddy. Also not for you to get snippy and controlling about, and if you’re not going to be considerate to that preference of hers, what the fuck else are you going to purposely ignore her preference on? How would YOU like it if she ignored YOUR requests on this?

(Sorry, but I have a REAL THING about the people-using-your-full-name-when-you-prefer-an-abbreviation thing. My parents insisted on it and cracked the shits when I was going by an abbreviation. [And it’s not like the abbreviation is sleazy or anything, either.] My sister refers to me with quotation marks around my name. It just shows a fucking huge level of disrespect towards someone, about something so fucking simple and spelled-out. And if Grey can’t respect something as basic as this about Ana, what else isn’t he going to respect?)

Finally he talks about the elevator incident. Stating, reassuringly, that it won’t happen again. Unless it’s premeditated. And yes, I realise this is meant to sound non-creepy (or undo the fact that she didn’t consent or something) but it doesn’t have that effect. Christian Grey crossed the creepy event horizon long ago, and there’s no coming back. Even if he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t move, he’s amassed enough creepiness to still be disturbing, kind of like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

 

He pulls up to Ana’s place and then it occurs to her that she never gave him her address, and then it occurs to her, in a rare moment of believable continuity, that since he stalked her and found an address to send fourteen thousand dollars books to, he knows where she lives all right.

He opens her car door which is meant to be gentlemanly, but which is probably more due to the fact that he’s enabled a from-the-inside childlock mechanism and it can’t be opened from the inside and he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact.

 

As they head in, Ana’s off in la-la land thinking about what she’d like to do to him and how she wanted to run her fingers through his “decadent, untidy hair” (how these two words ended up in the same sentence together is nearly as big a mystery as to the popularity of this series) and how she didn’t actually get to touch him even though he’s got her restrained and is pulling her hair and making her kiss him.

Kate and Elliot are chilling in the apartment and apparently

[T]he fourteen thousand dollar books have disappeared. Thank heavens. I have plans for them.

 

God knows what that means. Is she going to sell them for drug money? I’m going to burn them by black candles at midnight and do some sort of controlling love bind spell? Maybe she’s going to slice them up and make a “cute storage project” ala Lauren Conrad. *shudders* (Hey, I’ve got an idea! Maybe Lauren Conrad could play Ana in the movie! She would be perfect… and she wouldn’t need to do much acting, which is perfect for her, um, abilities. Or lack thereof.)

Anyway, from books, we go to Kate, who has

[…] the most un-Kate-like ridiculous grin on her face, and she looks mussed up in a sexy kind of way.

At least you can appreciate her sexiness, I guess.

Kate eyes Christian suspiciously, which is what anyone who even has half an idea about the guy would do (especially if he seems to have a thing for blondes and you are one), and says hello to Ana. Christian is annoyingly formal.

And by that, I mean: you know when people want to talk down to you but they don’t want to look rude, so they do it in a pompous, snotty sort of way? Like how when you’re in school and you have to call teachers Mister and Miss So-and-so, and they go with the first names, only when you’re in deep shit, suddenly it’s “What do you think you were doing, Miss Smith?” Christian Grey is a specialist in that crap, and he refers to Kate as “Miss Kavanagh.” Even Elliot corrects him, and Christian rewards Kate with a more informal hello and Elliot with a glare.

Elliot says hello to Ana, and Grey says quite abruptly that they’d better go. Mildly, though not at ALL pissy, right? Grey isn’t just aggressive-aggressive, he’s passive-aggressive, too.

 

Also, their interaction and their differences are far too similar to the Gavin brothers in the Ace Attorney series. The younger one is friendly and likeable and a bit of a flirt, and the older one is this creepy, controlling, though professionally established type who is all about the cultured stuffs. It might as well be canon that the older one is a sadist and into kinky sex, too. (Actually, not that I think about it, Kristoph Gavin is another person who could wipe the floor with Grey and it would be hilarious and awesome.) Fandom most frequently seems to pair them up with one another, and meeting Elliot, that was my first thought: “I wonder if there’s Greycest out there?”

(Doesn’t look like there is, and I shouldn’t have gotten distracted. This was actually the first chapter of this book where I didn’t feel like I had undiagnosed ADD.)

 

Anyway, Kate and Elliot are all kissy and smoochy as they’re saying goodbye, and Ana stands there thinking, “Why can’t you kiss me like that?” about Grey. Because Elliot, it seems, is a normal(-ish, though I thought that about Jose, too, didn’t I?) human being.

 

Elliot then gives us the classic memorable line, which gets repeated by Grey to Ana, we have all come to know and love thanks to this book:

“Laters, baby.”

 

Blink.

Blinkblinkblink. Um. What was that? This is meant to pass for romance? I was wondering if E. L. James was the result of a generation that has grown up on internet porn and Twilight and cynicism about romance, and this is the result, but actually she’s, er, fifty. “Laters, baby,” is like the Nelson-from-The Simpsons romantic farewell of “Smell ya later.” Only shortened.

This has a strange effect on Kate.

Kate just melts. I’ve never seen her melt before—the words “romantic” and “compliant” come to mind. Compliant Kate. Boy, Elliot must be good.

 

Maybe it’s not Kate who’s come back, but a robot replica of her which is perfectly happy and compliant and well-behaved and fucks like a machine because it is one. Maybe that’s why Christian needs to go home and pick up Ana at eight: because he’s got to clean up what was left of the real Kate. Maybe Stephanie Meyer isn’t just the only person who inspired this book but Ira Levin deserves a mention, too.

Also, I hate to call it, but compliance doesn’t often come from someone’s partner being “good,” especially if that person is independent and a bit of an alpha to begin with. It can and frequently does come from fear. It might be fear of something as explicitly dangerous as someone cracking your skull open or as benign and abstract as losing your job and facing a disciplinary hearing from your boss’ boss, but fear can be used to bring about compliance fairly simply. And since Elliot is Christian’s brother, I’m now wondering if this creeper stuff runs in the family ala Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Elliot must be good? I’ll reserve my judgement until I get more evidence.

Meanwhile, Christian finds it amusing, and

He tucks a stray strand of my hair that has worked its way free of my ponytail behind my ear. My breath hitches at the contact and I lean my head into his fingers.

Ew. I’ll be honest: a pet hate of mine, total nails-on-blackboard stuff for me—is people unexpectedly touching me or fiddling with me. I’m sure that gesture was meant to be romantic or just further evidence that Grey is a control freak who has to micromanage every aspect of Ana’s appearance, but, well, yuck.

 

His eyes soften, and he runs his thumb across my lower lip.

 

This isn’t to say anything of how awkward it must be for Kate and Elliot, who are, I believe, in the room and witnessing this little display. Who really wants to see their big brother do this stuff? Actually, who really wants to see anyone doing this sort of thing? Brief kisses, hugs, hand-holding, meh. Stroking one another’s lips and gazing at one another like one party is about to say “Take me now!”? Well, as Ana’s inner monologue chided Kate for happily kissing Elliot: get a room.

Grey murmurs, “Laters, baby,” because apparently this is what normal, balanced, less-creepy-than-him men say to the girls they want to jump in bed with, and promises to pick Ana up at eight.

 

When they’re gone, Kate asks the big question. Which isn’t “OMG, are you okay?” which would have been mine had my best friend disappeared, drunk, at a club with a creep.

“So did you?”

Nearly as bad as Elliot asking if Christian got laid.

“No,” I snap back irritably, hoping that it will halt the questions. We head back into the apartment. “You obviously did though.” I can’t contain my envy.

No fucking shit, Ana. And you’re a crappy friend. I could understand a bit of jealousy and irritation if you’d been wanting Elliot—or KATE—(we are sailing—we are SAAAAAAILLLLIIIIIING!) but for fuck’s sake, your bestest bud goes out, has herself a fun time, looks happier than you’ve seen her before, and scores a cute, seemingly nice bloke, and all you can think of is that it sucks that she had sex and you didn’t.

Kate always manages to ensnare men. She is irresistible, beautiful, sexy, funny, forward… all the things that I’m not.

 

Firstly: no more adjectives. PLEASE. Secondly, Kate clearly is resistible, or else Grey would be wanting her and not you, Ana. Thirdly, Kate has said one funny thing in the entire book. One funny comment maketh not a comedian. Fourthly: did anyone else notice the absence of the word “intelligent” in that pot pourri of description? Either Ana doesn’t think Kate is very bright, or Ana thinks she’s smart, OR Ana has failed to notice either Kate’s intelligence and her own lack of it and not considered it as part of the reason that guys find Kate attractive. Sorry, but intelligence often goes hand-in-hand with “sexy” and “funny.” I felt that was a distinction worth pointing out. I wish Ana would at least dislike herself for being a fucking moron, rather than for being white and thin and having big blue eyes and a heap of other things which conform perfectly to the western standard of beauty. (Next, I’ll bet, she’ll be complaining that she’s tall. And that when she eats, she never puts on weight… except in her stupid, clumsy, DD boobs, because what man will ever love a skinny girl with big boobs?)

“I’m seeing him again this evening.” She claps her hands and jumps up and down like a small child.

Repeat after me, E. L. James: Children, not sexy. We’re not doing Lolita here, and that book was actually creepy as all hell in case you haven’t read it.

She cannot contain her excitement and happiness, and I can’t help but feel happy for her.

Oh, that’s big of you, Ana.

 A happy Kate… this is going to be interesting.

She’s probably unhappy because she’s been living with you for four years, Ana, and you’re whiny, childish and raging the world’s biggest pity party. Eventually that shit’s gonna cramp one’s style and drag them down.

 

Anyway, Ana explains that Grey is taking her to Seattle, and Kate suggests that maybe tonight there’ll be a bit of the old in-out after asking if Ana likes him enough.

 

She raises her eyebrows.

“Wow. Ana Steele, finally falling for a man, and it’s Christian Grey—hot, sexy billionaire.”

“Oh yeah—it’s all about the money.” I smirk, and we both fall into a fit of giggles.

 

I’m raising my eyebrows, because this sort of conversation comes across as… well, I don’t know many girls who are terribly surprised at their heterosexual buddies falling for men, and Kate has expressed shock or surprise at this a few times now.

Grey would make a really good beard for several reasons, and he’d totally have the legal manpower to scare off anyone suggesting that his girlfriend’s strictly vagetarian, too.

Just sayin’.

 

Kate asks about the new outfit, too, and about whether they kissed and decides that Ana needs a makeover. Before she goes to work, for some reason. Ana worries that such a makeover will be a whole heap of adjectives, and that she has to go to work in an hour, but apparently Kate can work within that time frame.

Thankfully we avoid another long, superfluous, boring, dull, asinine and description-packed (see what I did there?) recount of a day’s work at the hardware store, though we get to hear about this makeover.

 Under Kate’s tireless and frankly intrusive instruction, my legs and underarms are shaved to perfection, my eyebrows plucked, and I am buffed all over. It has been a most unpleasant experience. But she assures me that this is what men expect these days.

 

Oh gawd. Oh no. Firstly, ignoring the eyebrows: you can shave and scrub in the shower. Five to ten minutes generally does the trick. You also don’t need someone to do it with or for you. But if Kate prefers to, well…

 

Secondly, WTF, Kate? WHO CARES WHAT MEN EXPECT? There are reports of young men expecting that you don’t need lube or foreplay for first-time sexual encounters because they’ve received their sex ed from internet porn. There are men who expect that women’s bodies look like airbrushed models in I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-porn mags and that anyone bigger than that is fat. There are men who expect women to do farts that smell like roses and to be naturally good at cooking. Men have some pretty warped-arse ideas about women and what their bodies should look like. At 27, Christian Grey should be old enough, and smart enough, to realise that women, like men, have hair and imperfect eyebrows and that’s acceptable. And if he is so horrified by imperfect eyebrows or body hair, then he’s a giant ball of douchebutter.

Also, seriously: shaving some stuff and exfoliating isn’t such an ordeal. I thought Kate was bringing out the Brazillian wax and the home sphincter bleaching kit. (I think a small part of me died when I learned that the latter actually does exist and is more popular than you’d think, particularly amongst younger women hellbent on providing men “what they expect.”)

 

What else will he expect? I have to convince Kate that this is what I want to do.

Um, why?

Anyway, Ana gets thinking about the Jose issue. I’d have thought that getting your friend drunk (or at least encouraging her to continue drinking when she already is,) with the intention of sexually assaulting her is a bit of a dealbreaker on the friendship front. Apparently I am horribly misguided because Jose has been ringing Ana nonstop, and Kate has been answering the phone and lying about her not being around. Apparently no one in the book knows how to say “Go away you fucking wannabe rapist and if you come near my friend again, your testicles will be dangling from the grill of my truck.”

Ana’s decided to “let him stew” because she’s “still angry with him.” Let’s play the minimising game, kids.

 

Ana wonders about the Christian Grey paperwork, clearly demonstrating that she hasn’t read very much about sex stuff and she hasn’t been a participant in a large-enough fandom, because honestly, there will always be at least one total power exchange fanfic where there’s the issue of a contract being drawn up and signed. (There are surprisingly few in the Phoenix Wright fandom, actually. Given that it’s a series about lawyers, one of whom is a few statements away from being a dominatrix, you’d expect a bit more of the contract stuff. Then again, from all the law students I’ve known: everyone HATES contract law. Even lawyers seem to hate contract law. It’s like the Accounting end of lawyering apparently, so maybe it’s not that weird that a fandom full of law students avoid writing about it in fic.)

In addition to her cluelessness about the paperwork, she’s excited because, like a teenager in a coming of age movie

Tonight’s the night! After all this time, am I ready for this?

 

No, Ana, I’d argue, you are not. But apparently only you know when the right time to have sex is. That requires some introspection, which is something beyond constant self-flagellation. But hey, you crazy kids are gonna do what you do anyway, just make sure you know where the closest sexual health clinic is.

 My inner goddess glares at me, tapping her foot impatiently. She’s been ready for this for years, and she’s ready for anything with Christian Grey, but I still don’t understand what he sees in me… mousey Ana Steele—it makes no sense.

 

OMG, a wild inner goddess has appeared. I was wondering when she was going to turn up since I’ve heard so much about her. And the allusions to Ana’s virginity have me thinking of Columbia and Magenta in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, watching Janet singing T-t-t-touch Me, singing about how she and Brad had only ever kissed before, and the subsequent  “But she hasn’t?” and the knowledgeable nod of the head.

 

Also, could it be that—as I’ve said before, Christian Grey is captivated by how little self-worth Ana has? He can abuse the crap out of her without having to worry about coming up against her self-esteem. Seriously, it’s like a conman finding a lonely elderly pensioner who is scared for their future and who knows nothing about investments. And it’s just as nasty, and just as romantic, too.

 

He picks her up from work with Taylor in tow, and they exchange the typical “How was your day?” stuff you always do on awkward first dates with people you don’t know very well. Ana wonders where the helicopter is. They go into a building, up another elevator (my inner Miles Edgeworth is feeling faint and waiting for a breakdown) and they’re all smirky about what happened last time they were in one of those travelling fuckboxes.

 

Thankfully it’s only a short trip, and they get to the helicopter. Ana wonders is this is misuse of company property.

Um. It’s his company. He’s allowed to do what he likes. He’s also a billionaire, so I’m pretty sure he’s not that upset about the cost. And if he’s shrewd, he’ll probably claim it on his tax anyway as a business-related expense if he’s got a savvy accountant.

Anyway, there’s an old dude waiting at a small office near the chopper who gets to see Christian being polite (clearly he’s distinguishable from everyone else in this story, so he’ll be a major plot point, I suspect) and he says they’re good to go. And they get in.

Now, I’ve never been in a helicopter before, so I can’t vouch for the accuracy of this stuff. I do know that this, though, made me roll my eyes:

“Sit—don’t touch anything” he orders as he climbs in behind me.

You know, because that’s TOTALLY what someone who is a) scared of you/hellbent on winning your approval and getting to do the horizontal sausage hide with you, and b) inexperienced in the fine womanly art of helicopter piloting is going to do, right? And anyway, if he’s asking her to sit, he’s asking her to touch at least some surface with her arse.

I sit down in my allotted seat, and he crouches beside me to strap me into the harness. It’s a four-point harness with all the straps connecting to one central buckle. He tightens both of the upper straps, so I can hardly move. He’s so close and intent on what he’s doing. If I could only lean forward, my nose would be in his hair. He smells clean, fresh, heavenly, but I’m fastened securely in my seat and effectively immobile.

 

I have a horrid feeling that this was meant to be erotic. In that subtle kind of suggestive way full of innuendo. Let’s just say that it already sounded like part of a description from a BDSM sex scene.

He glances up and smiles, like he’s enjoying his usual private joke, his eyes heated.

 

At five-hundred feet, you can scream, but no one will hear you.

“You’re secure, no escaping,” he whispers.

 

The idea of willingly trying to escape a helicopter, particularly one in motion—never occurred to me until Grey said that. Is he going to do something to make her want to escape, mid-flight?

He tells her to breathe again. I think I was right and this is some domly thing. He grabs her chin and chastely kisses her. And tells her he likes this harness, like it’s a favourite piece of BDSM furniture.

He sits down, and they prepare for flight. Oh yeah, he’s a pilot, too.

 

To demonstrate this, we get a lot of official-sounding technical helicopter talk from him, a lot of awed gazing both out the window and at him from Ana. There is mundane, meaningless conversation. He checks to see if she’s impressed. Insecurities to the max, hey? In amongst all that there’s some more nothing conversation and she remembers Jose and how he’s going to leave him stew a bit longer.

Thankfully, the trip comes to an end, but Ana starts freaking out about how she’s going to be and what she’s going to do to put him off. Just be yourself Ana… Oh, wait: that actually sucks. A lot. If you can’t be yourself, be Batman. Oh, wait: that’s him.

Oh, I don’t fucking know, Ana, just close your eyes and think of Kate. He probably won’t even realise, since giving a shit about other people and how to treat them really isn’t his strong suit anyway.

I wish I’d listened to Kate and borrowed one of her dresses, but I like my black jeans, and I’m wearing a soft mint-green shirt and Kate’s black jacket. I look smart enough.

 

Again with the clothing descriptions. And unless he’s got the same level of interest in ladieswear as Taylor does, he’s not going to be worried about what you’re wearing, Ana: the thing you’re thinking you’re going to be doing conventionally involves the discarding of clothing.

Ana continues psyching herself up, terrified that she’s not going to be good enough for Grey, and admiring him. And no shit, that’s pretty much all she does. Until this:

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, don’t you?” His tone is so earnest, desperate even, his eyes impassioned. He takes me by surprise.

“I’d never do anything I didn’t want to do, Christian.” And as I say the words, I don’t quite feel their conviction, because at this moment in time, I’d probably do anything for this man seated beside me. But this does the trick. He’s mollified.

 

Let’s see: only recently Ana was getting shaved and plucked and exfoliated despite not wanting to. Before that, she was eating when she wasn’t hungry because she’d been told to. The entire Christian Grey mess started when she interviewed him: something Ana didn’t want to do, too. I’m guessing Christian knows you’re lying, but he’s going to pretend he doesn’t because down the track, he might argue that this looks like informed consent.

 

They depart the helicopter (yay, no overly-detailed description!) and go inside (where there is overly-detailled description of his interior decoration: the place sounds like an old-world art gallery with mirrors, and it’s huge, of course, and there is description of the assorted furniture but that gets boring, so let’s just say there’s lots of it and there’s a grand piano. There is also art, but none of that is described, so god only knows if there are Picassos or Caravaggio prints or Mapplethorpe photos or that weird New Yorky random modern stuff lining the walls: it’s art and apparently art is all a big generic term for everything).

 

He asks if Ana wants a drink and apparently she mistakes that for humour since she was drunk the previous night. I’ve known alcoholics—and non-alcoholics—who’ll drink the following evening after an epic binge drink the previous night. Hell, I used to be one of the latter. Just because you got trashed LAST night doesn’t mean you can’t behave yourself and stick to a sensible limit the following night, right?

They have French wine. Ana is still freaking out about being pathetic and about wanting to jump Grey’s bones, and presumably she looks ill and pale because Grey asks her if she wants something to eat. Not with the food again. Please.

 

There is some really pointless one-word-sentence dialogue about random things which starts making me want to find something else to read, and talk of Tess and Hardy and the books. There are references to Tess of the D’Urbervilles which I don’t understand because I haven’t read it and its inclusion in here is hardly what I’d call a great advertisement. If anything, I’m getting The Twilight Effect on Tess.

 

What’s that? Let’s just say that for awhile, anything that got associated with Twilight kind of got the cold shoulder from me. I went off vampires for awhile, even, and to be honest, I’m still recovering from that. I also became incredibly suss on two of my favourite UK bands ever thanks to Stephanie Meyer’s gushing and the movies’ soundtracks: I harboured a hell of a lot of cynicism towards The Editors (who never really got back in my good books after that last album) and Muse (we’re good now; long story short and I’ll elaborate later, but Muse has become my “The Administration” music even in spite of Twilight, so I have to forgive them) because of this. Let’s just say I’m not in ANY rush to read Tess after this.

 

“It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec D’Urberville,” he murmurs, and his eyes flash, dark and dangerous.

“If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement.” I whisper, gazing at him. My subconscious is staring at me in awe.

 

Wait: subconsciouses don’t do that. They’re “beneath” conscious, you don’t know what they’re doing. Maybe your inner goddess or someone is staring at you in awe, but that’s not the subconscious.

He gasps.

“Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

 

Oh gawd, the lip-biting. I’m glad that was never one of my points of interest because it’s been Gerbil Effected now.

Also, an English Lit major should really know what debase actually means. She wants to be shamed, humiliated and degraded? Really?

 Apparently that gets him excited enough to bring out a bit of paper from the next room.

“This is a nondisclosure agreement.” He shrugs and has the grace to look a little embarrassed. “My lawyer insists on it.” He hands it to me. I’m completely bemused. “If you’re going for option two, debasement, you’ll need to sign this.”

“And if I don’t want to sign anything?”

“Then it’s Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway.”

Most of the book? What book? This one? Did Grey just break the Fourth Wall there?

So his lawyer knows all about this, too. To be honest, I’m now curious about the statement and what he thinks he can get away with. One of the first cases I remember in uni was about a bunch of masochistic dudes who were doing all kinds of painful stuff at parties and how their consent wasn’t actually considered enough to make it legal.

Ana asks what the statement is that she’s expected to sign to.

“It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything to anyone.”

 

You hear that, Ana? You get to be his dirty little secret. He gets all the power, you can’t, theoretically, even tell your mother that you’re dating the guy. Not having seen the statement and not knowing if “anything” and “anyone” are defined, I believe those terms are fairly fucking clear.

 

As well as just being horrible (anyone else been someone’s dirty little secret? Unless you have the same need for secrecy, it’s about as fun as watching eight hours straight of televangelism. And just as great for your self-esteem) it’s also SCARY. One of the few decent things I remember Ana doing was wanting to tell Kate that she was leaving the club because it was safe and friends look out for one another and stuff.

Let’s say you’ve met someone a couple of times and they’ve raised a few red flags in your mind: are you truly, honestly, seriously going to sign a bit of paper saying that you won’t say a single word about your interactions with them? (On another hand, though, if that person were to engage in criminal activity—including assault—I believe that the contract wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on. Then again, this is America, and America’s got some rather… interesting judges and some rather nauseating rulings on women’s rights, especially when it comes to cases involving intimate partner abuse.)

I stare at him in disbelief. Holy shit. It’s bad, really bad, and now I’m very curious to know.

 

This is where you just want a Troy McClure moment of “I fuck fish” to happen, isn’t it? Every now and then someone’s kinks are just so far out there that you can’t help but wonder and then go “Oh, wow.” And you feel better for knowing that whatever you’re into, it’s never ever going to top that.

“Okay, I’ll sign.”

He hands me a pen. “Aren’t you even going to read it?”

“No.”

He frowns.

“Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign,” he admonishes me.

 

This is what a generation of kids raised on End User License Agreements does to people. Just check the box and off ya go because you want to get the latest version of iTunes, dammit, and it’s going to take long enough to download and then open without having to read forty pages of crap beforehand, right?

Fine when we’re talking software. Not fine when we’re talking people’s lives. My inner law student is asking why can’t  he go all domineering and make her read the fucking thing since he’s already made her do other stuff… Oh, wait: she doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to. Including reading legal documents which might actually give her some idea about her safety around this guy.

Part of me is going, “You fucking creep,” another part of me is going, “Wow, that was actually a nicely played little headfuck.”

 

 

Ana tells him that reading it doesn’t matter because she won’t tell anyone anything anyway, Grey likes this, Ana signs anyway, Katy Perry’s Hot and Cold suddenly starts playing in my head, and she takes a sip of her wine and puts her copy of the contract in her bag.

 “Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?”

 

Cool, she called him Christian. Not cool, she’s totally fucking painfully clueless. This reminds me of every crime show ever about the runaway teenager who goes to Hollywood and who believes the nice man who says she’s beautiful and that he’ll make her a movie star… and he sorta does.

“No Anastasia, it doesn’t. Firstly… I don’t make love. I fuck. Hard. Second, there’s a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You still could run for the hills.

YES. Do it while you still can.

Come, I want to show you my playroom.”

“You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs loudly.

 

No, he wants to play with your Xbox, Ana. *snort* I’m so mature, aren’t I?

 

“No Anastasia, no Xbox, no PlayStation. Come.”

 

Ah! He’s a Nintendo fanboy! Commence with the puerile jokes from me about Wii. (Actually, Nintendo’s ethos and marketing—and users—tend to come across as far more women-friendly and diverse and non-creepy than the XBoxLive dickweeds and the Sony fanboys who were creaming themselves when Duke Nukem Forever came out. I shan’t insult Nintendo by implying someone as creepy as Grey is a fanboy. Sorry, Nintendo.)

 

Grey leads her along and through more corridors and stuff and advises her, as they stop at a door, that there’s a pilot on standby to take her home should she want to go and that if she wants to, it’s fine.

She tells him to open the door, and in what is supposed to be a edge-of-your-seat moment, she steps in.

 

And it feels like I’ve time-travelled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition. Holy fuck.

 

Holy fuck indeed. For one thing, proven unreliable narrator. For another, Ana’s very into inquisitions, it seems. (To the point that I’m giggling now after remembering the mentions in the Administration series about interrogator junkies.) Ana just keeps making this Freudian slip all the time. Maybe she uses the word carelessly, like how “rape” has become pop culture jargon for a lot of people to a point where it bears no resemblance to the actual thing it’s describing. I dunno.

 

All I know is that the chapter could have used an editor, and I could use a drink after all this.

Mind Fuck, Manna Francis; Chapter Five

What’s the difference between Toreth in Mind Fuck and Christian in 50 Shades of Grey?

 

One’s an irredeemable sociopath and control freak with possessive, childishly jealous tendencies who frequently oversteps his boundaries, who engages in kinky sex which goes to potentially dangerous levels, and who does horrible, hideous things without even realising that they’re horrible and hideous, and whom any sane reader would like to see get his comeuppance.

 

The other one is just Val Toreth (though let’s face it, the guy has a few, erm, quirks).

 

Okay, joking around aside, there are an awful lot of differences. It’s a bit like comparing, I dunno, Ronald McDonald to John Wayne Gacy.

I mean, Ronald McDonald is pretty good at creeping out a lot of people, and he is what he is, and by nature that’s quite alarming and disturbing, but when you hear about him kidnapping, raping and murdering people, then we’re talking a whole new ballpark of scary.

 

 

Oh, wait: that’s sort of what the Administration does to people in some instances, and Toreth is quite nonchalently involved.

 

Yeah… but Christian Grey is still creepier. He does that Keyser Soze thing where “the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he does not exist” in convincing the world that he’s harmless and lovable. That’s not something you can accuse Val Toreth of doing.

 

Ahem. Chapter Five of Mind Fuck.

 

 

Toreth is back in his hotel room, chilling out after his rather unorthodox experience in the sim, a bit tripped out, but thinking about how he’s going to win this round. That’s what this has turned into for him: he might have enjoyed himself, but being a control freak who thought he had everything handled, and seeing himself at Warrick’s mercy, he’s kind of shitty about it and wants to save face.

And because he’s smart– and he’s got his dignity– and his job– to worry about, he’s not going to go the physical.

 

[I]t had been tempting to simply punch him in the face right there and walk off. However, that would have been cheap and easy. Worse, it would only have increased the score in Warrick’s favour. Revenge required more than that and dinner was the first step to getting it. He would see Warrick again, and he would come up with some way of demonstrating to him exactly how experienced professionals played mind games.

 

It wasn’t just embarrassing to him on a basic level: Toreth’s professional abilities were mocked in that exchange. He’s meant to be the expert mind-gamer, and he got played. All through, we’re getting a growing picture of Toreth as a man who actually likes what he’s doing and who cares about his work and his employment status.

We also get the idea of him being utterly scary in a way that we haven’t seen before.

 

On the way back to the hotel, he had run through  a very satisfying scenario involving drugs from work, a set of handcuffs, and a prolonged and nasty rape. Or, given the mood he was in by the time he’d finished polishing the details, short and nasty. He’d elaborated upon it in the shower, then discarded the fantasy to concentrate on finding something practical.

 

Everyone loves revenge fantasies, don’t they? Everyone has those staircase moments– L’esprit de l’escalier— where you come up with the perfect comeback as you’re walking away and powerless, moments after getting in a good comeback might have saved face. Or made you look cool. Or like you’re the one in control.

Everyone loves the idea of doing something awful to someone who’s already paid forward the favour. Or, well, okay, a lot of us do. The difference is with Toreth– and this is where the dude’s scariness gets multiplied– he actually could do some of the stuff he has revenge fantasies about.

 

Could do it, but is smart enough– and self-controlled enough– to realise that it would be incredibly stupid– and damaging– and pointless– to do something that would harm a well-protected, noticeable corporate. Isn’t that noble, ladies and gentlemen: he’s not torturing someone not because torturing people is bad, but because he would suffer as a result of it. Very Classical theory in Criminology, but hey, it works for him. (And when you know what the law can do to you for transgressions, because you’re doing those things in your 9-5 workday, you’re probably more likely to weigh up the consequences and consider the value of  committing crime: punishment is more than a vague threat. And unlike many law enforcement organisations of today, Int-Sec seems to be more impartial and fair– and as harsh on its own as it is on others. Yet another thing to like about the system.)

 

A bruised ego was hardly sufficient reason to risk prison or worse. In a way, it was also too unimaginative, almost pedestrian, after the experience in the sim. Worst of all, Warrick would win again.

 

Oh, Toreth. Pride is a nice motivation to behave yourself, too.

 

However much he screamed (and he would scream– the part of Toreth’s mind still enjoying the fantasy added a gag to the list of proper required), it wouldn’t change that basic fact. Toreth would have resorted to force to get what Warrick had managed to enjoy without.

So. What exactly had Warrick done? He’d humiliated Toreth completely. He’d made him lose every shred of self-control. He’d made him beg, and then keep begging for more after that. He’d stood at a safe distance and watched every detail on Toreth’s face while it happened. For God’s sake, he’d even told him what he planned to do in the message he’d left at the hotel.

And he’d made sure Toreth had a way out for the entire time.

 

Oh, burn. The realisation of what he did is positively painful for Toreth, and even the first time I read this, before I realised that I liked the guy, I was cringing for him. You know when you totally fall for something shitty someone else has pulled on you and it’s stupid and you’re too mesmerised or distracted at the time to realise what’s going on, and then afterwards just *thinking* about what happened– and your own part in it– makes you just squirm? And you replay it over and over in your brain and you can’t just let it go and it’s just awful and embarrassing and– yeah.

While it was kind of awesome to see a professional game player out-played, it was also kind of really uncomfortable.

Thinking about the situation– as Toreth does, doesn’t give him any relief: he’s aware that he was fully aware, completely able to stop it, and that that sort of being-totally-dominated thing isn’t his cup of tea, but that was.. enjoyable.

 

And the sim and its reality is still haunting him. As are thoughts of Warrick’s more appealing features. Half still fantasising, partially considering calling the dinner date off, and yet …wondering if he can turn on the charm and get Warrick up into his hotel room for some non-simulated sexual action, Toreth decides that he’s going to return the favour and screw around with Warrick’s self-image and play some headgames with him.

 

He would go to dinner and find out something about Warrick he could use. Something the man wanted without even knowing it, without daring to acknowledge it. Something dark and dirty. And then give it to him, gift-wrapped, for him to enjoy.

 

Oh, you diabolical fiend, Toreth. That’s way better than becoming Christian Grey to make a point.

 

 

While all this is happening, we get an interesting contrast: Toreth has showered and been drinking in his hotel room, thinking hard about what move he’s going to make next, pissed off, nursing wounded pride and seething a bit.

Warrick, on the other hand, is luxuriating in a marble bath, enjoying the novelties of fluffy white bubbles, and lifelike plastic ducks (which quack and swim about: the programmers– like programmers in the real world– have a sense of humour)– in the sim. He’s thinking, too, about what had happened earlier in the afternoon, his involvement in it, and of what Toreth represents.

 

Still, the fuck, mental or not, had worked out well. Not surprising, since the deck had been unfairly stacked in his favour, but that was the way he preferred to play any game. Especially with dangerous opponents.

Interesting. While Warrick is one of the “better guys,” he still isn’t past wanting an unfair advantage whereas Toreth gives the impression of approaching something trying to find what he can use to his advantage, and doing things regardless of the odds being against him or not. It’s one of those subtle points which highlights how different they are and also how complex they are– and it was something I didn’t pick until I’d read through the series this time.

Warrick decides that yes, Toreth is dangerous, and that he really ought to cancel, that he should quit while he’s ahead. Similar to what Toreth is doing back at the hotel… but different, and of course for his own reasons.

 

He thinks about Toreth’s experience of the sim, and how he’d initially been amazed by it and the beauty of the design, and then how that had turned into cold, clinical professional interest. The sim is Warrick’s baby. It’s his creation, and he loves it… and longs to protect it from being corrupted. He’s smart enough to realise that not everyone is going to want the technology for noble and decent– or enjoyable– purposes, but he’s not giving it up for nefarious purposes easily. As he said in the lecture, he can’t control what people do with it down the track… but for now, he can hold onto its innocence.

 

Toreth’s interest in the sim as a potential tool for interrogation wasn’t just an insult to its beauty and design: it was a threat. And like a parent seeing their offspring attacked, he sought to mess with that threat, hitting where he suspected it would hurt, collecting Toreth right in the ego.

 

What I found really interesting about this is that logically, it stands up beautifully, awful as it was for Toreth– and as quietly violent as it came across from Warrick– but also because he was, in effect, demonstrating the abilities of the technology with the subtle insinuation of “See how you like it being used against you.”

 

Funny enough, though, I could imagine Toreth considering using the sim for altering surroundings, making people believe they were seeing things happen to their nearest and dearest, using sense-related head-fuckery (virtual-reality waterboarding? Repeated distressing sounds? — doing the sorts of things to people which have been heavily scrutinised by human rights groups and governments, though in an artificial setting, possibly rendering them benign in the eyes of legislation because they technically didn’t actually occur. What if you could virtually torture someone by merely screwing with their perception? In the way that waterboarding convinces the person subjected to it that they’re drowning, the sim could be used to convince people they’re dying, couldn’t it? And… this is seriously, seriously terrifying when you consider it. [Anyone played Batman: Arkham Asylum? That scene in the morgue just before Scarecrow shows up, where there’s a strange blur between Batman’s reality getting warped and what’s happening in the game– and being the game player who is unsure whether this is “reality” or something else is kind of nauseatingly freaky. That’s the sort of thing I imagined Toreth considering his department using the sim for. Turning someone into a vulnerable, sexed up pile of goo possibly didn’t occur to him.]) Interestingly enough, I can think of a later “demonstration” of something else in the series which is intended to provoke a reaction and lash out at someone– which has later, far-reaching, consequences. Warrick probably took more of a gamble than he thought he was, and it worked how he’d planned. Sort of, I guess.

 

Warrick actually considers what he did and the cruelty of it in a way that Toreth… doesn’t (or can’t, really). Again, a really interesting contrast between the two of them. While Toreth is analysing why he feels things and does things, he lacks an understanding of how his behaviour is in terms of, well, moral value. I don’t doubt he knows how things feel, but he doesn’t really get why doing things that upset or damage people is such a big deal. He also seems to lack, though, an understanding of why things affect him as badly as they do when he can’t rationalise them away with names and logic.

Warrick tells himself that Toreth could have called things off, and wonders about the man’s issues with control, with giving it up, and with …safety. The sim, of course, is safe. Risk can’t really be replicated if you’re going in completely aware.

And he likes that. But still…

 

…[H]e felt an unexpected touch of envy at the unattainable experience. How had it felt to be so controlled? Held there, so absolutely in another’s power.

 

And it seems he’s not just curious about this as some sort of abstract idea. Thinking again about what actually happened, though, he’s still uncomfortable with what he did to Toreth, though he can admit that he looked good in the throes of ecstasy.

And maybe, you know, he won’t cancel the dinner date.

 

The thought startled him. What he had done in the sim was one thing; it had been under his control, and above all, perfectly safe. It would be stark raving insanity even to consider doing anything with Toth in the real world.

 

He still doesn’t know who he actually is, either. He’s aware that he doesn’t know, and he’s fairly certain about what he is, but he doesn’t even know the guy’s name. And he realises that’s risky and problematic. I’d say Warrick is being astutely cautious here.

The man, whoever he was, tortured people to death for a living.

Well, he does other stuff, but that’s the bit everyone seems to focus on, isn’t it?

The problem is, Warrick is only human: knowing that someone is dangerous doesn’t necessarily turn off the hot factor.

 

But he had to admit that it had been a long time since he’d felt this intrigued by the idea of having someone outside the sim. Inside the sim, everything was so perfect, so pleasant, that he had lost interest in that aspect of the world outside.

 

Therein lies another question about the sim: could you get addicted to, well, fake fucking and fantasy, in the same way people can become obsessed with porn to the point where it starts encroaching on their experience of reality?

Warrick considers why he’s wanting reality at this point: is it that the sim itself is work, is it that Toreth is rather easy on the eye, or the thrill of danger?

 

We learn a bit more about the sim as Warrick considers the reality v simulation question. He himself had tried “sim things” in a real world where presumably physics didn’t work like that, though had stepped aside from using the technology until he’d stopped. Warrick, it appears, also has some self-awareness and self-control.

…[I]t had badly affected one of the graduate students. SimTech’s corporate psychologist had labelled it “excessive immersion.” They’d reassigned the girl to the more theoretical aspects of the work and that had resolved the issue.

 

But Warrick realises that’s not his issue at the moment: his issue is more that he wants the same guy who he’d set up and humiliated and who he realises is bloody scary and dangerous even though that’s a big part of his appeal. He wants the real him, in the flesh.

He decides he needs some more information about him, and that if he gets it, he’ll go along to dinner.

 

I loved getting to see Warrick’s mind at work. Admittedly, I’m still on Team Toreth, but I love that Warrick is, well, a decent match for Toreth. (It’s the same reason I adore Phoenix and Miles as a couple in Ace Attorney, and possibly why I would rather read same-sex relationship fic: they’re equals in many ways. I’ve come across too much “romance” about heterosexual people where one party is a wet rag and the other has to do everything for them including think. It’s like the stuff you come across in really awful yaoi manga, and completely unappealing—and unrealistic– for me.) They both have their own autonomy and bring their own power to the relationship, and they’re both there because first and foremost, they have made a conscious decision to be there. No one’s been swept away by the other’s manly intoxicating scent of manliness or something; they’re rational, sensible, slightly hedonistic people.

And Warrick might be entertaining submissive ideas, but he’s not a simpering, pathetic ditz. I don’t really get the whole submissive thing (though I don’t think that’s why I have such issues with Shades, by the way) personally, but I find it kind of insulting to see so often people with a particular sexual like being stereotyped in a way that reaches across to the rest of their personality. If we were talking about a kink that was actually harmful, or well beyond what civilised and openminded society would consider acceptable (look, I’m going to be a tad grossed out if necrophilia’s your thing and I’m going to draw unfavourable conclusions about you if you think those crush videos are sexy) a kink isn’t suggesting anything about someone’s day-to-day existence.

On the flipside, I suppose there’s the “dominant/sadist = remorseless, sickeningly cruel sociopath” stereotype, which certainly isn’t applicable here and which doesn’t hold up well in real life either. Toreth might enjoy screwing with people’s heads and manipulating them to do what he wants them to—but I don’t think a few revenge fantasies where his victim is screaming count as decisive evidence that he’s Ted Bundy in the making. He might not engage in awful behaviour because he’s scared of the legal repercussions if he gets caught, but he still doesn’t, and he shows far more restraint than, say, other fictional dominant type characters. I also don’t get the impression he enjoys torturing his detainees; he enjoys getting the information and doing his job well, but that seems more concerned with the man’s work ethic than a desire to just hurt people for kicks. There’s something far more sympathetic about Toreth than “he’s a sadistic, evil bad guy.” And while I usually am drawn to the bad guys in things like whoa, well, let’s face it: I really loathe Christian Grey (who appears to be more of a sadistic sociopath than Toreth from what we know about both of them).

 

Anyway, I love them. I forgot how awesome the opening gambits were for these two. I also love how succinct this book is: something I didn’t appreciate the first time I read it because I was sort of adjusting to everything, but fuck: it’s awesome. Not having seen unedited work from Manna Francis, I don’t know whether the woman thinks like an editor when she’s writing, or if she has a bloody good editor—or there’s a little from column A and a little from column B there, but it’s a tight, awesome read that we’re getting here.

 

The further I go through both series, the angrier I find myself getting, though.

50 Shades of Grey, E. L. James; Chapter Five

So, Ana wakes up in Grey’s hotel room. Grey has thoughtfully left her some Advil by the bed, but she’s sans pants. And apparently impervious to hangovers. Some annoying, poorly-developed Mary-Sue protagonists have mystical names, more superpowers than everyone else, naturally weird-coloured eyes or more sex appeal than a room full of whatever-takes-yer-fancy, but Ana? Doesn’t get hangovers.

I’ll admit it, that’s a pretty fucking awesome super power to have and I think it’s the only one which I’ve been jealous of a Mary Sue protagonist having.

Grey rocks up, after having worked out. Apparently Grey’s morning schedule goes like this: put passed-out girl to bed, remove her pants, go to sleep, get up, leave drunk girl Advil, work out, return to dazzle girl with late-nineties Coca Cola commercial manliness as demonstrated by sporting copious amounts of sweat.

Cue the obligatory Apocalypse Now joke about how Ana loves the smell of gym sweat in the morning.

While I’m snarking, I’m going to add this to my list of annoyances about Ana: her inner monologue (not her inner goddess, whom we haven’t met yet) is fucking irritating. “Holy hell” and “Oh crap” seem to punctuate every thought the girl (I’m not calling her a woman yet because I still don’t know how old she is, and she seems so young) has about Grey. (And I know I’m not one to talk: my inner monologue largely consists of the tool-for-all-jobs “f-bomb” but it doesn’t just turn up when I see someone I want to fuck or I’ve made some incredibly huge fuckup. Then again, beyond thinking about how much fail she’s made of and how much she wants to do Christian Grey, Ana barely has any thoughts, so maybe I am just being cranky and unfair here.)

Another thing I’m finding alarming is the detail that goes into describing Grey’s outfits: Ana sounds like she’s channelling Patrick Bateman from American Psycho when she does that, and it is really fucking unnerving. I can only hope E. L. James hasn’t read that and been inspired by it believing that’s what kinky sex looks like, because if it is… we’re all in for a world of trouble.

Holy hell, he’s been working out. He’s in grey sweat pants that hang, in that way, off his hips and a grey sleeveless t-shirt which is dark with sweat, like his hair.

Bret Easton Ellis (by the way, speak of the devil, he’s talked about wanting to make this into a movie) did description a lot better than that, though. Again, editor, where were you when this happened?

Christian Grey’s sweat; the notion does odd things to me.

What? Um, fucking what? It is 4:20pm, E. L. James, do you know where your editor is? Seriously, that sentence and whatever the intent behind it did not make sense. Is Ana tripped out by the sweat, by the fact that Christian Grey sweats (guess what? He shits and farts and gets hard-ons, too… unless of course he’s a vampire who doesn’t have normal bodily functions and… oh. Wait. Do vampires sweat?)

Ahem. The idea of sweat, particularly appearing on someone after they’ve physically exerted themselves, isn’t that odd. I return you to your scheduled programming.

Grey asks how she is (“Better than I deserve,” Ana mumbles). Ana asks how she got there.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s close enough for me to touch, for me to smell.

Realistically, unless he’s been drinking heavily, consuming interesting supplements, eating strong-smelling food, or not showered for awhile, he shouldn’t be THAT smelly. Here’s the thing about that: sweat itself doesn’t smell: it’s the bacteria which smells, and the bacteria doesn’t set in initially. This is why you can come home from roller derby training with new wristguards that are merely wet after use, and then chuck them in your bag, thinking nothing of it, and a few days later, they smell like rotting Doritos. Not the sweat, the resulting bacteria taking hold and going into action.

While Ana’s inner goddess hasn’t come forth, her inner George Takei speaks up again:

Oh my… sweat and body wash and Christian. It’s a heady cocktail—so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.

Technical issue here: I thought Christian smelled like body wash and sweat. But here she’s referring to him as an additional component of the smell. So what does sexy twenty-seven-year-old control-freak millionaire smell like anyway? A sharp hit of ambition, polished office surfaces, sensible business sense, with a basenote of regret and unexplained emotional depth. (And a representative twist of Earl Grey tea.) Damn, this is what happens when I spend a few years obsessing over BPAL perfumes.

“After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way back to your apartment. So I brought you here,” he says phlegmatically.

Grey then explains that yes, he put her to bed and undressed her and it’s all a bit boring and there are no words like “phlegmatically” used so, hey, you guys get the gist.

Ana does ask if they fucked. But she’s too mortified to ask. Grey’s powers of deduction come in handy, and he reassures her.

“Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive,” he says dryly.

You know, I know the idea is about making him not look creepy, but it didn’t work for me. And there’s a bit of a difference between “comatose” and dead… I’m pretty sure if we’re talking about it in terms of sentencing, it’s a huge fucking difference. Furthermore, someone, you know, not raping someone when they’re unconscious doesn’t make them a good person any more than the person who doesn’t go on a shooting rampage in a shopping centre deserves an award for acts of humanity.

I still get the impression that Grey not being a rapist is meant to make him awesome. At which point I feel bad. Surely someone’s good qualities can be extended further than “isn’t a rapist.” (And “is rich and good looking.”)

They talk a bit, and Ana asks about him tracking her mobile phone. Apparently it’s okay that he tracked it because the technology is available widely on the internet (I’m not even going to point out the problems with this rationalisation), it didn’t originate from his company (whatever that has to do with things) and she wasn’t overly-impressed with Jose “pushing suit.”

Oh. My. Fucking. God. It’s like he’s just told her that because his stalkery behaviour was something anyone could have done, and it resulted in her not getting raped by Jose, then it’s okay.

Um. Okay.

“Which medieval chronicle did you escape from? You sound like a courtly knight.”

His mood visibly shifts. His eyes soften and his expression warms, and there’s a trace of a smile on his lips.

“Anastasia, I don’t think so. Dark knight, maybe.”

Holy unintentional hilarity, Batman. Let’s see: he’s brooding, he’s intense, he’s loaded, he probably conceals a side no one’s seen, and he’s mysterious. And he saves the day while still being a snarky motherfucker.

I have figured you out, Grey.

Anyway, Bats asks her if she’s eaten and gives her the Responsible Consumption of Alcohol Talk most kids get in high school or at least in the first year of uni, and Ana eventually snarks at him for scolding her.

“You’re lucky I’m just scolding you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn’t eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk.” He closes his eyes, dread etched briefly on his face, and he shudders. When he opens his eyes, he glares at me. “I hate to think what could have happened to you.”

I scowl back at him. What is his problem? What’s it to him? If I was his… Well, I’m not.

Creepiness from Grey aside here, and I am in NO way abdicating his creepiness in the exchange, Ana is sounding seriously issuey. Playing Devil’s Advocate for a sec: this is possibly Grey’s way of verbalising that he was worried about her safety. Unless you’re living in a dry state or only hanging around with straight-edge types or otherwise not really anywhere near booze, I’m pretty sure the experience of worrying about an intoxicated friend is universal, especially if you can’t keep an eye on them. I’ve worried about a number of people before: even people I don’t know very well or don’t like very much, just because, well, not liking someone is not the same as thinking nothing of someone getting assaulted while they’re unable to fight back merely because they’re a girl and they’re drunk.

That doesn’t mean that I have any deeper concerns beyond, well, a very basic level of decency. It sure as fuck doesn’t mean that I want any personal involvement with them. So Ana’s “if I was his… well, I’m not” thing just makes me want to scream. He’s allowed to not want you to come to harm even if he has no personal interest in you, Ana. Jesus fucking Christ.

Her thought processes here remind me of some, erm, rather unstable people I’ve known. “IF YOU DON’T LOVE ME WHY SHOULD YOU CARE AT ALL ABOUT ME?!” And gawd, those people are irritating, especially when they pull that shit after you’ve a) only seen them a couple of times, and b) have been kind of nice or decent towards them and showed them some concern. Grey went above and beyond what I would have done for her; I’d have grabbed Kate and made them get a taxi home. And then blocked Ana’s number. Not my drunk girlfriend with a personality disorder, not my fucking problem.

Ana then goes into Walter Mitty land and starts thinking about what it would be like if she was “his” and—

I flush at the waywardness of my subconscious—she’s doing her happy dance  in a bright red hula skirt at the thought of being his.

Christ. Even the subconscious’ dress sense gets commentary. Is this a regular thing in chick lit? (Not that I’m saying American Psycho is chick lit.) Also, we are at 68 pages, and nothing really has happened. How people are calling this “porn” (of the mommy or otherwise variety) is beyond me. Um, in my porn, people fuck. In romance, they draw out the fucking with headgames and innuendo and this wonderful thing called subtext, whipping the reader up into a state of loving how drawn out it is and wanting to scream “Just fuck, already.” They don’t stumble around awkwardly and be dislikeable and kind of aimless and drama-llama-y like this is.

Ana then downplays the seriousness of her situation, saying she would have been “fine” if Grey hadn’t stepped in. Grey suggests someone should teach Jose some manners.

Hey, guys: don’t force yourself on drunken girls who aren’t into you: it’s not polite. Erm, no, arsehole. This isn’t about manners.

Ana doesn’t do much better though:

“You are quite the disciplinarian,” I hiss.

“Oh Anastasia, you have no idea.” His eyes narrow, and then he grins wickedly. It’s disarming.

Who else read that and wanted Grey/Jose revengey hatesex fic? That was my first thought.

He goes to have a shower, Ana swoons, he grins, and then does that thing where he tells her to breathe—I think this is meant to be more foreshadowing for the whole domly thing where he virtually controls her every movement or whathaveyou later on. It makes me think of that blonde joke about the blonde wearing the earphones at the hairdresser.

Ana relives him touching her face (this is getting old), and thinks about her desire for him (this is getting old, too), and flops back onto the bed thinking about him.

He’s the only man who has ever set the blood racing through my body. Yet he’s so antagonising, too; he’s difficult, complicated, and confusing.

Oh, here we go with all the adjectives again.

One minute he rebuffs me, the next he sends me fourteen-thousand-dollar books, then he tracks me like a stalker. And for all that, I have spent the night in his hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. He cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. He’s not a dark knight at all but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor—a classic romantic hero—Sir Gawain or Sir Lancelot.

Oh fucking dear. Firstly: he’s fucking scary. Like, ‘is he going to mail you his ear next week?’ scary. Secondly, tracking you like a stalker and sending you expensive things aren’t gestures or affection or concern (and if he’s really as loaded as you say he is, Ana, fourteen thou on some books is peanuts). Thirdly: how the fuck was a guy forcing himself on you while you were severely intoxicated “mistakenly perceived danger”? That looks like pretty real danger to me, especially when you’re fighting against a solid wall of muscle as it was described, and he’s pulling your fucking head back.

Fourthly, this is how abusive relationships work. The creepy and scary behaviour gets justified, or tempered out with the nice behaviour. The abuser behaves poorly, realises, freaks out, and does extra-special-nice things to keep his hold on the person and prove to everyone that he’s not such a bad dude. (“He” being used because at the moment we are talking about a male/female ship; I’m fully aware that women can be abusive and that abuse like this doesn’t just occur in male/female relationships, too, before anyone asks.)

Ana scrambles around when he returns (shock horror! She hasn’t shaved her legs! OHNOEZ!) with just a towel around his waist (has he shaved his legs?), while she’s looking for her jeans. He had them sent to the laundry because, well, puke. Then he got his assistant—or whoever Taylor the Buzzcut Guy is—to get shoes and another pair of jeans for her. Presumably, amongst Taylor’s bodyguard credentials, he’s an expert in ladies’ fashion.

Ana has a shower and thinks some more about Grey.

He said he likes his women sentient. He’s probably not celibate then. But he’s not made a pass at me unlike Paul or Jose. I don’t understand. Does he want me? He wouldn’t kiss me last week. Am I repellent  to him? And yet I’m here and he’s brought me here. I just don’t know what his game is. What’s he thinking?

Oh, Lordy. I’m not sure if I’m feeling almost sorry for her if she’s thinking that the only reason people do nice, decent things for other people is because they want to screw them. Or if I hate E. L. James for normalising the idea of men only being nice to women because they want sex and women being accepting of that.

You’ve slept in his bed all night, and he’s not touched you. You do the math.

Champagne plus margaritas equals passing out. Passed out girl does not equal potential sex partner, inability to give informed consent being a variable here.

Ana thinks about Grey whilst she’s showering and rubbing his body wash all over herself. Not sure if we never know what it smells like because either the writer has no imagination or it’s a wild card thing where every woman ever reading this will impose her own idea of an erotically-charged scent into the mental image she has of this.

She fantasises about his hands touching her, and her inner George Takei comes forth with another “Oh my.” I love that guy.

She’s interrupted by the arrival of breakfast, so she gets out and dries off and gets dressed.

She doesn’t just have “new clean clothes,” it seems.

Not only has Taylor bought me jeans and new Converse, but also a pale blue shirt, socks and underwear. Oh my. A clean bra and panties—actually, to describe them in such a mundane, utilitarian way does not do them justice. They are exquisitely designed fancy European lingerie.

Okay, now that just sounds awkward. Also, I hope I’m not the only one finding this overstepping some boundaries here. How the fuck did he know what sizes to get these in?

Apparently they fit perfectly. Taylor must do this an awful lot. Wow. There I was thinking that the hairdresser’s apprentice I once met, whose boss used to make her buy boxes and boxes of condoms (thereby humiliating the poor kid at the checkout, because what teenage girl doesn’t feel weird buying a shitload of condoms and worrying what people are thinking?) was a demanding and mean boss.

She dresses, and tries to control her hair. It doesn’t get controlled which is probably a metaphor for something I’m too uninvested in to give a fuck about. She then walks through the suite to offer more superfluous description which any decent editor would have pared down, to see Grey sitting at a table reading a newspaper. She remembers that Kate was out with her last night, too, and seems scandalised by Kate’s fervent dancing in order to seduce Christian’s brother. Whoda thunk other people have their own less drawn out mating rituals?

She worries about Kate’s reaction to her staying out, and then considers the fact that Kate is still out with Elliot.

She’s only done this twice before, and both times I’ve had to endure the hideous pink PJs for a week from the fallout.

So Kate seems to be as prone to obsessing over random strangers as much as Ana is. Told ya they were the perfect couple. They’ve got more in common than any of the canon pairings, anyway.

Anyway, we get a description of Christian’s outfit, and then he invites, I guess you could say, her to join him for breakfast.

“Sit,” he commands, pointing to a place at the table.

Charming. You know, I’ve read fic where the couple are doing a serious total power exchange thing where the submissive party isn’t even “allowed” to blink without permission, but even then, whoever’s dominant speaks to the other person with more respect than this guy. And at least, in those fictional settings, it can be argued that the character gave consent to being ordered around like that. If someone talked to me like I was a dog, I’d get up and walk out, no matter how cute they were, because that’s some scary-arsed foreshadowing for later down the track.

The table is laden with food. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu.” He gives me a crooked, apologetic smile.

“That’s very profligate of you,” I murmur, bewildered by the choice, though I am hungry.

Profligate. How many people use that word in day-to-day conversation? Why the fuck would she even say this to him? Why not a fucking “thankyou, that’s really generous of you”?

“Yes, it is.” He sounds guilty.

I’m having a hard time believing this. He’s sickeningly rich. Philanthropic tax write-offs aside, if he’s buying fourteen-grand books for Ana on a whim (and mailing them with no insurance or registered mail, too, actually), he doesn’t seem to consider the notion of “waste.”

They have breakfast and he remembers that she likes tea. Ten bucks says that Ana’s preferred type of tea is the same as E. L. James’.

“Your hair’s very damp,” he scolds.

“I couldn’t find the hair dryer,” I mutter, embarrassed. Not that I looked.

Christian’s mouth presses into a hard line, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Thankyou for the clothes.”

“It’s a pleasure, Anastasia. That colour suits you.”

Nope, not at all creepy and controlling. I mean… getting drunk? He really had no right to get shitty about that, but… wet hair? As for the clothes, the insinuation that he knows what looks better on her than she does is just yuck.

I blush and stare down at my fingers.

“You know, you really should learn to take a compliment.” His tone is castigating.

But… Grey: you like her solely because she has no self-worth and is pissweak. Make your fucking mind up, hypocrite.

Ana offers to pay for the clothes and says she’s returning the books. They have words. If effect, he admits to buying her stuff “because [he] can.” Because he can afford it, I assume, and because every other woman he’s tried the creepy stalker act on has sicked the cops on him.

Anyway, she asks about the books, and then things get deeper. .

“Why did you send me the books, Christian?” My voice is soft.

He puts down his cutlery and regards me intently, his eyes burning with some unfathomable emotion.

I’m trying to fathom burning eyes at the moment, and I’m expecting to see them in a subsequent creepy dream sequence.

“Well, you were nearly run over by the cyclist—and I was holding you and you were looking up at me – all ‘kiss me, kiss me, Christian’”—he pauses and shrugs—“I felt I owed you an apology and a warning.”

Jesus fucking Christ. This has seriously got to be the most idiotic piece of dialogue I have read. I actually needed to read it twice to make sure that I wasn’t being mean and imagining it in there.

Firstly, what guy over fifteen would use a term of phrase like, “you were looking at me, all”, and secondly: is this him implying he knew that she wanted to be kissed? When did he become a mindreader? Why didn’t he just say “no”? Thirdly, he already did say, “Ain’t gonna work.”

Fourthly: and I am sickened when Ana says it about herself in relation to other guys so it would apply to Christian, too: what’s with the apologetics about not wanting to be romantically involved with someone? A polite, “I’m flattered but I’m sorry,” is all that is needed, and still remaining friends is nice, but beyond that, nothing is required. You shouldn’t be bogged down with pity or shelling out for expensive and rare gifts because you don’t want to exchange bodily fluids with someone.

“Anastasia, I’m not a hearts and flowers kind of man… I don’t do romance. My tastes are very singular. You should steer clear of me.” He closes his eyes as if in defeat. “There’s something about you, though, and I’m finding it impossible to stay away. But I think you’ve figured that out already.”

Or circumstances and a drunken dialling have made it impossible to. This is, what, their fourth meeting?

“Then don’t,” I whisper.

He gasps, his eyes wide. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

We sit gazing at each other, neither of us touching our food.

“You’re not celibate then?” I breathe.

Amusement lights up his eyes. “No, Anastasia, I’m not celibate. “ He pauses for this information to sink in, and I flush scarlet.

Warning: do not read this book if you are prone to fits of eyeball rolling.

I don’t know if this is meant to be seduction, either, but generally, if you’re telling a girl to stay away after buying her expensive things, playing white knight and telling her in as many words “I just can’t quit you,” it’s a bit pointless. You’re just making yourself into the Restricted Section, where, let’s face it, people want in purely because it’s off-limits. There are so many better things Grey could have done to throw Ana off the trail:

a)      “I am a plushie. You know what that means, right? If not, Google is your friend.”

b)      “I am about to move overseas forever where I will not have internet, phones, or anything anyone could contact me with.”

c)       “I am vegan.” Trust me, this one will send people running.

d)      Sent her a full collection of the works of the Marquis de Sade. Let’s face it, he was weird and kinky, but the writing wasn’t fantastic. Though compared to this, he’s Tolstoy.

e)      “I’ve got [insert STD here] and it’s [insert graphic description of STD’s effects in here].” Just after she’s eaten or while she’s about to.

f)       “Do you like snuff movies? You come over and watch some with me sometime.”

g)      Hit on Kate.

h)      Hit on Jose.

At least one of these would have sent her running. Instead, he does this “I am the prince of darkness and I have mysterious pain living in my soul and I’m ambiguous because deep down all I really want is for a woman to love me” crap.

Anyway, Ana explains that pretty soon, she and Kate are moving to Seattle, coincidentally right near where Grey lives. He asks what she’s going to do when she gets there and she calls inquisition, though says she’s applied for internships.

“Have you applied to my company as I suggested?”

I flush… Of course not. “Um, no.”

“And what’s wrong with my company?”

In addition to the fact that we don’t really know what the company does (please let it be a worldwide money laundering operation! Prostitution ring! People smuggling operation!) they do appear to have some sexist and discriminatory hiring practises. But maybe Christian assumes that Ana was stupid enough to have not noticed that,

(OMG, perhaps he’ll hire her, and make her bleach her hair… and all those other blondes in his office are his previous off-casts whom he grew tired of and didn’t get rid of because he didn’t want sexual harassment cases to deal with.)

“Your company, or your company?”

Well, there’s a lot wrong with that, too, now that you mention it, Ana.

“Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?” He tilts his head to one side and I think he looks amused, but it’s hard to tell. I flush and glance down at my unfinished breakfast. I can’t look him in the eye when he uses that tone of voice.

“I’d like to bite that lip,” he whispers darkly.

Um… that was unexpected. It wasn’t particularly sexy, but it’s possibly been the sexiest thing said in the book so far, but that Christian Grey, stalker extraordinaire is saying it just makes it creepy. Does the guy have Mike Tyson tendencies?

I gasp, completely unaware hat I am chewing my bottom lip and my mouth pops open. That has to be the sexiest thing any body has ever said to me. My heartbeat spikes, and I think I’m panting.

Okay, back up a little here: her heartbeat, um, spikes? Does she have cardiac monitor attached to her? And… panting? I’m not sure if E. L. James gets how the human body works, but mammals tend to pant when they’re physically hot through extremes in temperature or physical exertion. Unless someone just whacked on the heating, none of these scenarios have occurred. Then again, it’s Ana thinking she’s panting, and Ana is fucking delusional, so I’ll call it even and say we have a very unreliable narrator here. Hence why she’s thinking this dude is being romantic rather than scary.

“Why don’t you?” I challenge quietly.

Arrrgh. Editor in me is wanting to punch someone for not pointing out to this girl that every single sentence doesn’t have to end on an adjective.

“Because I’m not going to touch you, Anastasia—not until I have your written consent to do so.” His lips hint at a smile.

Now, because this gets arduous, I’ll sum up: he doesn’t actually explain any of this. He merely suggests they meet up again so he can explain everything to her properly (because apparently he needs time to hide the bodies or something, or he really, really has to get back to reading his newspaper) later that evening. We are on page 74 of this book. So much of this could have been condensed, by the way. I can understand drawing out a romance or making a reader crazy for the characters to “just do it!” But this is fucking ridiculous. And boring. And horrible. And seriously, if you’re going to warn someone off, and then decide that you want them after all, and the whole “this is how I do things” deal is so unfathomably unbendable for you, you fucking well owe it to that person to explain yourself. Once again, Grey is being mean. He knows this girl likes him, and he’s being a custarddick about it.

And ALL of this shit could have been pared down with Grey saying, “I don’t believe you would understand my sexual interests” and Ana saying “Try me” rather than this pathetic dilly-dallying about that’s gone on for the last few chapters.

You know what this is making me think? It’s making me think the fanfic was released in multiple parts, and E. L. James drew out the interactive stuff because the idea of writing sex—especially kinky sex—was making her feel a bit uncomfortable. Which is fine: everyone’s gotta start somewhere, and sex can be awkward and weird to write. But this, ladies and gentlemen, is why we have editors. When something goes from work-in-progress fanfic on the internet to professionally published book, changes (other than the names of characters and a few locational deets) get made. In normal circumstances, anyway. (Seriously, wtf was this? Vanity published?)

Grey tells Ana that once she’s enlightened, she’ll probably never want to see him again. Still, they agree to meet in the evening. Why not just get this miserable mess over and done with as quickly and cleanly as possible? I want this chapter to end. I want to go back to reading about Warrick and Toreth. I want to play with the kittens I’m fostering. I want to go hit the gym or go skating or blend up litres of celery and pear juice or something.

Grey then makes some arrangements with Taylor-the-women’s-fashion-buyer and suddenly a helicopter is organised. Oh, yeah, amongst the stuff that Grey failed to mention? He’s got a helicopter. Which he can fly. But he wants a standby pilot there as well at the start. Ana is bewildered and blinky about it, and Grey is all blasé about it and tells her to finish her breakfast. I should be impressed, too, I mean, hey, it’s a fucking chopper, but you know what? This book is so godamned ridiculous that a tentacle monster could emerge from the hotel toilet and unexpectedly request to have its way with Ana, and all I think I’d be doing it critiquing the hideous sentence structure and over-used phrasing.

How can I eat now? I’m going to Seattle by helicopter with Christian Grey. And he wants to bite my lip. I squirm at the thought.

This is where I hear the voiceover dude’s voice—(you know that guy who does the “This Summer” and announces some plot points over a movie trailer with the intended effect of making you go “I’ll see that!” ) for the trailer for 50 Shades : The Movie—saying something like, “At five hundred feet, you can scream… but no one will hear you” while they’re alone in a helicopter together and he wants to bite her lip. (Mental note to self: when this atrocity does get released as a movie, do some creative re-editing of the promotional material to showcase the true genre this belongs in: horror.)

“Eat,” he says more sharply. “Anastasia, I have an issue with wasted food… eat.”

If he has such an issue with wasted food, why the fuck did he order pretty much everything on the menu? Unless he’s one of those feeder people who is going to insist on controlling how much food she ingests. Boy: and there I was thinking this wasn’t going to get any more disturbing.

“I can’t eat all this.” I gape at what’s left on the table.

“Eat what’s on your plate. If you’d eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t be declaring my hand so soon.” His mouth sets in a grim line. He looks angry.

Okay, scary controlling shit going down right there. Or pedophilia: he’s talking to her like she’s a fucking child. Or not a fucking child—um… ew. Even describing the way he talks to her starts to get gross and wrong and creepy and holy fucking shit, this is meant to be romantic?

She eats up.

“Good girl,” he says. “I’ll take you home when you’ve dried your hair. I don’t want you getting ill.”

There’s some kind of unspoken promise in his words. What does he mean?

Oh, yuck. Firstly, the “good girl” thing makes me wonder if maybe he’s used to dating little girls since that’s how he seems to naturally talk to Ana, secondly, there’s no “unspoken” promise: he’s said he’ll take her home. Sheesh.

Oh, and thirdly: having wet hair doesn’t give you colds. Bacteria and a weakened immune system will do that more than having fucking wet hair. Christian Grey isn’t an all-knowing god, he’s a fucking idiot.

Ana goes to leave, but on her way out, asks where Grey slept. In the bed. Next to her. And it was a novelty—Ana assumes because he didn’t have sex, he tells her because he slept with someone. Oh, hello, Edward Cullen. This is all coming across like a dodgy localisation now, where the editors haven’t realised that some things should be, erm, localised a trifle better. Meyer!Vampires don’t sleep, do they? Grey isn’t a vampire… I don’t think.

Ana apparently doesn’t get that sleeping with someone and fucking with someone are two different things.

What in heaven’s name does that mean? He’s never slept with anyone? He’s still a virgin?

Oh dear GAWD.

Anyway, Ana dries her hair. Grey takes a business call in the next room. Then they walk out and pop into the elevator and—

Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, possibly our proximity in such an enclosed space, the atmosphere between us changes, charged with an electric, exhilarating anticipation. My breathing alters as my heart races. His head turns fractionally towards me, his eyes darkest slate. I bite my lip.

“Oh, fuck the paperwork,” he growls.

Uh-oh. That paperwork, I believe, was about consent, wasn’t it? Does he realise what he’s actually saying there?

He lunges at me, pushing me against the wall of the elevator. Before I know it, he’s got both of my hands in one of his in a viselike grip above my head, and he’s pinning me to the wall using his hips. Holy shit. His other hand grabs my hair and yanks down, bringing my face up, and his lips are on mine. It’s not only just painful.

No, it’s not. Non-consensual, too.

I moan into his mouth, giving his tongue an opening. He takes full advantage, his tongue expertly exploring my mouth.

God, I’m guilty of using phrasing about tongues exploring mouths, but after reading this, I promise I will never, ever do it again. This book has the Gerbil Effect on things that were previously considered sexy. (Type “Richard Gere” into Google and notice how “gerbil” comes up next to his name. Do some creative clicking after this if you still don’t know what I’m talking about.*)

My tongue tentatively joins his and joins his in a slow, erotic dance that’s all about touch and sensation, bump and grind.

It sounds like snails fucking. Has anyone seen how they do that? My mind narrated that in Richard Attenborough’s voice and I just saw snails thanks to all the nature docos I watched in my formative years.

He brings his hand up to grasp my chin and holds me in place. I’m helpless, my hands pinned, my face held, and his hips restraining me. His erection against my belly. Oh my… He wants me.

I had one thought when reading this: I don’t believe that is an approved restraint technique. Even though he secured her chin. And then that thought was interrupted by George Takei’s voice.

“You. Are. So. Sweet,” he murmurs, each word a staccato.

Holy fuck. That was creepy. Sorry, folks, but that really was. That sounds like the sort of thing that a serial killer is meant to say while someone is dying in agony as their intestines are spilling out onto the cold hard floor beneath them. Um, ew.

Anyway, the whole mess is saved by the bell—the ping of the elevator as the doors open, and Grey is all cool and calm which annoys Ana because he’s just rocked her world or something. Grey makes a quip about elevators which is meant to be comedic because the last time they saw one, there was a couple making out in one.

Then they leave, and thus concludes the chapter.

I am reminded of Miles Edgeworth’s (from Ace Attorney) fear of elevators, for some reason, though in fairness, he had good reason to have post traumatic stress disorder attached to them.

Then again, so does anyone rational who managed to get through this chapter unaffected by drugs or alcohol.

Maybe my problem with this book is that I’m reading it sober.

* Yes, I realise it’s urban legend. But it still made more than a few people lose interest in Gere who, prior to that, had been considered the epitome of hawtness.

Mind Fuck, Manna Francis; Chapter Four

So Dr. Warrick has plans up his sleeve.

Being the control freak that he is, rather than letting Toreth call all the shots, he leaves a message at the hotel Toreth is staying at, inviting him to “Come and experience the future of mind fucking for yourself.” You know, in the Sim, at the university.

And that’s at least somewhat intriguing to Toreth, who decides he’s not essential at this stage in his investigations (and that the suspects involved who are detained can just stay where they are and that if anything happens or if they decide to talk, then he’ll come in [not only do I want Toreth’s administrative assistant, but I kind of want his job… well, the workplace conditions, anyway]) and so takes the day off for the meeting.

And go to the gym. He does a lot of that over the course of the series.

Clearly the sim has people seeing the potential in it, and the SimTech offices seem to reflect that sort of investment, and Toreth gets a personal tour of the facilities from Warrick, where he starts second-guessing his initial judgement of the guy: could it be that he’s “too deeply in love with the sim to mix business and pleasure”?

Let’s face it, though: the sim is pretty fucking impressive.

Probably a brief description is in order: imagine a virtual reality where you’re lying on a couch, hooked up to sensors which are allowing you to interact with another reality, while you are in a sleep-like state. Obviously, when other people are hooked up to the machine at the same time as you, you get to interact with them and their projection. And it has the same sort of seductive “create your own avatar” reality of the internet in its early days (I can’t help but think with the growth in the internet and the fact that everyone’s using it nowadays– there’s more of a fusion between online and “real” life for a lot of people and a lot less of the sort of “you can be yourself… or not” stuff there was online in the, say, nineties) wherein you can ‘be’ or look like whatever you like. Theoretically, you can do anything as long as the programmers can make it so.

I’ve gotta admit, the sim’s potential could be a series of books in its own right, and the damn thing is practically a featured character. (And I will admit this, too: I love it. Like I love kittens and cocaine and being able to sleep uninterrupted. The sim rocks.)

Anyway, Toreth gets measured up and sorted out to use the sim– and Warrick offers the reader an explanation of the machine in another one of those “show not tell” moments. I love two things in particular about his description: firstly, Warrick’s knowledge of it and enthusiasm for it shine through amazingly. To be able to write something that doesn’t even exist, and to have it explained so well to an outside audience who have never encountered such a thing, and to make that enthusiasm so infectious that readers feel like they understand something that isn’t even real but that they get the hype about it? That’s impressive.

Secondly, the sim isn’t perfect, and the issues and limitations identified sound reasonable and give the thing another dimension of believability. I think everyone knows what it’s like when some new piece of technology or some new system is branded as the perfect, glitch-free thing which will change everything, and, well, it turns out to have more bugs than a Windows OS at release. This also explains SimTech’s need for volunteers and more data-gathering for further development of the sim… which is where things start to get interesting…But all of it makes sense and my disbelief is happily suspended, which is a mean feat when it comes to me and fiction.

Warrick also has a nice little safeword clause in there, too:

“While we’re waiting,” Warrick said, “I’d like you to choose a word and say it out loud. Some people don’t react well to the sim. If you start to feel dizzy, or sick, or if you want out for any reason at all, say the word and the computer will disconnect you automatically and immediately. I suggest you make it something you won’t say accidentally.”

“Chevril,” Toreth said clearly.

And two things on that note: a) I giggled, and b) I couldn’t help but think, “That was automatic… you’ve done this before (since starting work at I&I), haven’t you, Toreth?”

They opt for a short session: while Warrick explains that there’s no harm in using the sim for longer, like any other kind of weird experience (I know they recommend this with sensory deprivation tanks, too) it’s best to start small because it can “have some disorienting side effects.”

Toreth realises that he can see– and feel the reality of a room around him, but has the insight to know that it’s not real.

And his reaction is pretty much what mine would be under the circumstances, experiencing that for the first time: “Fucking hell.”

Warrick explains that the room they’re in is merely one of many– a test– and adjusts the sim to give them a different setting. Now they’re in an old-fashioned “club room” — woodsy with a library and lamps and carpets.

And this is the bit where I remember that Room of Requirement and what such an innovation did for the Harry Potter fandom. Remember after that turned up in book five, suddenly every second fic had the “where?” problem solved? The Room of Requirement could be called on in canon by characters who needed it desperately and it would morph into a bathroom or a hiding place or training grounds or what-not. For fanfic writers, it turned into some obscure sort of love hotel plot device where HP characters pretty much had a place and an excuse to get as kinky and as sexy as they wanted to. It was everything from a makeout closet to a fully-equipped BDSM dungeon. I swear, if JKR didn’t know what she did in writing it in, she would have found out pretty soon.The sim is like a real-life version of that, and let’s face it, that’s pretty fucking legendary.

We also get a bit of an idea about what Toreth looks like, too: yet again, Manna Francis does Show, not Tell, and as previously, doesn’t flash all the details about something in one go. I love how this is done.

Spotting a mirror on the wall, Toreth went over. Half expecting some strange effect, he saw only himself, imperfectly reflected in the antique mottled glass: short blonde hair waved back from his forehead, well-defined cheekbones, blue eyes he’d always thought of as one of his best features– currently appearing rather wide– narrowish chin,and lips he’d prefer to be a little fuller.

The usual slight shock of realising that despite studious use of moisturiser, he was thirty-two, not nineteen.

As for that last part, ye gawds. I have had moments of that, myself.

Anyway, Toreth is completely stunned by the sim’s reality, starting with when he sees a sim-reflection of himself in the sim-mirror. And just like he’s experiencing a perfect reflection of himself, we, the readers, get to experience the wonder of the technology through Toreth’s reactions to it. And it’s awesome and believable– not just the graphics– which previously Toreth assumed had been doctored up a bit for the presentation– but the input experienced by the user also moves into areas of the other senses: things feel and smell and presumably taste like real life, too. He’s understandably impressed.

And clearly Warrick is enjoying the affect it’s having on him, and his love for the sim is described in such a way that it isn’t just *obvious*, but contagious. He offers Toreth a drink– and yep– taste is a factor of the experience, too. Who wouldn’t want one of these things?Warrick shows Toreth some more scenes, including some outdoor ones and explains the link between them and the business investors (just imagine the possibilities this sort of immersive virtual reality has, people) and notes a few technical glitches, again, giving a real feel to the writing. I love that the sim is simultaneously perfect but not, and I love how both the author– and Warrick– understand this. And I love how Manna Francis manages to simultaneously give it an air of believability by having Warrick explain it– and she rides on his enthusiasm.

(That’s believable, too, and for me: well, it bypasses one of my pet peeves in sci-fi and fantasy, whereby the writer creates something they obviously think is it-and-a-bit but describe so casually that we’re expected to be a mind reader [and be as attached to as the writer] or go into an annoying, pain-staking, and unconvincing hardsell which manages to irk me rather than win me over.)

I also love that there is not oh-so-much technology in the world that needs serious explanation. Again, a common criticism I have of fantasy and futuristic writing is when a story gets mired down in explanation all the time or the flow is interrupted by a need to refer to footnotes. The Administration series completely avoids this: everything is explained succinctly and when it needs to be, and gradually, so the reader isn’t bombarded with a heap of information all at once; we’re eased into it… which makes it that much easier to buy. We adapt to the universe, it isn’t thrust upon us to make sense of in one great hit.

Warrick explains about the tactile experience of the sim and its capabilities, demonstrating that people can touch one another in the virtual world.

Of course, that makes Toreth have some questions about its capacity of his own.

“And what about pain?” he asked.

Warrick held his gaze for a moment, then stood up and turned back to the control panel, here hanging disconcertingly in mid-air. “Not in this program.”

Oh, ouch. Here we have something interesting: Warrick’s shown him this gorgeous countryside scene with sunshine and meadows and convincingly damp grass, and a peaceful, natural beauty, and Toreth’s first real question is about how the sim can be used for something not quite so wonderous and content and beautiful.

“But it can be done?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t worry, you can report back that it would all be extremely useful for yoiur purposes if they could afford it.”

“My purposes?”

“Interrogation.” Flat voice, eyes intent on the console.

“I’m a–“

“Para-investigator. That’s what you told me,”

“No I didn’t.”

“Not quite in so as many words, no. But you told me you rape minds.”

Hmm. So much for Warrick’s cool, ambiguous attitude about the use of the sim for interrogation purposes as demonstrated in his presentation when he was responding to the university-educated idealist. I think it’s crystal clear how he actually feels about that.

“I said ‘I fuck minds,’ I think you’ll find.”

Warrick shrugged. “It’s all in the inflection, really.”

“So what do you think about my inflection?”

The strange half smile again, this time in flattering profile. “I think you probably can’t tell the difference any more.”

Just this: Oh. My. Fucking. God. Seriously. He’s absolutely repulsed by him, yet has had some compelling reason to give him the tour and show him how beautiful things can be in the sim. I got the feeling that it’s almost as though a part of him was wanting to see if Toreth really was— or just did— his job, and then suddenly when he asks about application for the sim to be used to hurt people, up go Warrick’s defenses.

And he’s so slick about it, too.

Admittedly, the first time I read this, I was already feeling a bit defensive for Toreth, and I will acknowledge that was based purely on my own experiences and ability to identify with someone feeling what it’s like to work in a job that other people regard with a level of disgust or suspicion. Warrick’s almost parental protectiveness about his baby being used to quite methodically and potentially inhumanly cause hurt and harm to others wasn’t the first thing to register.

He knew before he invited me here, Toreth thought. He’s known all along and he’s disgusted by the idea of what I do, but he’s still interested. The realisation brought a sharp stab of excitement. He loved to see people wanting to do things they thought they shouldn’t.

*grins* If it hasn’t already been established, Toreth is awesome.

Warrick decides to unbalance him a little bit by changing the scene around them–something else I really love about the dynamic between them. In their beginning of their relationship, especially, there’s a real push-and-pull dynamic where they’re very subtly trying to compete with one another for dominance. But there’s nothing as vulgar and obvious and physical as your usual fight: it’s far quieter and more dignified and headfucky.

Toreth might look like he’s got the advantage given his profession, but Warrick is socially astute and has the sort of backing of a rather brilliant reputation (deserved, when you consider the sim and his smooth-talking)– and presumably an extensive education– behind him. The contrast and yet their similarities (both have control issues, for example, which I’d argue feature heavily in who they are as people) make for some seriously fascinating interaction.

Warrick’s change of scene brings them into a bedroom. Painstakingly, beautifully rendered, too, gorgeously detailled, and incorporating scent into the myriad of senses influenced by the sim’s abilities, and the explanation that brain function can be influenced by the machine. Warrick demonstrates by rendering Toreth completely immobile, and messing with his vision. Scary.

But not scary enough to make Toreth use his safeword which he’d agreed to at the start of the demonstration. Or maybe it’s scary enough to make Toreth dig his heels in and refuse to let Warrick see the whites of his eyes.

“In fact,” Warrick continued, “a lot of truly impressive work is done by the brain. Integrating the signals, smoothing out the imperfections. It’s a remarkably flexible organ. And it works both ways. With practice it’s possible to train the brain to maximally exploit the sim environment.”

“Yeah?”

“Very much so, For example–” As far as he could see, the man didn’t move a centimetre. But suddenly Toreth felt a hand trace a path down his chest from his collarbone to his navel, the smooth palm brushing distincty against naked skin. He looked down sharply, but he was still fully clothed.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“I imagined doing it.” The hand returned and retraced the same path, more slowly. “The convention of moving the physical representation within the sim is purely that– a convention. With practice, intent alone is sufficient. Practice, and a little creative programming.”

You can most likely see where this is going. Warrick uses the technique to demonstrate that he knows exactly what he’s doing– with his imagination— and that yes, he’s bloody good at it. Toreth sits between being stunned and turned on and hellbent on not yielding to Warrick, but with his own experience with this sort of thing completely absent, he can’t exactly return the favour and is at Warrick’s mercy.  .

He had the feeling– no, he was certain– that Warrick wanted him to ask for it. His mind flashed back to the lecture and he thought: Control freak. Oh yes. However, Toreth wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Eventually, he decides that he’s getting some and he kind of wanted that, so why not enjoy it? And then Warrick stops it. Without warning, of course, leaving him begging, and Warrick smirking. Demonstrating a particularly diabolical fashion in which the sim could be used for interrogations, collecting data, or just having some fun and screwing with Toreth’s head? (He’s not entirely evil, though, and he allows Toreth climax before giving him his movement back.)

“You’ve go no fucking room to talk,” he said after a moment.

“About what?”

“Not being able to tell the difference between rape and fucking.”

Warrick was still busy over the console. “Oh, I know the difference. That was fucking. If you thought otherwise, you should have stopped it.”

“Stopped it? I couldn’t move!”

Warrick looked around, the smile reaching his eyes this time. “All you had to do was say the word.”

Toreth realised what he meant even before Warrick elaborated. “The code word.”

The code word. He’d completely forgotten, and yet he hadn’t forgotten– not really, not for a minute. Game, set, and fucking match. He lay there, unable, for one of the few times in his life, to think of anything to say.

And then they’re out of the sim, and Warrick is escorting him from the building, their discussion polite and friendly and casual.

“Goodbye.”

That had a very final ring to it. Toreth made it a rule to never do the chasing– or at least for it to never look as if he were– but he couldn’t let this go. He’d comprehensively lost this round, and they both knew it.

Of course it’s not over, and with a thankyou that borders of vicious, Toreth offers to take Dr. Warrick out to dinner… as payback. Expecting him to say no, Warrick grabs the reins and calls his bluff… and agrees.

It’s on, ladies and gentlemen, and it’s already sizzling.

50 Shades of Grey, E. L. James; Chapter Four

So, my mother knows that I’m now blogging about stuff that I’m reading.

Bear in mind, the woman’s known me for thirty-odd years, so she’s aware of the fact that I sometimes do some *quirky* things. I write epically long Russian novel length fanfiction about characters in video games. I go out in public dressed up as said characters on occasion. When I’m not reading or writing or earning my stripes as the neighbourhood’s resident Crazy Cat Lady, I’m getting excited about playing or training for a sport which has given me a couple of concussions, a fractured sacrum, bruises that have their own FaceBook gallery, and which makes me think nothing of wearing hotpants in public. I have done her the favour of introducing her to concepts which she previously had never heard about, like homoerotic fanfiction, and I have explained things to her such as what furries are, what yiffing is, and that yes, plushie can describe a person rather than a stuffed toy.

My Mum is used to me being a little bit… odd, and doing things that most would consider completely fucking insane.

But she did ask why I was reading 50 Shades if it was so terrible.

And… well, a few people have asked that one. To which my only responses have been something noble and “I’m taking one for the team and doing this so you don’t have to” or the more bewildered “Well, it appears that I have a masochistic side, and this is how it presents itself.”

I tried to explain the blogging thing, and found that explaining the other series, you know, the one which has readers empathising with an interrogator who gets described as a sociopath– was a lot easier and less weird than trying to explain the 50 Shades thing.

Chapter Four of Shades reads like a terrible, horrible teenage angstfest which only has the three worst ingredients you can add to an already embarrassing scenario: alcohol, a public place, and other people. Yes, folks, Ana (who has never been drunk before) completes her exams, and in celebration of her impending waltz to the end of the line at the unemployment office (NB: this isn’t me saying that having an English Lit major isn’t going to land you a job. But having an English lit major and very little between your ears and complete naivete about the world and other people as well as being so down on yourself that you make me look like Captain Confidence isn’t screaming “EMPLOYABLE!”) decides to drink. I think this is one of those “it didn’t happen in Twilight so let’s write fanfic about it happening in Twilight” carry-overs from when Shades was called Master of the Universe or My Immortal or whatever it was.
But before all that happens, we get closure on the “will they kiss?” cliffhanger Chapter Three ended on. Spoiler time: they don’t. Grey edges towards her like he’s going to. And then not only does he not kiss her, but he tells her he’s all wrong for her. I think this is meant to pass as headfucking. You know what? Toreth from that other series I’m reading could rock up and wipe the floor clean with both of them after seducing Grey and getting him to do a whole bunch of stuff his two-dimensional no-he’s-not-gay mind wouldn’t have even imagined doing, and chuckle about it with Sara afterwards and it would be a billion times more awesome than anything between the covers of this fucking mess. (It would just be a horrible insult to The Administration, though, come to think of it. [Why, yes, I did get distracted through the chapter and I read more Mind Fuck …and a couple of volumes of Naoki Urasawa’s Monster… while I was meant to be doing this].)

Anyway, there is The Warning which follows The Kiss That Does Not Happen, and then Ana has one of those mental breakdown moments where her internal monologue sounds like someone who has endured years of emotional and psychological abuse and who resorts to blaming herself for everyone else’s shit. Seriously, it’s actually so pathetic that it is uncomfortable and makes even me go, “You know what? This isn’t even that lulzy… it’s just really sad.’

Grey, of course, realises the effect he’s had on her and starts being a bit Munchausen Syndrome on her and deciding he’s going to fix the hurt he kind of caused by, I dunno, leading the girl on to begin with.

(By this point, by the way, I hate both of them. Ana is a snivelling, pathetic loser. Grey is a wanker who seems to enjoy taunting the emotionally vulnerable just so he can play the part of the powerful mysterious protector. The only reason I can see for him to tell Ana that she doesn’t want him is to make her want him: so in addition to being a douche, he’s also using probably the simplest form of trickery known to man: I think I was about seven when I became aware of what reverse psychology was. And let’s face it: you fuck around with people who you’re aware aren’t functioning on all cylinders just to feel like a big man? Did your mother abandon you or did you start hating women after your first girlfriend made some comment about your small penis or lack of bedroom skills?

Honestly, BOTH of these people are fucked in the head, they’re both unlikeable, and they both need some serious fucking therapy. But because neither of them seem to have any redeeming qualities or even the barest hint of intelligence, I don’t care.)

Anyway, Mr. Munchasen offers his assistance to a panic-attacky, head-splodey Ana:

“Breathe, Anastasia, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” he says quietly, and he gently pushes me away.

Ana doesn’t cope too well:

Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist of the heady proximity to Christian, leaving me tired and weak.

He does that to her? He drains her energy like that? Already? Maybe Kate is right and he really is dangerous. Energy vampire preying on young virginal women?

Ana’s doing a low blood pressure thing and this is apparently all from not being kissed. I’m serious. Here she is talking about Kate– and Grey– as though they have some serious entitlement issues, and she’s then acting like he somehow owed her kisses and it’s the end of the world because it didn’t happen?

Then again, Christian Grey then invites her back to his hotel room. He doesn’t say, “Hey, you look like you’re about to faint, how about you sit down for a moment and have something to eat?” he says, “Come back to my hotel.” Dude, she’s got shit to do, and she has to study for those final exams.

Ana doesn’t so much as study as angst about how Christian Grey doesn’t want her. There is a fair bit of, as she even describes it “self-pitying, wallowing crap” to read through, where she alternates from sounding heartbroken to some weird thing where she gets the guilts about not being nicer to guys she’s not attracted to (Personal Spaceless Paul and Jose the Photographer) whom she realises are clearly attracted to her. It is a first for her, apparently, because beyond being one of the last picked for school sports, Ana has never been on the receiving end of rejection. (And why this manuscript wasn’t is still beyond me.)

Once underneath the dark cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluroscent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. Why am I crying? I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am. Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained.

Jesus fucking Christ. If he had given her some huge indication he really liked her, or he’d duped her and broken down her barriers and then been a particular brand of awful, maybe this reaction would be warranted. But, um, what? She sees him a couple of times, and he doesn’t want a relationship with her. Ana, you are being creepy and obsessive and entitled.

I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was– my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams, my soured expectations.

Sweetheart, you had rejection from a dude after you saw him, what, three times, NOT a miscarriage. Go back to the DIY shop, grab some materials, and build a fucking bridge, kiddo.

Nope, more whining.

I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on.

“Pale, skinny and scruffy” makes me think of those catwalk models doing grungy stuff. And they get to fall over and no one gives a shit about their coordination as long as they’re sufficiently pale and skinny.

She goes home, and Kate deduces that something is amiss and asks what’s wrong.

Oh no… not the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition.

God forbid her best friend see that she’s obviously been crying and ask if she’s okay.

Gotta love defensive!girlfriend Kate, though:

“What did that bastard do to you?” she growls and her face– jeez, she’s scary.

Ana explains the whole thing away as her being freaked out by the cyclist nearly knocking her over, Kate does her “I ship you and Grey” thing, Ana does her follow-on explanation about how no, he doesn’t actually like her, I start getting distracted enough to wonder if I’ve got undiagnosed ADD.

Some more self-pitying from Ana later and some encouraging from Kate which sounds awfully subtextual (Kate calls her a babe, even) and then Ana “magic[s] a smile opn [her] face” and reads over the Christian Grey article Kate’s writing. Just what you want to do after you’re hung up on a guy, but whatever. Logic and continuity aren’t exactly this book’s strong points. Ana stares at the photos of Grey and has a revelation that he’s not the man for her, because he’s too good looking and wealthy and perfect, and she nearly accepts this. Then she goes off, to sleep though she lies awake mulling over everything that happened with him, wondering if he’s “saving himself” (obviously not for her) and dreams of

gray dark eyes and leafy patterns in milk and I’m running through dark places with eerie strip lighting and I don’t know if I’m running toward something or away from it… it’s just not clear.

Neither was the purpose of yet another dream sequence, but hey.

Exam time is when Ana glances across the hall at Kate and has the wonderfully clever idea of

I might even get drunk! I’ve never been drunk before.

Obviously this is foreshadowing for wow, this is going to end badly.

Exams completed, freedom from the bondage of study attained, Kate and Ana go home, and there is a package for Ana.

There’s no return address on the package, leading Ana to wonder if it’s from her mother or stepfather, (though if that were the case, surely she’d be able to recognise their handwriting?) and Kate annoys her to open it.

Spoiler time: Remember how Twilight was full of Wuthering Heights comparisons? We get the first, presumably of many, quotes from Tess of the D’Urbervilles.

Why didn’t you tell me there was danger? Why didn’t you warn me? Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks…

Which leads me to think this is a complete divide by zero moment, since Ana is allegedly an English Lit major who is completely unware of Grey’s pedestrian attempts at engaging in mind games with her.

Oh, and they’re first editions of Tess, too. Two guesses as to who’s sent them, and the second one doesn’t count.

Ana says she’s going to send them back (where? There’s no return address, remember?) with an equally baffling quote, and Kate suggests

“The bit where Angel Clare says to fuck off?” Kate asks with a completely straight face.

“Yes, that bit.” I giggle. I love Kate; she’s loyal and supportive.

I’ll remind you of that, Ana, next time you mention inquisitions.

Anyway, they hit the bar. Jose is there and they get into the margaritas, Ana drinks five of them.

Five.

Now, um, what do we know about Ana? She’s skinny. She has never been drunk before. She hasn’t mentioned eating anything. She’s been drinking celebratory champagne with Kate prior. Five margaritas and she’s not going to be thinking, “This is not a good idea especially after that champagne,” she’s going to be thinking, “Where’s the nearest thing I can puke into and why is the room spinning?”

This is yet another one of those pissy, irritating little WTF moments which irk me irrationally because all it takes is a little research or a nudge from the editor to suggest that maybe a correction or some logic is in order for it to not be sucky. I mean, hey, we get education on standard drinks and the way the body processes alcohol. Furthermore. if the writer really is that clueless, what’s to stop her from trying a little alcoholic experimentation? And if E. L. James doesn’t drink, it’s not hard to ask around: being drunk isn’t exactly one of those weird things that hardly happens to anyone and that no one wants to talk about happening to them.

For the non-drinkers playing along, okay, an idea. I’m five-foot-two. I’m a seasoned drinker. I’m not skinny, but I seem to process alcohol quite efficiently, and since doing derby, have noticed I can drink a lot more than I could in my pre-skating days. Five margaritas, on an empty stomach, after champagne, in the space of a couple of hours would be pushing me to incoherency. Ana shouldn’t be faring that well.

Anyway, Ana’s able to hold a conversation after five margaritas and all that champagne, (something I will overlook for the moment) because Jose asks what’s going on. Ana plans to move to Seattle with Kate. Again, my ship is sailing strongly. They can move away from all this crap and all these stupid men and live happily ever after.

Jose starts getting creepy though, and when Ana says she’ll go to his photo exhibition, he gets touchy-feely and starts trying to get more alcohol into her.

So we now have another character who is completely unlikeable. Sorry, but friends don’t start trying to touch their friends and hit on them after they’re noticably drunk. They don’t continue to offer them booze. Jose has turned from Helpful Friend With a Crush into a demonstration of “Creepy consent issues alert” in the space of about three paragraphs. Yeech.

Ana decides to go to the loo and while she’s waiting, engages in some drunken dialling. Of course she dials Grey. Of course he answers.

“Anastasia?” He’s surprised to hear from me. Well frankly, I’m surprised to be calling him. Then my befuddled brain registers… how does he know it’s me?

So much of this made my poor little brain want to flee, screaming.

First off: he might not have been expecting a call outside business hours.

Secondly: why’s she surprised to be calling him? The, um, first editions of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, remember?

Thirdly: perhaps his phone displays her number when she rings, and since she’s been doing a lot of that lately, he’s recognised a familiar number (or one that isn’t on his list and he’s deduced is hers.)

“Anastasia, have you been drinking?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m …curious. Where are you?”

“In a bar.”

“Which bar?” He sounds exasperated.

“A bar in Portland.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I’ll find a way.” This conversation is not going how I expected.

Expected? Or hoped? Sheesh.

Some talk about the books. Yet again– and why do I feel like I’ll be saying this a lot?— this section could have benefited from a good editor.

“Anastasia, where are you? Tell me now.” His tone is so… so dictatorial, his usual control freak.

Wait, what?

I imagine his as an old-time movie director wearing jodhpurs, holding an old-fashioned megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud.

“You’re so domineering,” I giggle.

Oh dear.

Slightly tipsy-drunk, Ana then hangs up on him and reels about ringing Grey. Oh, and then he rings her back

“I’m coming to get you,” he says, and hangs up. Only Christian Grey could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time.

There’s more fiddling around which reminds me too much of the duller moments of my clubbing days (although there was some, you know, atmosphere in the places I used to hang out; this place could be an abandoned warehouse with someone playing chiptunes on their mobile phone for all the description we get of it), Ana gets another beer (this, kids, is why there should be education about responsible drinking– so far Ana’s committed umpteen no-nos in relation to alcohol consumption… and they seem to be committed out of complete naivete), Kate asks her about where she was, Ana decides to go outside for some fresh air.

Jose follows her. More creepiness, predictably, ensues. Going to put this out there: TRIGGER WARNING for a serious “Who gives a fuck about the drunk girl’s consent?” and “Creepy friend” issues. No, seriously, this is kind of alarming. (But I’m sure there’ll be more consent issues and alarming stuff later down the track.)

There is so much creepy in here that I really don’t know where to start. First off, we have Jose playing the concerned friend.

“Ana.” Jose has joined me. “You okay?”

“I think I’ve had a bit too much to drink.” I smile weakly at him.

“Me too,” he murmurs, and his dark eyes are regarding me intently. “Do you need a hand?” he asks and steps closer, putting his arm around me.

“Jose, I’m okay. I’ve got this.” I try to push him away rather feebly.

From sympathetic, nice-guy friend, we move to

“Ana, please,” he whispers, and now he’s holding me in his arms, pulling me close.

“Jose, what are you doing?”

“You know I like you Ana, please.”

No. No. Fucking no no no no: this is not what you do when you like someone. If you like someone: if you’re their friend, you care about something called consent. If you’re adult enough to drink, you’re adult enough to fucking well understand adult concepts like autonomy and human beings having it and the world not revolving around you and what you want.

He has one hand at the small of my back holding me against him, the other at my chin tipping back my head. Holy fuck …he’s going to kiss me.

This is where I was really wanting all that booze to spurt forth and Ana to puke on the motherfucker.

“No, Jose, stop– no.” I push him, but he’s a wall of hard muscle, and I cannot shift him. His hand has slipped into my hair, and he’s holding my head in place.

“Please, Ana, carino,” he whispers against my lips. His breath is soft and smells too sweet– or margarita and beer, He gently trails kisses along my jaw and up the side of my mouth. I feel panicky, drunk and out of control. The feeling is suffocating.

“Jose, no,” I plead. I don’t want this. You are my friend and I think I’m going to throw up.

No, sweetheart, he’s not your friend. Friends understand the word no.

Also, question: am I the only one feeling more than slightly uncomfortable about the fact that he starts speaking in Spanish when he becomes the bad guy? The rest of the cast are the WASPiest people ever, and the one who *isn’t* turns out to be the one the writer wants us all to hate because he’s outwardly depicted as a creeper. (Let’s face it, with the exception of Ray and Levi who’s been mentioned twice, ALL of the guys in this book are creepers.)

“I think the lady said no,” a voice in the dark says quietly. Holy shit! Christian Grey, he’s here. How? Jose releases me.

Ana pukes. Jose is furious and grossed out. Grey then tells Ana that if she’s going to puke again, he’ll hold her.

We get Ana waxing lyrical about the vomit. Meanwhile, I’m just sitting there, a bit shell-shocked about the whole Jose incident. Grey produces a momogrammed hankie for Ana. Ana is too busy being embarrassed (and, you know, not freaked out that a guy she thought was her friend just tried to kiss her and held her down despite her insistence of “no”) because she’s drunk and pukey and Grey’s seen this. Ana is worried about telling Jose what she thinks of him in front of Grey because that wouldn’t be– and I quote– ladylike.

Dude, the guy sexually assaulted you. You’re worried about being ladylike in response to that. I realise you’re drunk, but: um.

Jose slinks back in awkwardly.

Ana starts apologising to Grey.

Because, yep, his choice to come and collect her and then the fact that her ‘friend’ chose to assault her– totes her fault, right?

Grey then talks down to her and asks her to explain what she’s sorry for. While she’s intoxicated, probably smelling of vomit, and reeling from the new-found knowledge that her “friend” is a creep who plies women with booze and then holds them down so he can kiss them.

“We’ve all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you,” he says dryly. “It’s about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I’m all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behaviour?”

While I’m going “WTF?” might I add that the dialogue there reads like something really awkwardly translated. I’d be kinder if this book had been written in another language. As far as I know, this wasn’t. Unless it was written in 733t speak.

Ana tells him she’s never been drunk and never plans on doing it again (once again, I ask “How old is this girl?!”) and Grey decides he’ll take her home. While Ana panics about finding Kate to tell her they’re off, Grey confesses that he found her by tracking her cell phone.

This is the guy that talks about knowing limits. Um… tracking a near-stranger’s cell phone? Has gone over a number of reasonable ones.

He then gets miffed about Ana wanting to tell her friend where she is and that she’s heading off. Again, creepy.

There’s some more predictable clubby drama where Kate is dancing and the boy who likes her is miffed because Grey’s in the house, and Ana has feelings and huge bodily reactions, Jose is mysteriously absent, and Ana is all embarrassed about the night’s events again, Grey forcefully gets her to drink some water, and in amongst all of this she describes Grey’s outfit in stark clarity and then they dance. And Grey can totally dance.

Oh, and Elliot, Grey’s brother who I knew was totally going to resurface, rocks up and Kate starts making the moves on him and my Kate/Ana shipper goes, “Yeah, well the girl got jealous, right?” and once again, their story is totally more interesting than the thing I’m meant to be shipping.

Anyway, all that puking and dancing and apologising is draining, and she passes out in Grey’s arms and he swears.

How fucking romantic, right?

Mind Fuck, Manna Francis; Chapter Three

I’m going to make something clear, if it wasn’t prior to this: I like Toreth. I get where he’s coming from a lot of the time—and not just when he’s being a BAMF, either—and I love seeing his little intricacies when he’s just going about his business. Like me, he people-watches.

And his people-watching makes it easier for the narrative to give the reader an idea of what’s happening in his world. Like, well, now.

He’s at a lecture, watching the head of a small—but successful company discuss their product and its application in the real world. While many of the attendees seem to be computer people—or other corporate people—Toreth recognises a few of “his own” amongst the audience. (Even that was something that amused me: I don’t know how true it is for other professions, but I can generally pick people in my line of work when I’m out and about.)

Toreth’s reasons for being there aren’t quite the standard “work sent me as a representative,” (OMFG; work-related conferences…) rather it seems that he has interest—and initiative in the idea of a machine that might somehow make his job—or an aspect of it, at least—redundant. Not that he believes that, but still.

The company is Simtech, the product is the Sim. An impressive virtual reality machine designed to replicate places, smells, sounds, feelings, sensation and everything else that a user would think of as reality. My first thought, when I heard about it was, “Where would I want to go?” When I realised that it was a day in my life which was more than a decade ago now, I started considering how seductive a fake reality could be… and how while that would be insanely fucking awesome, it could have some serious social problems in the longterm.

Toreth isn’t at the presentation because of that, though: his consideration isn’t about how the Sim could replicate fantasy, but rather how it could convince his, er, subjects, into compliance. While for him there’s a very unlikely but still imaginable threat of his job being turned over to a machine, there’s also the somewhat horrifying idea of what virtual reality could be convincing a subject of. Ever had one of those nightmares where someone is hurting someone you care about—or forcing you to? Ever had one of those nightmares where you can’t stop something? What about the ones where you feel suspended forever with some hideous reality which was so believable that you wake up and it takes a strong coffee and a walk around the house to realise that yes, you still have a house, and no, no one’s kidnapped your children.

Then come ideas about suggestability in an interview or interrogation process. Imagine having virtual reality to add to your toolbox if you’re doing the questioning. Scared yet?

And this is where we meet Dr. Keir Warrick.

We don’t get a full descriptive blast of the man immediately: initially he’s at a distance and is indistinguishable dark hair and a smart suit, the next thing grabbing Toreth’s attention being his voice:

Good voice, Toreth thought. Overarticulates. Sign of a control freak.

Nicely spotted, Toreth.

He smiled. He enjoyed control freaks—it gave him something to take away.

And therein lies the challenge and the initial interest. It’s not that Warrick is pretty or intensely staring across a room or that he’s loaded or that he makes him feel like a natural what-the-fuck-ever—it’s that he’s a control freak and a challenge and he’s involved with something somewhat interesting. (Or that somewhere, deep down, what he does is seen on some subconscious level by Toreth as a threat which needs to be studied and neutralised.)

A new voice attracted Toreth’s attention. “Are you aware of the recent review in the Journal of Re-education Research which discusses the potential applications of simulation in the field of psychoprogramming?”

Toreth’s eyes narrowed. Mentioning a restricted-circulation journal in public wasn’t a clever move. He looked around for the speaker. There. A university type, earnest and obviously dangerously idealistic.

God. Combine the little that we know about Psychoprogramming (when even people trying to access using the procedure on their detainees and subjects are calling it “mind fuck” you know it’s pretty bad) and now this, and Mr. Idealistic Bright-Eyed-Bushy-Tailed-Save-the-World type is poking a wasp’s nest, isn’t he? Especially when it’s mentioned that he’s referred to a classified publication: the previous chapter referred to an industry-specific newspaper being contraband in the workplace…. But this sort of stuff? I can imagine the type of guy mentioning it, too: someone who wants to show how bright he is and how switched on and aware he is, someone possibly hoping for a bit of a debate to demonstrate how smart he is in front of an audience.

On that note, too: there probably is a journal like that out there. Not long ago, there was an FBI report released in a we-hardly-ever-do-this-but-here’s-a-one-off in regards to, and I quote—the science of interrogation. (I suppose “art” has an almost cartoon bad guy evil flair to it. Science makes it sound more serious and professional.)

The man continued, with the delightful addition of the academic’s touch of distancing himself from a dangerous opinion. “I have heard it described as potentially the most effective tool of oppression since memory blocking.” Toreth upgraded his assessment from “idealistic” to “death wish.” He had far better things to do than report the man, but even in the sheltered university environment there were doubtless others with both the time and the inclination.

Warrick responds diplomatically, though later we learn his true feelings about the situation of the world around them and about what goes on at I&I.

He sounded disapproving, although Toreth couldn’t tell whether  of the question or the questioner. “I am aware of the paper referred to. All I can say is that it is not an area SimTech plans to exploit, but I have no more power over how the technology may be used in the more distant future than I do over the opinions of the questioner’s acquaintances.”

And here, we learn a bit more about the relationship between the Administration and the private corporations who are still very much bound by—and regulated by—and utilised by—the Administration:

The Administration had the power to compel the licensing of new developments to the appropriate departments—the balancing factor was that the corporates as a block had the political clout to ensure that the Administration provided substantial compensation. In this case, Toreth could think of half a dozen highly useful applications without even trying; the interdepartmental fighting over budgets would be spectacular.

I… think I like this relationship. It seems a bit healthier than big business paying off politicians and getting to do what they want. Yeah, the Administration might be oppressive and totalitarian and paranoid, but it beats the idea of political parties being owned by big business and doing their bidding and making people believe what they want them to, from my point of view. *shrugs*

The talk about ethics and the Sim continues, and Warrick wraps things up like a boss. Toreth still hangs around, though.

And then he starts talking to him. And this is where we get a closer look at Warrick:

The man turned his head. Impassive dark eyes looked at him out of a face dominated by high cheekbones, too much nose, and the most beautiful mouth Toreth had ever seen on a man.

Light is on, trap is set, ladies and gentlemen.

And so, they start talking. Deciding not to reveal where he’s from—it seems that most of the rest of the world in their time are just as uncomfortable about the idea of a governmental interrogation department as ours are—Toreth smoothly uses a fake name, not bothering to mention where he’s from.

“You have an interest in computer sim technology then. What business are you in?”

“Not business, Doctor. Government.” Toreth gave the man a smile of his own.

“Ah. Are you hoping to license from us, Mr. Toth? If you are, I’m afraid you’ll have to make an official approach to SimTech. Or are you simply a civil servant out on a career development activity during his lunch hour?”

“I’m neither. Just interested in the topic, that’s all.”

“People are generally interested for a reason.”

“Of course. It has a bearing on what I do for a living. I fuck minds,” Toreth said pleasantly.

I love this. I love this exchange so so much that it makes me want to squee. We get so much about both of them here; while it looks like it’s more about Toreth revealing things—Warrick is demonstrating that he’s pretty damned shrewd when it comes to getting answers out of people when they don’t want to give them. He’s just doing it with a corporate-professional smoothness, in the same way that he handled the idealist’s questions during the presentation.

“I see.” Warrick took a sip of his drink, his expression calculating.

“Neurosurgeon? No. You didn’t introduce yourself as Dr. Toth. Socioanalyst, perhaps, if you were more…” He thought for a moment, his fascinating smile flickering and dying again. “Arrogant,” he said, finally.

Toreth’s smile grew. Lack of arrogance wasn’t something he’d been accused of before.

Warrick looked Toreth up and down, obviously appraising him with care. “Para-investigator, maybe,” Warrick said.

Hehehe. Awesome.

Toreth laughed, delighted. “Not even close. I study brain biochemistry at the Pharmacology Division of the Department of Medicine. I saw the announcement of your lecture and decided to attend.” Toreth leaned closer, glad he’d put in a little research before he came to the seminar. “I read your paper on preliminary computer sim in Neuromanipulation some years ago. Groundbreaking work, Doctor.”

Warrick tilted his head a fraction, considering. “That journal was not circulated to the general public.”

“No,” said Toreth, giving him a just-enough-teeth smile. “It wasn’t.”

“I see. You fuck minds,” Warrick said evenly. He put his glass down on the buffet.

And this is the point where Toreth decides that he’s going to get down with the guy. And this is the bit where I go, “Yanno, even this far into things, it’s still a better love story than Twilight AND 50 Shades.” Not to mention a hell of a lot hotter.

And when someone else rocks up to talk to Warrick, Toreth starts planning things, getting in contact with Sara, and asking her to find him a room where his fake name would take a corporate.

I love that Sara knows exactly what he’s up to, too, by the way. And that they have this down to a fine art. Sara suggests a hotel, finds a room, gets it though the department’s expenses, gives Toreth a moment to confirm with Warrick, and then books the room when confirmation is confirmed.

Who else wants a Sara in their life?

Before the date, he does a little background research into Dr. Warrick; re-reading about his basic stats on paper make me smile; it’s old nostalgic stuff realising that the names of his parents and siblings will have importance down the track, and that Toreth hasn’t even realised it at this stage.

And then he decides to read over his clearance file. It’s a bit more confidential and creepy than doing a Google search or looking someone up on FaceBook, but hey (does anyone think Warrick would have his settings on Public, anyway?)

Just at the end, we get a somewhat ominous—though intriguing—close. Warrick starts doing a little research of his own. He’s realised that he was talking to a fake identity… though the outer package was quite attractive, and he wants to know just what was going on. He’s narrowed it down somewhat, deciding Toreth is

[…]an ethically challenged Administration minion who had nothing better to do with his afternoon than sniff out new ways of hurting people. And hand out his hotel number to strangers.

And yet he can’t let it go. He realises he’s found someone who plays games and who’s been playing one with him. And he wants to see him again.

And all of this makes me one happy little person.

50 Shades of Grey; E. L. James: Chapter Three

Something really awkward has started happening to me with 50 Shades of Grey. People have noticed it in close proximity to my person, and have asked the inevitable, “Are you reading it?”

And then I say, “Yeah, well…” and feel like I need to explain. And then I hear that they’re fans of the book. And therein lies the awkwardness: I’m not sure what to say because that’s fine, if people like this stuff, that’s their prerogative, but, um, I really don’t. And I don’t know how to say, “I’m finding it arduous and horrible and that’s when I’m not cringing with pity for the writer whose editor doesn’t know when to say enough” without being, well, offensive.

And then part of me longs to say, “Um, there’s, like, a bazillion better porny titles I could recommend to you,” but I realise it’s probably a little bit odd to recommend porn to people whom you work with.

 

So, anyway, onto chapter three. Still no inner goddesses and badsex. What does happen, though, is as follows:

 

Kate gets all excited about not having to use stock photos of Grey for her article and gets convinced that this is the start of a beautiful thing between Ana and Grey. Meanwhile, I spend far too much time wondering if there is a grammatical error and there should be a question mark after Kate says “[…] The question is, who’s going to do them and where.”

 

Then I realise I’m in editor mode, that it doesn’t matter because the horse has well and truly bolted, and I’m sure there will be more head-tiltingly “WTF was that?” moments so I probably don’t need to get hung up on this one.

Paul, Ana’s touchy-feely-workmate, wanders in and tells Kate to GTFO the phone and actually do some work, and then asks her all about Grey. He then asks her out again. Ana turns him down, which is probably the only thing she’s going to do in the entire series that I agree isn’t mind-crushingly stupid, because Paul, despite his all-American boy-next-door looks, connection to the boss and Ivy league attendance, comes across as a world-class creep with Nice Guy Syndrome. Especially when he tells her—after what I’d consider The Most Obvious Hint Ever (beyond “Dude, I’ve been living with a girl for four years and I haven’t dated any dudes in all the time you’ve known me which is longer than that, and I make her soup when she gets sick and I know what type of mood she’s in by what pyjamas she’s wearing…”)

“Ana, one of these days you’ll say yes.”

(To which, my reply, were I in Ana’s shoes would be something along the lines of, “I might be saying, “Yes, Your Honour, I do understand that stabbing him forty-three times  in the throat and genitals looks like overkill, but he would not fucking take no for an answer.” Ana doesn’t say anything like this, though.)

 

Anyway, they line up the photography shoot with Jose, Kate pretty much bullying him into it even though the poor kid explains that he doesn’t take portrait photos, but architectural ones. But Jose shouldn’t have any issues: there’s probably more life in your average skyscraper than there is in Grey, and a hell of a lot more warmth.

Ana then calls Grey, at Kate’s insistence. Ana does that panic-attack One Direction fangirl freakout thing she’s been doing every other time she interacts with Grey, and has to remind herself to breathe. Maybe when these two finally have sex, the shock will actually kill her.

(And then everything will go all Body of Evidence and it’ll have fake face-slaps and terrible acting and oh god how many times have I come up with plot which would turn this book around into an awesomely camp crime thriller?)

Ahem.

Grey agrees to the photo shoot, at the hotel he’s staying at.

“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy—like a child, not a grown woman who can vote and legally drink in the state of Washington.

God, that felt awkward. For one thing, yes, Ana does sound like a child—well, an angsty teenager in the throes of awkwardness, and for another, children don’t sound gushing and breathy. “Gushing” I associate with sycophants and people on various stimulants, and “breathy” I associate with phone sex operators giving you a five-bucks-a-minute description of the clothing they’ll supposedly be removing in the next five-bucks-a-minute. Neither of these things bring to mind children.

I don’t know why we get the Washington reference, unless it’s to illustrate that E. L. James has actually researched at least something about the location where her  characters are about to do their thing.

“I look forward to it, Miss Steele.” I visualise the wicked gleam in his eyes. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalising promise?

 

How can someone make one sentence sound like it’s been in and out of several languages through Google Translate? And what the fuck is such a tantalising promise about “I look forward to it”? Unless there’s something implied in “photoshoot for an article” that my twisted little mind has managed not to decrypt. And trust me, I’ve spent more than ten years in fandom, so it’s likely that I’ve come across most euphemisms or mind-going-bad-places scenarios. But this? I got nothin’.

Kate goes all fangirly-squeeish and starts playing armchair psychologist and posting that she ships Grey/her bestie all over online business discussion groups and is disproportionately excited about the fact that Ana likes a boy. Perhaps Kate’s found a girl who is nice and intelligent and non-irritating and is trying to slip off to the side and wants Ana to truly be happy so that’s why she’s so insanely excited. Or someone’s given her some Es.

 

“Anastasia Rose Steele! You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so… so… affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.”

“Oh Kate, you know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. She blinks at me with surprise—I rarely throw hissy fits—and I briefly relent. “I just find him …intimidating, that’s all.”

 

So much awkward in that paragraph. I actually typed it out differently, realising that I was playing beta reader once again, and had to go back and redo it verbatim. Oops.

A couple of points on this stuff, too: Is Kate’s opinion of this guy and their relationship really that important? Ana/Kate shipping aside (though I’m honestly wondering if there will be an Ana/Kate/Grey threesome down the track and this is a subtle lead-in to that*) who really gives a fuck whether Kate is cheering and popping champagne or sulking in a corner about it? I get a sense of recreated author experiences here: did E. L. James long for that uber-supportive friend who encouraged her and cheered her on with relationships like that? All this Kate-fangirling-Ana/Grey stuff is really starting to feel like that.

Also: how many people react like, well, this, about someone they find intimidating? Someone as nervy as Ana would most likely go into preservation retreat mode rather than Call Me Maybe mode. “Intimidated by” is a crappy excuse, and it seems out of place here. Even if she’d said something cheesy like “I just find him interesting/intriguing/fascinating” or something even worse like “He makes my heart race and my libido soar to the heavens,” that would have been at least more relevant than “intimidated by.”

 

I am restless that night, tossing and turning, dreaming of smoky grey eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places.

I feel like keeping a dream diary of Ana’s nightmare-fuelly dreams which are meant to sound symbolic and deep but which instead come across as unintentionally terrifying. Whether they’re meant to or not: it’s like when some idiotic parent decides that because it’s “a cartoon,” there’s nothing wrong with their six year old watching The Wall or Perfect Blue or some of the more surreal Studio Ghibli stuff, and then the poor kid spends ages trying to make sense of what they’ve encountered and can only come up with strange whimpering noises and the desire to keep their eyes open all the damned time. (Honest, I actually did know someone who was completely freaked out by Pink Floyd music until she was in her early twenties thanks to Mum and Dad assuming that the animation in The Wall made the movie kid-friendly.)

Think about it for a second: Ana’s dreams are scary, in that abstract, disconnected kind of fearful way where you don’t know what’s going on and you’re feverishly wondering whether you’re hot or cold or why the room is shrinking or if you somehow ingested magic mushrooms. And the addition of coveralls just adds to the effect for some reason.

I’m really unnerved by the dreams. Then again, I haven’t gotten to the book’s sex scene yet. I’m sure I’ll be okay.

 

Anyway, morning after, they drive to the hotel. For some reason (which is later revealed to be a continuity assistant), the group of them arrive in Ana’s car, with Kate taking her own car because apparently everyone won’t fit in Ana’s car. (Presumably they’ll all fit in Kate’s, which makes the greenie and miser in me go, “Why the fuck don’t they just all go in Kate’s car?” but who gives a fuck about pollution, natural resources and the cost of fuel when… I don’t know. Seriously: name me a uni student who isn’t freaking out about the cost of living and pulling all sorts of stops out to save money.)

Some dude called Travis comes along to help out too. Yawn. More arduous description of shit that doesn’t really matter, and they arrive at the hotel. Kate apparently dazzles the hotel staff with her beauty and gets better service because this is what blondes do. For some reason, a young, nervous marketing executive shows them up to the room (why have hotel staff when you can have marketing execs wait on you, right?) and we get more extraneous bullshit and Kate starts bossing everyone around. Or asking everyone to do their bit in getting this photo shoot happening because presumably otherwise they’d stand around like stunned mullets.

Some foreshadowing (or Ana/Kate suggestion) from Ana:

Yes mistress. She is so domineering. I roll my eyes but do as I’m told.

Ana has a type, it seems.

 

Grey shows up, resembling something from a Calvin Klein print ad, Ana ogles, and a bodyguard with stubble and a buzzcut (presumably another guy to fall for Ana?) arrives on the scene.

“Miss Steele, we meet again.”

No fucking shit, Captain Obvious.

Grey extends his hand, and I shake it, blinking rapidly.

Warning: this hunk of estrogen-bait may cause seizures.

And then we get this:

Oh my… he really is quite…

Hands up who didn’t hear that “Oh my” in George Takei’s voice? I am ruined. Ruined, I tells you.

We never find out quite what Grey is, but it’s probably smooth and dark and melty and unexplored like fudge chocolate coveralls or some fucking thing anyway, and it doesn’t matter because Ana is having a reaction that’s kind of, um, electric.

As I touch his hand, I’m aware of that delicious current running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic breathing must be audible.

Zzzzap. Mosquito, meet bug zapper.

 

Kate gets introduced to Grey (and my editorial hat comes back on and I’m mentally striking red pen through some more of this book) and Ana admits to being in awe of Kate for her apparent confidence. Basically, Kate doesn’t turn into a gibbering fangirl or have an epileptic fit when she is in close proximity to Grey, therefore she is to be awed.

Jose and Grey (hey, their names rhyme!) meet, and it’s like watching two stags sizing one another up before the tangling of antlers and the wrestle for dominance and the inevitable transferred-emotions not-quite-hatesex that happens—oh, pardon me, I was just trying to make this more interesting—and Grey sits down and poses. Ana gets to ogle him close up.

 

There is some weirdness which I can only hope is homoerotic subtext happening between Jose and Grey, but which is probably some sort of “Both of us are in love with the same girl,” bullshitty Twilight thing, and then Grey walks out, deciding that he has to ask Ana out for a coffee because as well as having the power to run an empire, cause epileptic seizures, and reduce an English Lit student to the sort of prose a ten year old would come out with, he’s also the king of subtlety and discretion. He then offers to get his bodyguard to drive the others home. Ana says no. More time for the red pen.

Then…

Grey smiles a dazzling, unguarded, natural, all-teeth-showing, glorious smile. Oh my…

Sorry, there I was about to say “Cram some more adjectives in there, Ms. James,” and George Takei’s voice took over. A peverse part of my brain wants to see “Oh my” pop up in the sex scenes now.

 

Grey lets her into some room where the others are, Kate gushes more about how Grey loves her (is this in front of Grey or what?) and then Ana asks Kate about the car situation.

“Christian Grey asked me to go for coffee with him.”

Her mouth pops open. Speechless Kate! I savor the moment. She grabs me by the arm and drags me into the bedroom that’s off the living area of the suite.

“Ana, there’s something about him.” Her tone is full of warning. “He’s gorgeous, I agree, but I think he’s dangerous. Especially for someone like you.”

By this point, I’m laughing out loud. I’m hoping that Kate will admit that she just got some of the photos developed and there was no image of Grey in them or something awesomely supernatural like that, but the next line is actually funnier:

“What do you mean, someone like me?” I demand, affronted.

“An innocent like you, Ana. You know what I mean,” she says a little irritated.

 

So much to say here. My first thought was “Fuck, how old is Ana?” followed by “Is this some sort of 1950s euphemistic thing about sex?” And why is Kate, previously captain of the SS GreySteele, now so freaked out by the idea?

 

Anyway, even though she hates coffee, they do coffee. Ana has more physical reactions to Grey’s presence, there’s small talk, some elevator awkwardness (again, red pen time) and he holds her hand for four entire blocks as they try to find a coffee shop.

There is awkwardness over ordering beverages.

 

I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes […]

ARRRGH. Well where the fuck else is she going to be be gazing from? Her navel? Furthermore, unless she doesn’t have bottom eye lashes, or her upper ones are so enormous that she’s aware of the fact that she’s looking out from underneath them, just NO NO NO NO.

At least we get another “Oh my.” (Can someone PLEASE ask George Takei to do a reading of this book if he’s got the time and the humour to do so? I realise it’s a big ask, and I mean the man no offense, but seriously, people…)

Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmmm… I’d like to do that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again, not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.

 

Did I miss something? The girl’s looked at a dude she’s clearly sexually attracted to, and thought, “Yeah, I’d tap that,” and she’s having a guilt meltdown about thinking about this? Strict Catholic household with guilt about sex instilled from a young age stuff? Fundamentalist Christian upbringing about how sex is the devil tempting you and that women aren’t meant to think about sex unless their husbands do? I don’t fucking know, and to be honest, I don’t fucking care, either. Let’s just get to the end of the chapter.

They drink tea and coffee (more arduous description which would put Tolkien to shame), and Grey asks if Jose is Ana’s boyfriend.

Randomly.

After Ana’s said that she likes her tea black and weak.

 

I don’t even…

Ana watches his finger because it’s apparently fascinating watching him peel a muffin wrapper from a muffin. Grey says she seems nervous around men. Grey is a fuckwit. It’s mean to prey on the emotionally vulnerable and obviously weak. I don’t like Ana, but I don’t actually derive any pleasure from seeing Grey being a jerk, either. He’s not even a cool jerk.

 

“I find you intimidating.” I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath.

“You should find me intimidating.” He nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look down, I like to see your face.”

Oh. I glance at him and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile.

“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” he breathes. “You’re a mystery, Miss Steele.”

 

I laughed here. I felt guilty and mean for doing so, but I did. Um, Ana, sweetie, he’s sizing you up. You’re not being flattered, you’re being interrogated. And even when he’s being so hopelessly obvious, you’re still in fucking la-la land and—look—I’m sorry—it’s really hard to have any empathy or desire to identify with someone this fucking moronic.   

 

More blushing from Ana, creepiness from Grey, unsubtle foreshadowing (“I’m used to getting my own way, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “In all things.”) and Ana suddenly deciding to challenge him. He’s warning her of, so she goes after him.

 

Oh, Ana, this is like, the oldest game in the book. It’s probably in the fucking Bible. Or hieroglyphs scratched onto some pyramid somewhere. Seriously, girlie, I am socially inept and even I’m aware that you’re being played, badly, like an out-of-tune instrument.

She asks him about why he doesn’t ask her to call him by his first name. (They’ve met three times. They’ve met personally, what, once? It is not like they’re fucking. Next thing she’ll be asking why he’s not calling her his girlfriend or something.)

“The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That’s the way I like it.”

 

Wow. I mean, um, wow. The guy has friends?

 

Oh. He still hasn’t said “Call me Christian.” He is a control freak, there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Kate had interviewed him. Two control freaks together. Plus, of course, she’s almost blonde—well, strawberry blonde—like all the women in his office. And she’s beautiful, my subconscious reminds me. I don’t like the idea of Christian and Kate.

 

Okay, um, now who’s being the control freak? Who’s throwing a hissy fit in spite of her previous declaration of rarely throwing hissy fits? Who seems to have some serious resentment towards her best friend, too, while we’re at it?

He asks about her family life. She obliges and tells him. It’s complicated and boring. He taunts her about not giving much away. She gets some information about his family—there are Grey siblings, presumably important to the plot somewhere down the track—and there’s some talk about travel.

He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip… oh my.

Nope, George Takei’s voice hasn’t dulled in my mind no matter how many times I see this phrase.

 

It all comes to an abrupt, painless end when Ana remembers, after hinting that she’d really like to go to England, that she’s got study to do. Grey walks her out to the hotel, and there’s some awkward questioning (“Do you always wear jeans?”)

“Do you have a girlfriend?” […]

“No, Anastasia, I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” he says softly.

 

Ding-ding-ding, and YOU, Ana, you lucky thing, get to be the super-magical exception! Hooray! Or not.

 

Ana demonstrates her uniquely Bella Swann clumsiness and nearly stumbles headfirst into traffic, to which Grey grabs her and swears and

It all happens so fast—one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms and he’s holding me tightly against his chest. I inhale his clean, wholesome scent. He smells of freshly laundered linen and some expensive body wash. It’s intoxicating.

 

 

The scent geek in me is scowling, because when you’re writing you can do so fucking much with scent in order to evoke a mood and feeling and a description of a character. “Freshly laundered linen” doesn’t suggest myseterious, dangerous and creepy, or expensive and hard to pin down and tumultuous. I get that Grey wears expensive fragrance, or uses expensive body wash: but what does that smell like? Is it mature, sophisticated woods with something crisp and alive? Is it old-fashioned, serious gentlemanly charm? Is it manufactured yuppie crispness that’s hard to pin down but ultimately without much authenticity or substance or fucking what?  Again, editor mode here: you have senses which you can evoke and play on to the reader, and scent is one of them. It’s the first one many living creatures develop, and believed to be the last one to leave us as we’re dying. Smells can evoke all sorts of triggers and memories and if done well… well, why the fuck am I talking about that, this was just like taking a cheap gimmicky way out.

Then there’s this:

“Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand slowly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and his breath hitches.

Remember, this is after one coffee. This guy has more freaky lack-of-personal space issues than that dude Ana works with who keeps touching her and asking her to go out with him.

 

Anyway, they stare into one another’s eyes, and surprise, surprise, she realises that she wants him to kiss her. Whouda thunk it? I know: I was surprised, too.

Anyway, I think that was meant to be a cliffhanger ending or something.  

 

 
 
* NB: I haven’t read spoilers which have mentioned it, but if there is Ana/Grey/Kate ness, hey, I called that shit.