Sunday, August 26

Fifty Shades Bullshit in Rhyming Couplets

I thought we'd change it up a little bit this week.

If you'd like to listen along (the audio quality isn't the best, but it gets a lot better about have way through), there that option too.


Upload MP3 and download MP3 using free MP3 hosting from Tindeck.



Ode to Ms. Steele and Mr. Grey, Chapters Seventeen through Twenty

with love, for E.L. James

Christian sleeps over post-coital, at Ana's
She awakes to his stifling body cabana;
He's late for a meeting and bolts in a rush,
Send e-mails at work, words evoking a blush.

Ana has some misgivings, so writes Christian the following:
"That was hot, but the guilt and the shame is so troubling,
I like you, and the sex, maybe even the pain
But I'm not sure I'm up for this power exchange."

She talks of the spanking, calls "assault" and "abuse,"
(words quite correct for young Ana to choose),
But Grey brushes it off with sly, stylish flirtation
Leaving Ana to ponder her Goddess' elation.

She's confused, but won't take her subconscious' advice,
And the prize of young Christian comes at quite a price,
Because kink isn't something to relish or savor,
But a toll to be paid for the grace of Grey's favor.

So Ana and Kate finish up with the packing
José brings some Thai food, they get with the snacking
Careless, Ana leaves e-mail and phone unattended,
And Grey likes a much tighter leash (pun intended).
He phones after a time, wondering what she's been up to,
He isn't too pleased; this behavior won't do.

Ana placates him sweetly, as oft' times she does,
They say goodnight, cooing like teenager doves.
She moves to Seattle, the perfect apartment
(How it's afforded conveniently absent)
Mr. Grey sends a gift, the playful tycoon;
It's champagne with a helicopter balloon.

*

In the morning, to Grey's house, to fulfill her role,
Then a doctors appointment to talk birth control
The choice: mini-pill! Progesterone prevention,
(Affects on her sex drive or mood aren't mentioned).

They've still not agreed on what boundaries need setting
And the contract lies empty; they just keep forgetting,
Ana toys with him, flirting "I haven't signed yet..."
He growls "But surely, you will, I would bet."

They're unclear and unsafe, but no matter, who cares!
Open negotiations don't have any flare!
Let's go play without them, it'll probably be fine!
Better yet, loosen up with a bottle of wine!

Light bondage goes down in the Red Room of Pain
Ana hung from the rafters with leather and chain,
She orgasms easy with only a crop,
He hits at her clit with sharp little pop!
(Because it's always that easy to come, don't you know?
Who needs foreplay or warm ups when Christian's your beau?)
Afterward, shaken, he binds up her wrists
Slipping zip-ties around them, 'cause that's super slick
Don't consider nerve damage or bottoming risks
This is sex, people! Fuck all that bored safety shit!
They do again, Goddess fucked to the floor
(Ana's words: "she puts a 'don't disturb sign' on her the door"),
Swept up in his arms, personalities multiple,
Ana drifts off to sleep, irresponsibly gullible.

She awakes after napping to find herself drawer-less
And hurries (she's meeting the parents) to dress
Her underwear missing, she finally figures
They'll be with Christian, per their kinky adventures.

Two can play that game, she quietly jokes,
And ventures commando to go meet his folks.
They're charming and rich, true Grey's to the core
House large, staffed with servants, though sort of a bore.
Entertaining themselves, they pay a brief visit
To the boathouse, where things progress quickly explicit,
Christian fucks Ana, no foreplay or prep
And just as they've finished, a creak squeaks on the step,
They're almost discovered, his sister sister bursts in,
"We're just admiring my trophies," he grins.

*

Tension, discussion, the way home in the car,
On what boundaries will govern, where to go and how far
Ana wants to know all of him, wants inside his head,
She wants "more," hearts and flowers, not just rooms painted red,
But at home, talks forgotten, their genitals swell,
And more sex ensues without further intel.

Oh Ana, now it's not just Christian who's toying
But you too, always so playfully cloying,
Will she or won't she or when will she sign?
Because until she does, it's just zip ties that bind,
No code, no sure boundaries, or rules for their play,
Just a love territory still dangerously grey.
And maybe there's hope to reform him, for normal,
For something without all this red leather formal.
Each of them hoping the other will waiver
Oh E.L., could you write a more fucked up endeavor?

*

I wish I could play them a favorite song
To illustrate all the ways this will go wrong,
Because whether you whip or you flog or you spank,
You can take OK GO's lyrics straight down to the bank:

There ain't much that's dumber, there ain't much that's dumber,
Than pinning your hopes on a change in another.

That goes for you too, Christian Grey, Anastasia,
Get your heads out of sand, 'cause the fall's not what kills ya,
It's not gonna work, or if it does, it's abusive...
But far be it for me to be so intrusive.

Go on with your story, I can't wait for the end,
What's next from Ms. James and her fabulous friends?

Saturday, August 25

Fifty Shades of How About Some Bullet Points

This chapter-by-chapter is getting difficult, so we're gonna go with a shortened version today. Just the facts. Cut and dry. Clean and simple. Insert more clichés here, because I know James would!

Chapter Fourteen

  • Ana graduates from college and introduces her Dad to Christian (who is wearing the tie he's tied her up with, while he gives her graduation speech). They talk about fishing. It's a man thing, ya know.
  • Ana agrees to be Christian's submissive, per the re-negotiated terms from Chapter Thirteen, and a negotiation of soft limits. She does this in public, just after walking at her graduation, which of course sets her Inner Multiple Personalities a twitter: "What have you done? my subconscious screams at me. My inner goddess is doing backflips in a routine worthy of a Russian Olympic gymnast."
  • Ana e-mails back and forth with Christian, at which point he comes over.
Chapter Fifteen
  • Ana tries to give back the über expensive books Christian bought her. He wont take them, so she decides to donate them charity. He doesn't like this, so she says she'll think about it.
  • Christian deliberately gets Ana drunk before they go through soft limits (he actually says: "Drink up, let's talk about these limits")
  • Because (in his words) "Because you overthink everything... A drop of wine in you, and you start talking, and I need you to communicate honestly with me. Otherwise you clam up, and I have no idea what you're thinking" (Because liquor brings out the real Anastasia, right?)
  • He tells her he hopes she'll never have to use her safewords. Which, while it might seem (like the rest of the book) to be a good thing, just re-inforces his macho, clariboyant crapola.
  • He buys her a brand new Audi to replace her silly little bug. She doesn't want to take it, but convinces herself otherwise, and accepts it as a loan.
  • To James' credit, Christian agrees to try some regular, boyfriend-type stuff with Ana one night a week.
  • They have sexy sex, with Ana putting on the condom for the first time, expertly. They cum simultaneously, once again.
Chapter Sixteen
  • He spanks her, first punishment ever. It seems like maybe she sort of wants to get out of it, but doesn't (for what reason we don't know, but it's a little bit scary):
"From somwhere deep inside, I want to bed him to stop. But I don't"
  • She still hasn't signed the contract, so in theory, there's no safeword going on. SERIOUS SPANKING WITH NO SAFEWORD. This actually made me really skeezed out, more legitimately than anything in the book. 
  • He informs her she needs to take care of contraception, because he "hates wearing these things" [condoms].
  • They have sex again, cuddle, and he leaves.
  • She falls apart, has misgivings, all the classic signs of sub dropping. She tells him, via e-mail, and he comes back to the apartment, chastising her for not telling him she felt this way. Because it's her fault, totally, even though she knows nothing about pain, punishment, or how it will affect her, at all.
  • They talk about the spanking, and she says "I didn't like it. I'd rather you didn't do it again."
  • To this he replies "you weren't meant to like it."
  • No further discussion of whether or not it will happen again.
  • The fall asleep.
It's really, really gross. I think it's just going to get grosser. So, to make myself feel better, here are some lists of what Ana's inner-whatchamacallits have done in these chapters:

Her subconscious is able to: 
  • snark
  •  glare (over "wing shaped spectables" - because it's a harpy, get it?)
  • snap at her
  • scream
  • mouth words at her
  • run
  • scream again
  • hide behind a couch
  • go into shock
  • peek from behind said couch
  • "register shock on her harpy face," (I thought it was just the winged-shaped glassed?
  • hide her head behind her hands
  • remark bitterly
  • contribute snidely to her musings
  •  
Her Inner Goddess is able to:

  • be "not pleased."
  • bounce up and down like a small child waiting for ice cream
  • pant
  • roar
  • look like someone snatched her ice cream
  • plead
  • be prostrate
  • stare openmouthed

Worst Sentence Second Runner Up!

"I am momentarily distracted from my night of the soul."

Worst Sentence First Runner Up!

"My subconscious makes an unwelcome vitriolic return."

Worst Sentence Winner!

"I turn to my pillow and the sluice gates open."

[I had to look it up too - it means an artificial water passage. I'm sure I've seen a more obvious use of a thesaurus, but I sure can't think of it right now]

Fifty Shades: The Negotiation

So, I'm devoting an entire post to Chapter Thirteen. We finally, finally get down to negotiating the contract. Let's do this.

It's starts with an exchange of e-mails. Ana sends Mr. Grey the points of the contract she's worried about (it's a great e-mail, actually). He responds to her with a dictionary definition of the word "submissive," and while he says he's looking forward to talking with her, the implication is pretty clear (namely, that the issues are all fine, but she better remember what being a real submissive means). He writes, post-definition, "Please bear this in mind for our meeting on Wednesday."

Because even thought they've agreed on nothing, and Ana knows pretty much nothing about this world, she's still expected to want, act, look, the part. That's how this works, right?

Ana sends him back a definition of the word "compromise," and never have I ever liked her better. He tells her it's a good point, and then they squabble about how they're going to meet up. She wants to drive, he wants to pick her up. In negotiating her transportation, Mr. Grey reminds her of the definition of submissive, and asks "Do you ever think you'll be able to do what you're told."

Yeah, maybe she will be. AFTER SHE'S TOLD YOU THAT IT'S WHAT SHE WANTS TO DO.

The whole exchange breeds a creepy sort of "this is what being a Twue Submissive" is vibe, but Ana sticks to her guns, and "gets" to drive her own car to the dinner.

They meet at the Heathman Hotel, she's dressed up, he's in-a-suit-as-ever. They have a brief conversation about the contract at a small public table, which starts to go surprisingly well, until Christian decides to mansplain again:

"Relationships like this are built on honesty and trust... if you don't trust me - trust me to know how I'm affecting you, how far I can go with you, how far I can take you - if you can't be honest with me, then we really can't do this... So it's quite simple, Anastasia. Do you trust me or not?"

First of all, all relationships (healthy ones, anyway) are built on honesty and trust. Second of all, you're not a mind-reader, Mr. Grey, so unless she tells you what her limits and boundaries are (ahead time and during play), you really don't know how you're affecting her, or what's too far. And third, every time she's been honest with you, you've pulled some manipulative Sir Domly Dom bullshit. BULLSHIT. So yeah, it's about trust. But trust doesn't mean people don't have boundaries, and trust doesn't mean you're some clairvoyant, whip wielding, God's gift to submissive women. Bleh.

Christian offers to retire to his private suit, even thought Ana thinks that might not be such a good idea:

"I think we should stay in public, on neutral ground" [SMART!]
"Do you think that would stop me?" he says softly, a sensual warning.
My eyes widen, and I swallow again.
"I hope so."

Yeah, I hope so too Ana, but based on all the abusive behavior he demonstrated so far, I seriously doubt it. They split the difference, and move to a private room at the back of the restaurant.

They mention STDs (Ana doesn't ask for proof or paperwork, but takes him at his word that he's clean), he gives her a sort-of ultimatum-type-out ("you can walk away anytime, but if you do, it's over), and they eat oysters.

She brings up a big concern, and is pretty honest about it... sort of:

"But I'm worried that you'll hurt me."
"Hurt you how>"
"Physically." And emotionally.
"Do you really think I would do that? Go beyond any limit you can't take?"

First off, there obviously isn't space for her to honest about all her concerns in this, which isn't necessarily her fault, or his fault, but it renders the negotiation pretty useless. Second, she's never done this before - of course she's worried about the physical pain. Third, Christian has no idea what we limits are, because they've never played together. Oh, but I forget so quickly - he's a kinky, kinky psychic who can magically tell when she's had enough. Right.

Throughout the entire process, as they talk through kink and sex specifics, she both completely distracted by how attracted she is to him, and views her participation in a submissive lifestyle as a kind of sacrifice, a thing that must be endured to be graced with the presence of Mr. Grey:

"He's so passionate, mesmerizing. This is obviously his obsession, the way he is... I can't take my eyes off him. He really, really wants this."

Because she'll do it if it's what he wants, and that's a good reason. Not for her own interest, or even own curiosity, but instead to please the Magic Psychic Adonis Billionaire.

She finally calls him out on his flirtation during the negotiating process:

"'Christian, you use sex as a weapon. It really isn't fair,' I whisper, staring down at my hands.

But it gets her basically nowhere, because in his reponse, he uses (what else) his desire for her as a weapon:

"You're right. I do. In life you use what you know, Anastasia [and I know how to be a manipulative abuser, yay!]. Doesn't change how much I want you. Here. Now."

She basically cops to her disadvantages, and to the manipulation that's going on, about a page later:

"He's the only one who knows and understands the rules. I'm just naive and inexperienced. My only sphere of reference is Kate, and she doesn't take any shit from men."

Ana actually makes a pretty smart move, after they've finished negotiating (despite the constant sexual overtones - she basically blows a piece of asparagus as one point, because you use what you know, and she's had excellent examples of sexuality as a weapon - they get through most of the details of the contract, and make some compromises along the way). She asks for space, and tells him she needs to either a) spend the night with him without having sex, or b) go home by herself. His response to this is more of the Twue Submissive® bullshit:

"You know, when you feel into my office to interview me, you were all 'yes, sir,' 'no, sir." I thought you were a natural born submissive."

Or, you know, using a title of respect in a professional environment, you arrogant prick.

As she leaves, he tells her:

"If you make the right decision, can I see you on Sunday?"

Because of course, refusing this proposal is clearly the wrong decision. No pressure or anything.

She weeps on the drive home (after he is flabbergasted at the car she drives, and insist it's unsafe, poor little thing, doesn't know how to take care of herself, tsk tsk), and feels very, very conflicted about what to do:

"... my tears start to fall, and I choke back a sob. Soon tears are streaming down my face, and I really don't understand why I'm crying. I was holding my own. He explained everything. He was clear. He wants me, but the truth is I need more. I need him to want me like I want and need him, and deep down I know it's not possible."

This is, so classically, behavior of someone who's being seriously manipulated. She's unsure, but it must be her fault that she's unsure; he was so clear, it can't be anything he's doing wrong.

And that's their negotiation. More chapters soon (although I think we're going to have to get bullet-pointy, because this is taking forever. I underestimated how every little thing in this would be so bad).

Toodles.

Fifty Shades of No Gag Reflex


Ana's wisdom-filled subconscious [see blotter below]
I was talking with Sir the other day about this critique, and he had some comments that got me thinking (as usual). Something along the lines of "Many of the things in this book are totally fucked, sure, but it's not marketed as a users guide - it's fiction, it's fantasy." He wondered why I don't have similar problems with, say, consensual nonconsent erotica (where the negotiation part is sort of left out), or other literature that systematically portrays women in a negative light.

In my perfect world, we'd have strong female characters everywhere, and erotica would have a big disclaimer at the top along the lines of "Hey, this is the sexy part - don't try it at home without the non-sexy talky part first" (or they would include a negotiation scene). But I know that's not the world. So why the big problem with this book, specifically?

I think it's a three-part answer: in short, it's popularity, the cannon it's a part of, and the context in which is discusses things like consent and negotiation. First, the book is everywhere; everyone is reading it. My mother, I found out the other day, is reading it (but that's a story for another time). Second, because of the cannon it's a part of (read: there isn't really one), it's fast becoming the book about modern BDSM. The combination of these first two parts sort of make it, although maybe it wasn't intended that way, into a kind of users manual. People who don't know anything about kink are reading this, and thinking it's a good way to go about things, because it's the only kink text they've ever read.

Which brings me to why the third point is so detrimental. When I spoke to my mother about the book, before I'd read it, I asked her if they negotiated, if there were safewords, if consent was talked about. She said yeah, the book was full of that. And for a second, I had hope.

She's not exactly wrong - the book is full of some kinds of negotiation and consent. They use the word "boundaries" a fair bit. But it's all, all wrong. Boundaries are constantly pushed, sex acts and kink acts done all over the place without negotiation, spankings happening when they haven't set a safeword, etc. It's almost more fucked up than if the negotiation and boundaries weren't in there at all. Looked at like an example of healthy BDSM (which is, I'd argue, what it's claiming to be), Fifty Shades comes out with a message that sort of says "Yeah, you need all this other stuff, but it's not really that important. You can have fuzzy lines, you can have non-discussed power relationships. It'll be okay." It ends up reading not like a users manual, but an abuser's manual. Which is, as far as I'm concerned, really fucking dangerous.

So, with that out of the way, here's the next few chapters.

Chapter Nine – Safe Calls Are For Suckers and Deep Throating Is Magical

The newly deflowered Ana wakes up in Mr. Grey's bed, gets up, starts to make breakfast, and realizes that she totally forgot she was supposed to text Kate the night before! Oh man! (or, as Ana would say: Crap! I should've done a “crap” count from the beginning, but we're in too deep now). She finds her phone, and sees three new text messages from Kate, wondering where she is and if she's okay. Of course, Kate didn't do anything a regular safe call would have done, like call the fucking cops, because it wasn't exactly pre-negotiated explicitly as a safe call. Luckily, Ana is perfectly okay with all the abusive, manipulative shit that's going down, so she calls Kate back and reassures her that it's all fine.

Mr. Grey wakes up, they have breakfast, and decide to take a bath together. Or, rather, he instructs her to take a bath, tells her what to do at every turn. She has some misgivings about this, but says nothing.

And, this being a raunchy sex novel, sex commences in the bath. No, not the awkward fucking-in-water-is-actually-sort-of-counter-lubricating that happens in real life, not even intercourse (She's sore, so they decide to “work on her oral skills"). Instead, Mr. Grey masturbates her with a washcloth for a while, before stopping (bringing her to the edge of orgasm, as a punishment, neither of which they've talked about yet) and teaching her how to give him a blow job.

Teaching might be a strong word. She, somehow, instantaneously knows how to give a blow job, goes at it with no hesitation (except for that pesky screaming subconscious!), all post-getting-her-genitals-scrubbed-off-with-soap-and-terrycloth. And the best part? He wants to come in her mouth; like a respectful lover would, he's asked her about this at a decent time, when she could totally answer without any pressure or coercion. Pressure like, say, having the cock in questions already down your throat, or something.

PSYCH!

Nope, he asks her seconds before he comes. Asking might be a strong word. He tells her he's going to, and that if she doesn't want him to, she should stop. Because consent isn't something you give, but something you have to take away when things get bad, right? Anastasia, in another display of incredible novice skill, swallows like a champ, not liking the taste, but no minding so much:
I can feel the warm, salty liquid oozing down my throat. I swallow quickly. Ugh... I'm not sure about this. But one look at him, and I don't care – he's come apart in the bath because of me.”
Hear that, ladies? It's okay when a guy does things you don't like without really asking – as long as it makes him happy!

The remainder of the chapter consists of light bondage (wrists bound with a silk tie) with no negotiation or discussion previous, more instantaneous orgasms from penetration alone, and meeting Mr. Grey's mother.

 Chapter Ten - eat it up, babe.

Mr. Grey's mother is nice to Ana, if a bit weird. Ana and Christian get ready to take her back to Portland, and Christian gets weird and distant. Understandably, Ana wants to call Kate, feeling lost and confused about why Christian is suddenly stand-offish, but nope! Christian thinks she's going to call Jose, gets possessive, and shames her into not making the phone call at all. Alienation and controlling behavior, yay!

Christian and Anastasia drive back to Portland, stopping for lunch on the way. Ordering food, she wants a diet coke, but he insists on wine, doesn't care when she protests, and she gives in and drinks the wine anyway (quick note: they've talked about the contract a little bit, but she's agreed to nothing thus far). Over food, Christian tells Ana about how he got involved in his oh-so-kinky-lifestyle. Seduced when he was fifteen by an older woman, Christian was her submissive for six years.

Because people who want these things never want them in a healthy, measured way, right? Right. You gotta fuck 'em up young.

There's a theme that's persisted throughout the book up until this point that comes up big time in this particular chapter: namely, that Christian tells Ana to eat, constantly, when she doesn't want to or isn't hungry. He tells her with condescension, because it's for her good, yadda yadda. It happens, like, three times over the course of lunch, and she finally gets frustrated (FINALLY! Oh Great Hula Goddess, dare we hope for some clear boundary setting?):

Is this what our, er... relationship will be like?” I whisper. “You ordering me around?” I can't quite bring myself to look at him.
Yes,” he murmurs [there's a lot of murmuring in this book]
I see.”
And what's more, you'll want me to,” he adds, his voice low.

After this exchange, they talk about it a little, which I guess is sort of a relief? Except that he keeps putting her down, controlling her, being at once dismissive and possessive, and for all this talk of contract and negotiating, they haven't actually done any of it yet.

[this is what I mean when I talk about it as an "abuser's manual." If you talk about negotiation, about boundaries, etc., but don't set any for a while, you put them in a place to be broken if you do. It's a classic red-flag sort of scenario; as in, if a person doesn't respect it when you say "I'm done eating, thanks," it's that much more likely they'll have the same reaction when you say "please stop," or "red."]

He drops her off at home, where Kate peppers her with questions. But, because of the Non-Disclosure Agreement Ana signed (per the “request of my lawyers” Christian tells her), she can't talk about any of it.
Crap... I have to deal with Kate's persistence and tenacity, and I'm in possession of a signed legal document saying I can't talk. It's not a healthy mix.”
That, Anastasia Steele, is the first smart thing you've said in one hundred and fifty eight pages.

Chapter Eleven – Contracts and Computers

Ana, back in her apartment, finally reads the contract. She has serious with issues with it, and as instructed, makes note of them as she goes. She's conflicted, but in a weird way, this is (sort of) a glimmer of progress. She actually, for once, has a pretty cohesive, non-deprecating, self-examining paragraph:
Am I submissive? Maybe I come across that way. Maybe I misled in the interview. I'm shy, yes... but submissive? I let Kate bully me – is that the same? And those soft limits, jeez. My mind boggles, but I'm reassured that they are up for discussion.”
Although the questions make some weird and funky assumptions, at least she's asking them.

But we're quickly reminded that Mr. Grey has total and complete control over Ana, because he sends her a brand new computer (because she didn't own one before), complete with e-mail address already set-up. This is a surprise to her:
“Your new e-mail address.”I have an e-mail address?
Are we seriously expected to believe that this young woman lives, works, goes to college, and HAS NEVER HAD AN E-MAIL ADDRESS?

It's cute! And quirky!

Chapter Twelve - Stalkin' it, Real Edward Cullen Style
So, Ana does some thinking, does some research on her new, not-yet-released-in-stores MacBook Pro (he's so connected, that Christian) and flirts via e-mail with Mr. Grey. And then, as a joke, she e-mails him the following:
Okay, I've seen enough.
It was nice to know you. 
Ana
It's meant to be playful, but he has no way of knowing that. Does he e-mail her back? Nope. Come over to talk and clarify? Nope. He shows up standing in her bedroom door (can you tell this started as Twilight Fan Fiction?) and ravishes her, asking the whole time if she thinks it's “nice.”

Which would all be fine, if this were playfully pre-negotiated. He ties her up, to her bed this time, blindfolds her, feeds her white wine with his mouth (what is she, a baby bird?) while she's tied up, and then fucks her (she comes instantly upon entry. No really, actually instantly). She has no safeword, they STILL haven't negotiated any boundaries, and mostly, she says nothing. It's clear from her internal monologue that she's loving it but there is NO WAY FOR HIM TO KNOW THAT FOR SURE.

She sort of tries to stick up for herself, post-coital, but once again, he ignores it:
“God, I'd like to give you a good hiding. You'd feel a lot better, and so would I”
“You can't say things like that... I haven't signed anything yet.”
“I man can dream, Anastasia.”
Yes, he can dream. BUT IT'S REALLY VERY FUCKED UP WHEN HE IGNORES PROTESTATIONS ABOUT HIS BEHAVIOR FROM SOMEONE HE CLAIMS TO WANT A RELATIONSHIP WITH. Can you say red-flag two hundred times fast?

I hope they get to some fucking negotiation soon, if only because this is getting really long, and I'd like to at least skim over some parts as non-creepy.

So, he leaves. Just like the first time they parted, she has a weird, sad feeling afterwards. Hello, drop! But she doesn't know what to call it, and instead, tries to figure out why she feels empty, lonely, and sad. Ana nails it, actually, as Kate is comforting her:
“He uses sex as a weapon.”
After she's through being consoled, she e-mails Mr. Grey a long list of issues she has with the contract. This is actually really great – finally, she's speaking up for herself. Of course, he addresses none of it, and instead chastises her for not getting to sleep sooner. Bring up your concerns, huh? Don't you know, despite all the gestures otherwise, that you don't really have a choice in how I treat you? It's really, abusively, grotesque. His final e-mail says, simply:

GO TO BED, ANASTASIA.

Creep.

And now, for the blotters:

Ana's subconscious [pictured above]
"My subconscious has woken. She's staring at me with pursed lips, tapping her foot.... ARE YOU CRAZY? She's shouting at me." p. 126
"My subconscious scowls at me... Fucking - not lovemaking, she screams at me like a harpy." p. 127
"My subconscious purses her lips and mouths the word 'ho.'" p. 145
"My subconscious glares at me, wagging her long, skinny fingers, then morphs into the scales of justice to remind me he would sue if I disclose too much." p. 159
"No! Screams my subconscious... my inner goddess nods in Zen-like agreement with her." p. 164 [this is how we find out they're actually two different schizophrenic personalities, and not one]
"You can't seriously be considering this... My subconscious sounds sane and national, not her usual snarky self." p. 176

Ana's inner goddess [because it's actually different than her subconscious, we've been informed]
"My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves." p. 137
"My inner goddess has stopped dancing is staring, too, open mouthed and drooling." p. 138
"YES! My inner goddess is thrilled." p. 158
"My inner goddess is jumping up and down, clapping her hands like a five year old." p. 176
"My inner goddess glows so bright she could light up Portland" p. 191

Worst Sentence Winner! [all the runner-ups ended up in the blotters]:
[just after Ana begins to blow Mr. Grey for the first time]

"He's my very own Christian Grey flavored Popsicle." p. 137

Until next time.

Thursday, August 23

Fifty Shades of This Sucks: Onward and Upward! (part two)

"Hey baby, can I get your number? Also, sign this will ya?"
Oh man. Oh man oh man oh man.

Chapter Five - Mr. Grey Mansplains

At the end of chapter four, Ana passed out in Mr. Grey's arms after being rescued from her "over-amorous" (because that's sexual assault, right? just a little too much lovin') friend, José. At the opening of chapter five, she wakes up, in her underwear, in Mr. Grey's bed.

He comes into her room after knocking (but not waiting for her to answer), gives her repeated commands (she actually calls them "commands," and finds this oooh-so-sexy) to eat or drink, and walks in on her a second time as she's hopping out of bed and into the shower. My favorite part of this romantic morning, however, is when he guilts her about how she got there in the first place:
"Did you undress me?" I whisper.
"Yes." He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.
"We didn't --" I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can't complete the question. I stare at my hands.
"Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive," he says dryly.
...
I didn't ask for him to come and get me. Somehow I've been made to feel like the villain of this piece.
"You didn't have to track me down with whatever James Bond gadgetry you're developing for the highest bidder," I snap.
"First, the technology to track cell phones is available over the internet. Second, my company does not invest or manufacture any kind of surveillance devices. And third, if I hadn't come to get you, you'd probably be waking up in the photographer's bed, and from what I can remember, you weren't overly enthused hi, pressing his suit," he says acidly.
It's important this women are sentient and receptive when they have sex, but not when he takes their clothes off or comes into their rooms; cool, got it! And of course, because he "saved" her, he's entitled to squash her hysterical little emotions with his Cool Rational Man Logic. Thanks for clearing that up, Mr. Grey!

For the rest of the chapter they "flirt," have breakfast, and make plans to meet up that evening to he can take her Seattle and show her his place. Oh, and he kisses her, all kinky-forceful style, in the elevator, without asking her permission or caring much about her reactions. Awesome.

Chapter Six - Creepy Sex Mansions Come Complete with Helipads

Mr. Grey drives Ana home, where she meets Kate, who has, incidentally, slept with Christian Grey's brother, Elliot. Katie is flouncy and "melting," and this is seen as an accomplishment by Christian's charismatic older brother: "Kate just melts. I've never seen her melt before - the words 'comely' and 'compliant' come to mind. Compliant Kate. Boy, Elliot must be good." Because the sign that a woman has had a happy, sexually fulfilling night is that she loses are her bad-ass, take-no-crap agency, right? It's a man's job to conquer those silly notions of female independence. Is she still awe-inspiring, Ana?

Ana goes to work, thinks about Mr. Grey all day, and then drives with him to his helicopter to fly to Seattle. He straps her into her seat, kisses her, and whispers "I like this harness." Yeah, because that's appropriate for someone you've spent a couple days with and discussed nothing of kink with whatsoever.

They fly to Seattle, land at his über-chic downtown mansion, and talk consent as they land. On his Helipad. While she's strapped into a harness. In his Helicopter. At the mansion where she's never been with a man she barely knows.
"You don't have to do anything you don't to do. You know that, don't you?" His tone is so earnest, desperate even, his eyes impassioned.
"I 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.
Tip number one: Don't talk about consent after you've helicoptered an almost perfect-stranger-girl to your mansion.
Tip number two: If you have feelings of doubt about your consent, LISTEN TO THEM, THOSE ARE RED FLAGS. Are you intimidated by his house, by the fact that you're literally strapped in while you're having this conversation? THAT IS NOT SEXY, THAT IS MANIPULATIVE.
Tip number three: If you don't feel totally comfortable with respecting your own limits or maintaining your own consent boundaries, it is your responsibility to tell your partner that. It is not sexy. It is not coy. It is not hot. It is gross and manipulative. He is not "mollified," he's unaware of your decision making process.

But it's okay, they try again later. After he's showed her his lavish, expansive mansion apartment, complete with fully-equipped play room and basically 24/7 contract. Wait, what?

Chapter Seven - I'm Gonna 'Splain Some More, K? K.

Ana stares in awe at the expansive play room, asking after some time if Mr. Grey is a sadist, to which he replies "I"m a Dominant." Capital D, did you get that? Silly girl, I'll make sure you understand. What does being a Dominant mean, you might ask?

"'It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things."

Well, no, Mr. Grey. That could describe a 24/7 TPE relationship, and that's how some people deal with power exchange. But they generally don't bring it up on a second date. With a woman they've just met.

Ana has a rare moment of brilliance, when faced with all this information, where she asks:

"Okay, what do I get out of this?"
He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.
"Me," he says simply.

WRONG FUCKING ANSWER. I mean, yes, she gets him; partners get each other, that's cool. But the whole thing (including the contract - but we'll get to that in a minute) is set up as a weird sacrificial ultimatum. Ana does all these crazy weird kinky things (which she'll no doubt "grow to love," I'm sure), and in exchange, she gets to be in the presence of the ever-enticing Mr. Grey.

What about her pleasure? Is she a masochist? Does she like power exchange? Is there going to be any discussion of what a submissive role might offer her, as a person? (Examples: self-worth, purpose, growth, insight, self-awareness, peace. Or, those are some of the things it offers me, anyway). But no. It's all just to beeeeee with Meeesssster Grrreeeey. Vomit.

So, in the next logical step, he busts out a contract, which outlines what she'll eat, when she'll eat, when she'll exercise, what she'll wear, who she'll have sex with and how she'll keep her body hair. Anastasia has some misgivings throughout the chapter ("... I know I'm going to say yes. And part of me doesn't want to."), but listens to none of them. Once again, her hesitation, her meek nature, her reluctance - it's all supposed to be sexy. And I get that; inner conflict, catharsis, giving in to your more base natures; sure. BUT YOU'RE NEGOTIATING A 24/7 CONTRACT WITH SOMEONE YOU BARELY KNOW, YOU HAVE NO EXPERIENCE WITH S/M, AND YOU'RE A VIRGIN. Fucking listen to yourself, girlfriend.

Quaintly enough, Mr. Grey's contract comes with a list of his hard limits (they're what you'd expect - none of the edge plays, no children, no dead people), and he asks Ana what hers might be. She says she doesn't know (which is a totally great answer), and he presses her, asking what she's done in bed before that she liked or didn't like. Which is when she tells him she's a virgin. Which is when he flips the fuck out.

So, she's new. To all of it. And the reason he didn't know this is because they've known each other for like four fucking days, so that's pretty reasonable. It's also reasonable that she wouldn't know any of her limits, not even really knowing what the word "limit" means yet, but Mr. Grey has his contract, all's fair save those pesky hard limits - quick, Ana, figure out what yours are!

What bothers me most about this is the idea that her being a virgin, and not having no knowledge of BDSM, is the deal breaker. As if kinky sex is some sort of graduate school version of regular sex, and the speed and recklessness of this exchange would have all been okay if someone had penetrated her a few times. New flash: power exchange is it's own beast, and sure, having had sex before might help, but it doesn't mean you get to skip actual negotiation and communicating about kink.

Chapter Eight - This Is What Virginity Looks Like

Mr. Grey decides he's going to fix Ana's little virginity problem that night. You might think I'm hyperbolizing there. Maybe a little. What he actually says is:

"Come," he murmers.
"What?"
"We're going to rectify the situation right now."
"What d you mean? What situation?"
"You situation. Ana, I'm going to make love to you, now."

Christian has previously informed us that he doesn't "make love," he only "fucks, and fucks hard." But he's making an exception for Ana, so much so that he dismisses the aforementioned contract, telling her "Forget about he rules. Forget about all those details for tonight. I want you." Quick, baby, don't think about your limits or boundaries anymore! Just give in to yourself, and my desire! We gotta de-sex you pronto!

I understand James probably meant this to be more of a "Forget about the kinky shit, we gotta get you outta virgin land vanilla-style first" kind of thing, but it still ticks another notch into the continuing themes of Bad Consent throughout the book thus far. Have doubts? Ignore 'em. Have instincts to push away? Nahhhh, you're gonna like it. Those rules we talked about, that were so important to me? Psssht, this is special baby, we'll break 'em, just this once...

The words "just this once," rarely imply anything that would fall under RACK or SSC guidelines.

So, they have sex. Big sexy sexy.

Somewhere before any orgasms (and oh yes, there are several) but after her clothes come off, Mr. Grey asks Ana to show him "how she pleasures herself." Which is actually, props to James, a good question to ask. Ana confesses to him that she has never masturbated. Ditching the surreality for the second, this is supposed to be sexy to us. Not only is Ana meek, submissive by nature, and virginal, but she's extra-super-never-orgasmed virginal. This is gonna be the most awesome de-flowering ever, brah.

And it is. Preposterously so. Not only does Ana say almost nothing throughout the entire encounter, but she doesn't do anything either; Mr. Grey does all the talking, and takes all the initiative every step of the way. This is, I guess, supposed to be submissive, but as one of my favorite internet friends pointed out, submissive DOES NOT MEAN passive or non-communicative. In spite of barely participating, showing zero agency, and having never done anything besides kiss someone in her life, Ana orgasms, three times. The first of these times if from nipple stimulation. Did you catch that? Yup. Nipple stimulation. I was actually surprised to see the stats on this - Wikipedia sites one study claiming 29% of women can orgasm this way. But women who've anything sexual in their lives? I doubt it.

The second two are from penetration alone. All are at the command of Mr. Grey (although there's been no discussion of orgasm control boundaries), because, you know, that's how that works.

At the end of the chapter, we see Mr. Grey playing the piano alone, brooding. Ana coaxes him back to bed, where she's dismayed to find a stain on the sheets. Because it wouldn't be a proper de-flowering without Virgin Blood, right? Oh, and I forget: nipple orgasms.

The one positive thing about the sex? They use protection, and talk about. Of course, Mr. Grey flawlessly and sexily puts the condom on, both times. He supplies them, he asks about them (or rather, he asks if she's on the pill, and then, disappointedly, pulls them out of the bedside table), and there's never a mishap. Yup.

*

Off to read some more. I'll leave with the Subconscious Blotter and Prizes for Worst Sentence.

"I flush at the waywardness of my subconscious - she's doing her happy dance in a bright red hula skit at the thought of being his." - p. 67
"Don't lie to yourself - my subconscious yells at me - it'll have to be pretty damned bad to have you running for the hills." p. 74
"My very small inner goddess sways a gentle victory samba" - p. 78
(when it's happy, it becomes her "inner goddess." and does the samba, evidently).
"You know very well what you're doing here, my subconscious sneers at me." p. 94
"My subconscious is staring in awe." p. 95

To summarize, the things Ana's subconscious can do include: yell, stare, sneer, dance the hula, wear hula skirts, turn into a goddess, and dance the samba. I'm starting to like her subconscious more than I like her, I think.

Worst sentence runner up! (as they enter the mansion):

"... I turn and glance around this vast room. 'Room' is the wrong word. It's not a room  - it's a mission statement." p. 94 (And praytell, Anastasia, what does that mission statement say, exactly?)

Worst sentence winner! (in reaction to the bountiful breakfast he presents her with in the hotel):

"'That's very profligate of you,' I murmur."

Nobody uses the word profligate, and if they do, they certainly don't murmur it.

Until next time.

Wednesday, August 22

Why Fifty Shades of Grey is Utter Bullshit, part one of many

Awww, wook at da wittle cuffffffsss!

There's a lot of about how the new hit is bad. And it is, for a lot of reasons. Arguing that the writing is terrible is a common theme, but an obvious one, and... well, nobody's fighting anybody on that point. It's terrible, terrible writing. We can all be in agreement.

I know this, first hand, because I'm reading it. Oh. God. Am. I. Reading. It. Having arguments about why the book is bad, I inevitably get the question, "Well, have you actually read it?" So I will, but if I'm going to submit myself to this (HA! PUN FUCKING INTENDED!), I'm going to tear it apart while I do.


Even writing this right now I can feel the bad writing seeping in. Like just the act of reading it is making me, as a writer, worse. More trite, more cliche, and those two things mean the same thing and BY GOD LOOK AT THAT IT'S ALREADY HAPPENING.

Okay. Without further ado, the next few (maybe several?) posts will be a chapter-by-chapter analysis of why this book is bad, abusive, anti-feminist, blithering bullshit.


Chapter One - The Meek Shall Inherit the Asshole Millionaires

The book opens with our main character, Anastasia Steele (and if that isn't a porn name, I don't know what is) scrutinizing her appearance in the mirror. The third sentence of the book is a killer - depicting really low self-esteem coupled with a seemingly uncontrollable obsession with how she looks at the expense of more worthwhile pursuits:
"I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission."
No to mention (if you know the book has a kinky bent to begin with) the terrible wordplay with "submission."

Anastasia goes to interview Mr. Grey at his office. She's characterized as nervous, clumsy, stuttering, and utterly out of control of anything around her. On top of all of this, these are things she really, really dislikes about herself.

All of Mr. Grey's employee's are sexualized and judged on their appearance. They're either blonde and beautiful (Ana is both intimidated and in awe of this), or nervous and skittish, similar to how Ana sees herself. She gets through the interview, despite actually falling in through the doors, asking inappropriate questions, and dropping her recorder. More so than any of this, it's all characterized as amusing, or endearing, to Mr. Grey:
"... I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile."
Lather, rinse, repeat throughout the rest of the interview. She screws up, beats herself up for internally, and he finds it cute, or doesn't care. This is unbelievably attractive to her.

*

Chapter Two - Harassment in the Workplace, or, Rope Enthusiast Don't Usually Measure in Yards

Ana obsesses over Mr. Grey, trying to forget him, but dreaming of him every night. The theme of her vs. her subconscious starts to emerge, the forever-entertaining-no-matter-how-overdone internal conflict. So now, we've got Ana lacking agency with her physical self, with those around her (see below), and with her emotional self. Her subconscious talks to her, she blushes without warning at anything. It's not just Mr. Grey who controls her, but the Internal Subconscious Demon as well. Scary! (no really, it is).

Ana has never been sexual with anyone, never held anyone's hand, never kissed anyone, and she's repulsed by her own sexuality: "Okay - I like him. There, I've admitted it to myself." As if it's somehow not okay to be attracted to someone, even the verb, to "admit," tells us that her sexuality is something she's supposed to resist, or better yet, that it's sexy when she resists feeling sexual. I don't think I need to explain why that's problematic.

So, Mr. Grey comes to visit Ana at work. She is conveniently employed at a hardware store, where he buys rope, cable ties, and masking tape. Hilarious, because he asks for "five yards," of rope, and I've never heard any of my kinkster compatriots measure their rope stock in yards (yeah, it's a tiny point, whatever). Also - masking tape? Both ineffective and unsexy, but okay. He hits on her, flirts with her, all in the workplace. He's controlling, cold, and distant when she shows physical affection for male friends, and this hyper-possessiveness, although they've barely met, is somehow a turn-on for her.

We're left with another image of the naive (read: stupid and incapable of functioning in the world) Anastasia, complete with bad simile: "I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl."


*

Chapter Three - Lack of Consent and Weak Female Characters! Weee!

Ana and her best friend, Kate, set up a photo shoot with Mr. Grey (these photographs are going along with the article Kate has written, with the interview Ana did, about Mr. Grey, for the school paper). Plot points out of the way? Cool. On to assault and lack of consent.

Point of normalizing lack of agency or consent in women, #1: Ana gets asked out on a date by her co-worker; she says no, after which she informs us: "Whenever he comes home he asks me on a date, and I always say no. It's a ritual." Because expressing your disinterest and having it ignored, time after time, is cute, right?

Point of normalizing lack of agency or consent in women, #2: Ana goes out to coffee with Mr. Grey post-photo shoot (during which he pulls the hyper-possessive with regards to other dudes thing, again), but only after he asks, she says she shouldn't, he asks again, she says she has to drive her friends home, and so he goes ahead and tells his driver to take them home instead, without asking her. During this exchange, Kate pulls Ana aside to tell her that Mr. Grey gives her a weird vibe, that Kate doesn't trust him, and that he seems dangerous. She actually says this: "He's gorgeous, I agree, but I think he's dangerous."

Ana has known Kate for four years, and they're roommates, and she completely ignores this warning.

On a serious note - I'm not trying to condemn her for ignoring her friend. I know a lot of very smart, great women who've been warned about stuff and gone ahead with it anyway. But James paints Ana's ignorance as sexy, daring, and, again, a cute naivete. Bleh.

During the coffee date, Mr. Grey asks about the men in Anna's life, whether or not she's dating any of them, and repeatedly gives her direct order to do things (with no pre-negotiated talk of that kind of behavior). At the end of the chapter, he saves her from a wayward bicyclist (because it's Portland!)

We get a fine example of further the female (beep boop!) inability to take care of oneself with Ana's mother: "She [Ana's mother] has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don't go as planned."

Kate, the only strong female character in the book, is remarkable in her mere ability to stand up for herself and be a person: "She shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid... She doesn't take any crap. I am in awe of her."

*

Chapter Four - Sexual Assault is Totally Hot Right Now

So, Ana is totally obsessed with Mr. Grey, and he seems into her too. Even though they've spent a total of about twenty minutes together. He inexplicably leaves, however, after their coffee date, doing this weird push-pull with whether or not he's interested in her. She tries not to think of him, but damn that pesky Internal Subconscious Demon. She finished her final exams, goes out drinking with friends, and shenanigans of the really gross rapey kind type ensue.

(A brief caveat: this woman is twenty one, living in Portland, and has a) never been kissed, b) never been sexually attracted to anyone, and c) never had a drop of alcohol in her life. If these were her own choices, I'm all for it, but they're painted (once again) as endearing naivete, aspects of a girl who just happened to fall into the purest, most innocent lifestyle possible. Mmmk).

Ana ends up drinking too much at the bar and drunk dials Mr. Grey. After asking him why she sent him some (very expensive, slightly creepily-noted) books, he decides he's very worried about her, because she's clearly been drinking. He asks how she's getting home. He wants to know which bar she's drinking at.

Dude, calm down. Lady is getting her party on.

But nope. Women can't take care of themselves - haven't we already learned that? Sheesh.

So, Mr. Grey does what any normal billionaire would do. He tracks her cell phone and shows up. And good thing he did, too! Because at that very moment, Ana was getting sexually assaulted by her best friend! The exchange goes as follows:
"José, I'm okay. I've got this." I try to push him away rather feebly.
"Ana please," he whispers, and now he's holding me in his arms, pulling me close.
"José, what are you doing?"
"You know I like you Ana, please."
"No, José, stop - no." I push him, but he's a wall of hard muscle, and I cannot shift him. His hand has lsippe dinto my hair, and he's holding my head in place.
"Please Ana, cariño," he whispers against my lips.
I feel panickedy, drunk, out of control. The feeling is suffocating.
And just then, Mr. Grey shows up to save her! Now, I get this this is painted as a creepy encounter, and it's good that Ana gets out of it. But she doesn't do it herself, and the only reason she *isn't* raped by her friend is because another controlling creepy dude shows up. This is evidence by the next exchange, when Ana, once again, tries to push a guy away, and he doesn't listen:
"He has one arm around my shoulders - the other is holding my hair... I try awkwardly to push him away, but I vomit again... and again."
*

Moral of the story so far? Women have no control, unless they do, in which case they're awe inspiring because someone of their gender acts like a person. No doesn't mean no. No doesn't mean anything (and if you're saying to yourself, "Yeah, but she doesn't actually say 'no' to some of these," then I'd encourage you to check out the "No is Disfavored" piece on Yes Mean Yes). Men get their way with you, sometimes it's when you like it, sometimes it's when you don't, but it doesn't really matter, because you don't have any agency! Yay!

And that's enough for now. I'll leave you with The Cliché Blotter, and prizes for Worst Sentence.

"I hit the pedal to the metal" - p. 4 (I think the verb you want there, James, is "push")
"Double crap - me and my two left feet!" p. 7
"Pay peanuts for rent" p. 18
"Blow-by-blow account" p. 18
"My legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O" p. 25
"grinning like a schoolgirl" p. 31
"my stomach full of butterflies" p.40
"Two can play at this game" p. 46
"Kate has the constitution of an Ox" p.56
"She's dancing her ass off" p. 64

Worst Sentence Runner Up (after she's spent a total of about an hour with Mr. Grey):

"Mourning something that never was - my dashed hopes my dashed dreams, and my soured expectations." p. 51


Worst Sentence Winner! (after Mr. Grey leaves the hardware store):

"He smiles, the strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of female hormones." p. 31

Tuesday, August 21

The Hook and the Line (more porny porn)


There's a lot of talk around the kinky communities about how FSOG sucks. And I agree; it totally does. But instead of nattering about it, I'm trying my hand at some better, healthier erotica, negotiation and aftercare included. I'm not sure if this is porn, a short story, or what. Knowing how I usually roll, it's probably somewhere in between.

And with that, enjoy!



The Hook and the Line

This part was not the sexy part. There had been some who, in the past, had tried to make it sexy; inviting her over, offering her a glass of wine, or meeting at the back of a quiet bar. Sort of like a first date, complete with chitter chatter and a friendly squabble over the tab. She shifted in her seat, a strip of skin on her thighs catching against the hot metal of the chair, the rest slipping around under her skirt. She twirled a pen in her hand, dropped it, picked it up again.

He’d brought checklists, and she appreciated the lack of romanticism in it, although he’d presented them shyly, after much excusing of the idea of a checklist in the first place. They sat quietly, filled them out. Most of it she already knew, hearsay through the grapevine, friends of friends, but it was important to be explicit. He’d gone to get her a very complicated coffee, come back with it balanced precarious in both hands. They pushed the papers across to each other, both of their eyes intent on the information, intent on getting through the awkward parts.

“So.”

“Yup. Mine is... pretty straightforward, I think.”

“Yeah. Seems like we line up well.”

“Yeah.” She smiled, although she’d been trying not to. There was a flirtation about negotiation that bothered her. Somehow, if this part was enjoyable, it wasn’t serious enough. She smiled again anyway.

“I don’t have a cane, but...” He stared at the paper, his hands shaking a little.

“I do. If you’ve never used one, I can show you some things beforehand, we can go slow. Or not...”

“No, no I have. I just... don’t have my own.” He brushed his hair back from his face, and she watched him, look past to the hairs he missed, sticking to the sweat on his forehead, past his dark brows and into the dark eyes.

“Ummm, a couple questions, if that’s alright?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“You’ve got “No” next to name calling. Which is totally awesome. I just want to be clear - specific things, or...? Everything?”

“Pretty much everything.” She stared into her coffee, light caramel drizzle across the top sinking into the foam, little craters and valleys, sugar eating away at sugar.

“If we play more, we talk about it. But there are a few... well, a lot, really, that... get me to a bad place. I’d prefer if, at first, we just lay off everything.”

“That sounds great. And thanks for telling me.”

“No problem.”

She looked down at the long list, again, trying to find anything she’d missed, anything that could get them into bad mojo territory.

He’d had experience with floggers, with rope, and with electrical play. He’d trained on the hitty things she liked, canes and whips, had a small collection of his own stuff, and an apartment in the industrial part of town, which meant fewer neighbors and better themed arquitecture. He was single, and his STD paperwork checked out. She had a copy of his drivers license and a phone call set up before and afterward, to a friend, just to be sure, the same friend same friend who’d reccomended him through a friend of their friend. Seemed like it always went that way, in these communities, no matter what city she was in. Just enough extra information that actually meeting and playing and having sex with someone through the internet didn’t seem as rash. She knew it wasn’t anymore; knew plenty of friends who’d met, and even married, that way. But she still never shook the feeling of anonymity there, never felt quite safe enough. It felt better this way, when it started from a real world connection. An in person connection. In the flesh.

“So. I’ve gotta get back...” He mumbled a little, under his breath, and stood up.

“Right! Yes, right.” This was a lunch date, she remembered suddenly, his lunch break.

“So, I’ll see you on Saturday.” 

“Yup. Eight?”

“Eight sounds great.” He ran his fingers through his hair one more time, like something out of a teenage sitcom, and a few drops of sweat landed on the table, sinking and spreading in the unfinished wood. She liked it.

“See you.” She folded the paperwork into her purse, and sat and sipped at sugar, watching him walk back up the block, pleated suit pants over what proved to be a very nice ass indeed.

*

Dan Paterson was his name, and he worked with a guy who was a friend of her friend Marci, from back home. She was traveling on business, a strange city, but she was here long enough that somebody to play with, while it wasn’t a requirement, was a serious perk. It had been a long time brewing in her, and it took a long time after it bubbled up to admit that, with eyes downcast and shaking a little, she was better in all the parts of her life when she was playing with someone. The little ache of the bruises as she put on the skirt in the morning, sitting in a meeting and wondering if anyone questioned why she, in the middle of summer, still wore thin, long sleeved blouses every day. Even the memories of a recent encounter, slipping unbidden, into her head. Sitting at her desk, she’d remember herself, the image in a place so different, in a body so different, than the one sitting demurely in the office, typing or answering a phone or explaining a spreadsheet to a balding, bored businessman. She shivered when it happened a little, as if with a physical shaking she’d bring the disparate parts of her life a little closer. Although it must be, she thought, just how far away they were that brought her to shiver in the first place.

And so she made the effort, now, to play on a regular basis. To find men like Dan, in cities like this one.

In her hotel room, Saturday. She pulled a black suitcase from under the bed, almost identical to the one already open, sitting on the chair, in the corner. One suitcase for business attire, the other for fetish. It was standard, the room, what she always had on trips like these, tiny variations from city to city. She wondered if there were conventions for this, the vaguely bland but never boring aesthetic of The Four Star Hotel. They probably had meetings about carpet color, about room size and pricing.

She pulled the zipper of the suitcase open, flipped open the top, and mused over corsets, stocking, underwear in lace and mesh. She held up stockings, checking for runs. The painting on the wall above her bed showed a man pulling at a fishing pole, balance precarious on the edge of small row boat. It was actually a good painting, she thought, as she rolled one black thigh high and then the other over her legs, still warm and slightly damp from the shower. Good light, good choice of frame. She pulled a bra with sheer cups and black underwire over her shoulders, feeling the fabric slip across her nipples and the straps settle on the bones of her shoulder. He looked like he was really trying for the fish, fighting, yes, but also trying to come to an agreement with it. His brow was knotted, but thoughtful. Fish, I’m going to catch you, she imagined him thinking. Maybe throw you back, but the act of catching, that’s not what’s going to kill you. Give it up.

She laid her shoes on the bed and moved to the bathroom, settling a red and black corset loosley around her middle. It was a constant debate, to corset or not to corset. Wearing one, the disadvantages were obvious; less skin exposed, a more complicated and arguably less sexy process if it were to be removed. But wearing one she felt a little straighter, a little more in her body. Like a little bit of containment, just for her, from the get go. Which didn’t make the act of tight-lacing oneself in a hotel bathroom any easier, but she’d been here before.

She put on makeup, mostly eye makeup, mostly cheap, bad eye makeup that she’d experimented with and searched to find over the years. Which eyeliner will smudge just right, which mascara will bleed and run without hurting her eyes. Good pain good, bad pain bad. She slipped her stilletthos over her stockinged feet, an almost inaudible shush of the fine mesh against the satin lining. Over everything, her regular trench coat, covered collar bone to knee. She checked her key card, her wallet, her phone. She texted Marci to let her know she was leaving. And she shut the door behind her, a faux-gold lock clicking in the thin wooden door.

*

The steps to his apartment were metal with chipping paint, little flakes floating down against the building as she clanged, step after step, up four flights. It was the kind of apartment, again, in young adult sitcoms, with enough space and an aesthetic to make an audience wonder how the starving artists ever afforded it. She was beginning to suspect that Dan, despite his obvious real-human status, was nothing more than a compilation of television tropes from her childhood. She took a deep breath on the landing, her stomach turning under the strapped leather and lace. She was nervous, and a little hungry, but it was always like that, right before.

She pressed a red manicured nail to the bell button, and waited.

The minutes ticked by, and nothing. He’d told her to ring once, those were the instructions, and so she stood, shivering from the cold, on the landing, on the grates that connected back to the brick, the brick that rested on great metal beams that formed the skeleton of the building. They portruded form the sides, under the windows, I-beams rusting at the corners. She rubbed her fingers together, imagining what tiny shards of those beams would feel like rolled in the delicate skin between pointer and thumb.

“Come in.”

She hadn’t heard the door open, and her breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. Without thinking, she walked forward.

He wore a simple black button down, and dark, clean jeans. The toes of his black boots shown in the candlelight. He shut the door and she watched as the flames shuddered, maybe fifty of them, from various perches and shelves around the place. Candles everywhere. He came up behind her and put a hand at the back of her neck, slipping his fingers to clench around the collar of her coat.

“I’ll take this.”

He hung it up, leaving her standing in her corset and stockings. Coming back to her, he put a hand on her waist and guided her to the low sofa at the back of the apartment, one big room, she realized now, a flicker of coherent thought coming through. She was sinking, she realized, in the gentle, delicate way she always sunk. Her movements became slower and softer, her eyes found the floor and her chin tilted downwards. As if a weight she hadn’t known she was carrying was, while still on her, beginning to shift, beginning to settle. She sat, knees together, hands in her lap.

“Very nice. You look very nice.” He sat on the coffee table, facing her.

“Thank you.”

The slap came fast, and his hand was back at his side before she had time to register what had happened. Her cheek buzzed with the force of it, a hum getting warmer as the impact sunk through layer after layer of skin.

“Thank you? Excuse me?”

“Thank you... Sir.”

“Good.” His voice was measured, almost quiet. The room didn’t echo, and as she sat, getting smaller by the second, she imagined a cloth, invisible, over the entire place. The sofa, the dark partitions between this space and kitchen, the bed, tucked away in the corner, and the chains that hung there, all coated in muffling dampener. His voice seemed to cut straight to her, straight to the middle of chest, and resonate in the bones there.

“Now. Are you ready?”

“Yes Sir.”

He took her hands, and his voice softened, just a little.

“Do you remember your words?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Recite them for me.”

“Colors, Sir.”

Another slap, gentler this time, a reminder.

“Recite them.”

“Yes Sir.” Her voice was fast and low, and full of breath. “Red, safeword, mean stop. If I am gagged or otherwise unable to speak, I will have an object to drop, which means stop. Yellow means I am close to a limit. A check in from you will two distinct squeezes of your hand to my hand. Two distinct squeezes back means I am alright, one long squeeze means I am not, and to stop.” She closed her mouth, her head racing, trying to find anything she’d missed.

“Very good.” He reached a hand under her chin, tilting her eyes up to meet him. Dark, deep eyes, flickering with the candles. “Very good. Now, breath.”

And she did, gasping in, knowing only then that she’d stopped at all.

*

The bed was soft and cool under knees. Her arms, above her head, were twined in tight, neat ropes, wound in triplicate or more with each pass. After the ropes and the rings, there were chains hung from a beam above the bed, the ends after the junction dangling down. She clung to them, cold at first and then the metal warmed in her hands, grasped at them through the sweat, through each thud of his hand.

He’d lead her there, hands on her hips, and kissed her all over her face, stopping to tap lightly on her jaw with his fingers. He watched her face as she arched, curving with the scrape of his nails on her back. He’d smiled at it, sinister, delighted. He’d told her to kneel at his feet, bent her body over the bed, and pulled up her thin black skirt to the line of her corset, bare ass exposed and twitching. And he’d spanked her, soft and then harder, a patient warm up.

He held the cane now, and how exactly she’d gotten here she didn’t know. He’d put her here slowly, with careful ropes and a few check ins. He was soft in it almost, not hesitant, but taking his time, as if to savor her. He’d kissed her again, after the spanking, and then taken off his shirt, somewhere along the way. It happened when she went deep like this, far and then farther under, so distant from the rest of her that the path there was unclear. It came down in bursts of three, and she counted, as instructed.

“Eleven.” Thwap.

“Twelve.” Thwap.

“Thirteen, Sir, thank you Sir.” She gasped, hands slipping on the chain, her body lurching forward, bare red ass exposed, hinting at the darker parts underneath.

He walked around the front of her, ran and hand over her face, ending with a clenched fist in her hair and yanking her eyes up to meet him.

“How many?”

“Thirteen, Sir.”

“Do you think thirteen is enough?”

“No Sir.”

“Me neither. But I think you’ll have to very good, very good, to get anymore.”

She whimpered, just a small whimper.

“Yes Sir.”

He put the cane down on a long table next to the bed, and moved toward her again. His hands were caloused, real skin there, smooth callouses from years of work, hard but not rough. They reach for her bra, pulling the delicate lacing aside and under, exposing her tits. He held her face with the other hand, and gently rubbed his thumb over a nipple.

“Do you want to be good for me?”

“Yes Sir.” She gasped, meeting his eyes, falling hard into them.

“Then you don’t move unless I say so. Is that understood?”

“Yes Sir.”

He slapped her face and pinched the round, pink button between his thumb and forefinger. Pain, so sharp and clean, shot through her breast and up into her head. That heady pain, on the edge of too much.

He reached up, and unhooked her arms from the chains. She stayed on her knees, hands above her head, arms held together still by the ropes.

“Go get the flogger. The red one, at the end. Don’t use your hands.”

She moved immediately, hands still above her head, arms straight as if held by a force upward. She walked on her knees to the egde of the bed, and swung her feet around to stand, unsteady on her heels. Her skirt fell a little over her ass, the curve of it and the sweat holding the fabric mostly up still, welts across it lined pink, deeper red pulsing along the center line of them.

She hobbled to the table, knelt, and took the handle of the flogger in her teeth. Still on her knees, she made her back to him, to where he still hadn’t moved, standing there watching her struggle.

He took the handle from between her lips, pink and wet and shining, and she missed the taste of it immediately, that damp leather smell. He lifted her, under her arms, and steered her away from the bed.

“Walk ahead of me. Don’t you dare put those arms down.”

And she did, held there, barely seeing what was in front of her. Put her arms down? Did arms go down? She couldn’t be sure.

Across from the bedroom space, in the opposite corner, was a simple, shining, black bench. It came her waist, and stretched out ahead with a space for her torso to lay. He bent her forward, and clipped her right ankle into a metal shackle. He slapped her thighs open, and paused, and rose up to look at her. She trembled, afraid of him, small and knowing what was coming next, looking for any, any way out of it.

“I was going to flog you. But I’ve noticed, it seems, that you’re wet.”

“Yes... yes sir.”

He lifted his hand just in front of her face, the one that had slapped her thigh. Moving close to her, he pushed his fingers passed her lips, and she tasted herself, a tang, the rough of his fingers grating into her tongue.

“You like this, don’t you?”

“Yes... yes Sir.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have that flogging after all.”

He bent down again, pushed her legs apart, and secured the second shackle on her ankle. He trailed the tips of leather up her legs, along the lips between her legs, leather flicking there, wet and swollen, and then up her back to brush lightly across her shoulders. He unlaced her corset carefully, whipping the string out of each eyelet, little stings all the way up. It feel to her feet, her back exposed, her underthings in a pile beneath her. And it wasn’t until the first strike that she cried out, opened her mouth and moaned, the sound quiet at first, and then louder, and then louder.

*

She hadn’t always met men like this, on trips like this. She hadn’t always been so careful to steer far and away from events in her local scene, to be aware of the calendar and where they were happening and at which bars, so that she could take care to avoid them. A shadow of the memory, the time before, flickered as the flogger came down again, and again, and again.

She’d met Mitch at her first munch. She was more outgoing than he’d seen a new submissive on the scene in a long time, or so he’d tell her later, wrapped up in his limbs, skin stinging from the sweat sinking into the welts. She’d played with him first in her own apartment, and then later at his, and then again and again until his apartment and her apartment were the same apartment. Four years they’d been together, moving into kinks and deeper into the scene than even he had, exploring together. She was his pet, his slut, his little girl. She was in love, and as it always does, the in-love made the falling-out that much harder, that much faster, with that much more brutal of a final meeting with the ground.

She watched the candles in Dan’s apartment, trying not to remember it, but it came unbidden, into her head. He picked up a second flogger, and was figure-eighting across her back, an almost uninterrupted pattern of stings and thuds. He paused to run a hand up the back of her knee, up her thigh, paused to slip between her legs and find her clit. She moaned, the first taste of a pleasurable sensation in what seemed like hours. He went lightly, gently, in slow motions through the slick of her, and she moaned again, and opened her eyes ever so slightly as it stopped. She looked through wet lashes; he’d moved in front of her, and she felt the tip of his cock on her mouth.

He kept it there, just against her mouth, and she imagined his view, looking down her back, red and sweating, her ass pushed up in the air, exposed, the top of her head just off the bench, at just the right height for this. He untied her arms, clipping one wrist to the bench along her side, how the cuff had gotten there she didn’t remember. He held the other wrist in his hand, and slowly pushed into her mouth. His cock pushed along her tongue, the head butting into the back of her throat, meeting the resistance there and pushing farther still until she gagged on him.

“Touch yourself.” He told her, and as he fucked her faced, slipped a ring of jingling bells into her tied hand. She pushed her arm underneath her, finding her wetness spread across the bench, finding the source of it.

Shudders ran up her thighs from the pressure of her own hand, harder now, and faster. He reached back and began to slap her ass, thrusting into her mouth while he hurt her, and still the thoughts of her past persisted, somewhere back there, beneath the sweat and the slap of their bodies. How it had ended, and ended badly. All she regretted from Mitch, from that world, and she hated it, that it could intrude like this, that it still had this power over her. All this, so complicated, brewing beneath it all.

Dan moved, her mouth suddenly empty, walking around to the back of her, running a hand over her ass and slapping hard. Her mouth gaping, hollow, she bit on her own lips, burying her face in the bench as she felt the head of his cock press against her wet slit.

He held it there, waiting.

“You want me to fuck you? Is that you want?”

She shuddered, arching back to him.

“Can you take it? Can you?” He ran the head over her lips in slow circles, teasing her, threatening to take her at any time.

She sputtered, gasping, wanting nothing else, knowing he was right, that she did want it, more than anything, to press back into him and feel herself full and pounded. Yes she wanted it. She wanted to live here, in this moment, not another, just here. Just here as a thing to be used, just here as a thing to pulse, to sweat, to swell, to burst in the fire of it.

“Yes Sir. Please Sir, yes Sir please Sir.”

She screamed as he entered her, the slaps coming in fast across her ass, the thrusts against her body melting through to her clit, to her hot, wet hole clenching around him. He pulled back, pushed into her, pulled back, and slapped her ass hard with an open, sweaty palm. The sting of a hit when wet, always worse than when it was dry; this she knew. This was home.

And with each slap, each thrust, she let a little more go. She let the chatter and the complicated mess of years long gone melt into her, out of her, the complicated questions of the future and worries about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow burning away. She arched into him, bracing herself on the bench and the slaps grew harder. She cried, muffled spit into the padded leather under her face. She broke, him thrusting into her, broke and sobbed with each push, with each push asking for more, please more, yes please more.

“You like that?” He asked her, and there wasn’t a word she could give that could say how much.

“Yes Sir.” She gasped, feeling him filling her over and over again, the thumb of his free hand pressing into the pucker of her ass, a whole new place of muscles clenching, seizing in the belly of her. That was where she lived, and he knew it.

“Yeah you do. Tell me how much.” His voice shook with the thrusts into her.

She mumbled, incoherent, sputtering in her own spit, that yes, she loved it, yes, please more, yes Sir.

“Tell me, say it.”

She began to sob, raking her finger nails against the leather, as the slaps turned to punches.

“Tell me you like it.”

Sobbing from deep within her, falling in rhythm with his cock, the head pushing into to her, heaving out from her lungs, wailing like something mythical.

“I said, tell me you like it!”

The words came out of her mouth in spit and in cries.

“Yes, yes please, yes please Sir I like it Sir yes please Sir yes please,” she yelled as she came around him, as he let himself go inside of her, pulled him into her, throbbing the two of them, animals in their growling and their hunger satisfied.

The bells dropped gently from her hands. She hadn’t realized she was still holding them.  A wave, so sudden, the pleasure of her body still fresh and slick and sticky, and she began to shake. She closed her eyes. She shook as he stepped around her and held her head to look at her, but her eyes were shut tight, away from the world, turning somewhere deep and dark. He unclipped her hands, always keeping a hand on her, he pulled his pants up and buckled his belt.

“Are you okay? Marian...?”

She shook the whole bench now, trembling. But she’d warned him this would happen; that this is what it was like for her, afterwards. That thought was still there, a comfort, that he knew, at least on paper, this had been coming.

“Here, come here. I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re safe here, I’ve got you.” He held her face to his shoulder, kneeling on the ground next to her. She tried to pull her feet up onto the bench, such a futile attempt, when this happened, of wanting to be infinitely smaller, of the physical attempts to close, to be the smallest possible thing.

He unclipped her feet, kept a hand on her back, stroked her hair so gently.

She couldn’t look at him, and couldn’t, hard as she tried, get her entire body onto the bench. She didn’t answer, kept her eyes shut, just get smaller. He picked her up, curled and rigid, and carried to the bed. He laid her softly down, and pulled the covers over, and wrapped himself around her as she cried into his chest, holding her close and hard.

She thought of Mitch, caught in a spiral of the last days, of the hours alone. She circled and circled and then, breathing shallow, fast breaths. She tried to breath deeper, but couldn’t. She pulled at him, this man with her there, clung to him, at once fighting against him and relieved in the fact that he held on. Like so many tipping boats, she swiveled around him, and he held on, held on to her through the sobs and the shaking, held on and held on.

“Let it go,” he was telling her. Dan was telling her.

“Let it go,” He said it over and over again, hushed, into her hair.

She gave up, letting it break across her. Hook in her mouth, pushing up to the surface, she opened her eyes.

She was aware of her skin, of her naked skin against the skin of the man holding her. Her thoughts floated, in and out of a mist, she couldn’t see one long enough to hold it, long enough for it to be a worry. She loved it here.

“Hey.” He put his hand under her chin, enough pressure to lift her face to look at him, but not to force it. She looked, happily.

“Hey,” she said.

“You okay?” He asked, arms around her, mess of sheets tangled between their feet.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so,” she said.

And they giggled together, in the tangle of sheets.