Let's Read Fifty Shades of Grey: Chapter 7!

When we last saw our intrepid heroes, they were entering Hack BlowFist's playroom, and she was playing "I'm too innocent to know anything about sex ever" while he was playing "I'm too domly to make any accommodations for that."

Content warnings for this chapter: disordered eating, plus coercion and emotional abuse all the hell over the place.  (And detailed BDSM talk, but I feel weird "warning" for that, lumping one of the happiest parts of my life in with all those terrible things.  Also, you're on a blog called "The Pervocracy" that has "BDSM" at the top of every page.  ...Anyway, there's detailed BDSM talk in here.)

There is a large wooden cross like an X fastened to the wall facing the door. It’s made of high-polished mahogany, and there are restraining cuffs on each corner. Above it is an expansive iron grid suspended from the ceiling, eight-foot square at least, and from it hang all manner of ropes, chains, and glinting shackles.

This is probably very impressive to people who aren't familiar with the "thousand dollar toybag, can't swing a flogger" type.  But it is a type, and it tends to overlap with the "thinks he's too important for the rules to apply to him" type. And we already know Mitt BuckMelt is one of those.

Why does he have all that shit hanging on the grid?  Is he just using it for storage?  Or does he never take his restraints off the dungeon furniture, and does all his scenes with unused chains and stuff hanging around the bottom?  That seems awfully sloppy, especially with the rope.

God, I hope he's not trying to suspend people from that thing.

By the door, two long, polished, ornately carved poles, like spindles from a banister but longer, hang like curtain rods across the wall. From them swing a startling assortment of paddles, whips, riding crops, and funny-looking feathery implements. [...] In the far corner is an oxblood leather padded bench, and fixed to the wall beside it is a wooden, polished rack that looks like a pool or billiard cue holder, but on closer inspection, it holds canes of varying lengths and widths.

I'm setting the odds that he actually knows how to use all those toys at... oh, zero percent. (Hell, I don't know how to use all those toys. Paddling, whipping, flogging, caning, rope bondage, and D/s are all different--pardon me--disciplines, and most kinksters don't know how to do all of them.)  It sure doesn't sound like he's ever been to a class or a munch or had anyone mentor him in the scene. I doubt he'd even deign to read a book or website--that would be like admitting he isn't already perfect!  I think he just bought all this shit online with no concept of technique besides "whap people with it, tell them they're bad submissives if they don't like how he does it."

But what dominates the room is a bed. It’s bigger than king-size, an ornately carved rococo four-poster with a flat top. It looks late nineteenth century. Under the canopy, I can see more gleaming chains and cuffs. There is no bedding... just a mattress covered in red leather and red satin cushions piled at one end.

Oh gross.  No bedding means nothing to change or wash... which means that mattress is an entire microbiological ecosystem by now. You can wipe down leather, but it's porous; if you've played with fifteen different people on it (as Man ThudCrack says he has) you're never going to get all the different bits of bacteria and viruses and general goo out of it.  It's all fun and games until the CDC declares your dungeon an outbreak zone, kids.

The feathery thing has me intrigued. I touch it hesitantly. It’s suede, like a small cat-of-nine-tails but bushier, and there are very small plastic beads on the end. “It’s called a flogger,” Christian’s voice is quiet and soft. A flogger… hmm. I think I’m in shock. My subconscious has emigrated or been struck dumb or simply keeled over and expired. I am numb. I can observe and absorb but not articulate my feelings about all this, because I’m in shock.

How many times can we sing the She Is So Not Ready For This song? Not because she didn't know what a flogger is, but because when she looks at one, she doesn't think "that might be hot"; she literally feels like her dreams are dying.

Also, beads on the end of a flogger is pretty damn intense, and might break skin. I hope he's not going to try and use that as a beginner toy. Especially because you know Bark DogChow is the kind of top who would pull a "I'm too domly to do anything but swing like a Major League batter, so if you can't handle my lack of self-restraint it's your problem" schtick.

“I’m a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense. “What does that mean?” I whisper. “It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.”

I wonder how he pronounced the capital D.

And no, that's not what dominant means.  It means you enjoy, sexually or otherwise, having some degree of consensual control over other people.  It does not mean you have to jump right into total power exchange.

("Power exchange" might not be a good term for this, because Ana doesn't have much power to exchange in the first place. Submitting to a guy who's able to completely take over your life anyway--and is horrifyingly willing to--seems a whole lot less meaningful than giving your submission because you truly choose to.)

He’s dangerous to my health, because I know I’m going to say yes. And part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me wants to run screaming from this room and all it represents. I am so out of my depth here.

Yeah, you are.  Trust your gut, Ana.  This is the Gift of Fear.

We pass several doors until we reach the one at the end. Beyond it is a bedroom with a large double bed, all in white… everything, furniture, walls, bedding. It’s sterile and cold but with the most glorious view of Seattle through the glass wall.“This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here.” 

“My room? You’re expecting me to move in?” I can’t hide the horror in my voice. “Not full time. Just say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that, negotiate. If you want to do this,” he adds, his voice quiet and hesitant.

WHOA WHOA WHOA COWBOY.  There's coming on too strong, and then there's setting up a bedroom for someone after the first date.  That's just... I can't even come up with a clever analogy for it, because that was going to be my analogy. "Like setting up a bedroom after the first date."  That's what it's like.

Also, just using the word "negotiate" doesn't mean you're actually doing it, not while you're standing there blatantly just telling her how it's going to be.

“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?"

I like cheese.  But I don't like sand.  It's rough.  Not like cheese. Cheese is generally smooth. Maybe not hard cheeses like Parmigiano-Reggiano. Those can be rough. But still not like sand.

“I’m really not hungry,” I whisper. “You will eat,” he says simply. Dominating Christian, it all becomes clear.

What's with the food thing?  I keep waiting for her to throw up from all the times he forces her to eat when she's not hungry. (There's been some speculation in the comments that her being named Ana and having power struggles over food is a subtle anorexia reference. I'm not sure why that would be, or how likely it is that E.L. James can do anything subtly, but the evidence is kind of unsettling.)

Also, there goes "but not until we negotiate and you consent," for the umpteenth time.  I guess it doesn't seem like such a big deal because it's not a sexual or painful thing, but this is still domination.  I think E.L. James is trying to do a "but it's just a part of who he is and he can't turn it off" thing here, but fuck that.  He can fucking control himself for the length of a conversation, and if he can't, he has no business in any kind of relationship, much less a D/s relationship.

“These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and let’s discuss.”

Yet another thing that is Not Negotiation: presenting someone with a contract that you've already drawn up and saying "take it or leave it."  And he outright says he plans to alter the deal at his whim anyway.

Oh, and that contract.  Sadly, right now we only see a small section of that glorious contract.

Food: The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4).

WHAT IS WITH THE GODDAMN FOOD THING?

Also, hee, a kink contract with appendices and cross-referencing.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Exercise: The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four times a week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed between the personal trainer and the Submissive. The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the Submissive’s progress.

I feel like even a kinky personal trainer would be really, really uncomfortable with this arrangement.  I mean, they're basically being asked to co-dom her, except that Punch HardBody will lose his shit if they ever admit that they're co-domming her, and their reports could make the difference in whether he beats her... it's all going nowhere good, fast.

“Hard limits?” I ask. “Yes. What you won’t do, what I won’t do, we need to specify in our agreement.” “I’m not sure about accepting money for clothes. It feels wrong.” [...]“I want to lavish money on you, let me buy you some clothes."

So yes, you can tell him your limits!  He's not going to fucking listen, but you can tell him. What a great dom.

“I don’t want to exercise four times a week.” “Anastasia, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust me, you need to exercise.”“But surely not four times a week, how about three?” “I want you to do four.” “I thought this was a negotiation?” 

He purses his lips at me. “Okay, Miss Steele, another point well made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?” “Three days, three hours. I get the impression you’re going to keep me exercised when I’m here.” He smiles wickedly, and his eyes glow as if relieved. “Yes, I am. Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don’t want to intern at my company? You’re a good negotiator.”

It's not "negotiating" like you're buying a used car.  You're not in an adversarial relationship trying to drive a hard bargain.  In fact you're an abusive fuckwad if you drive a hard bargain.

The point of BDSM negotiation isn't to find a compromise between the dom's need to hurt and use and the submissive's sense of self-preservation. The point is to work out activities that will be enjoyable for both of them.

I've had people tell me this book wasn't really so bad, because it showed good kink, because they negotiate.  I am... unimpressed.  Yes, they do a thing they call "negotiation," but for god's sake.  Maybe we need to change the name to "collaborating on a mutual kink plan" or something.  Just to be clear to people like E.L. James.

“So, limits. These are mine.” He hands me another piece of paper. 

Hard Limits: No acts involving fire play

People outside Kinkland are really weird about fireplay.  I don't think they get it: it doesn't literally mean setting people on fire and eroticizing the third-degree burns.  Fireplay doesn't even have to hurt.  If the fire top knows what they're doing and smothers the flames smoothly as they go, being "on fire" (i.e., momentarily having alcohol burning on your skin) isn't just safe, it's completely painless.  It can hurt or cause damage, by design or accident, but so can any kind of play.

A lot of clubs and parties ban fireplay, but not because it's too extreme. They just ban it because it's a building fire hazard if they don't have a safe space for open flames.

No acts involving urination or defecation and the products thereof - No acts involving needles, knives, piercing, or blood - No acts involving gynecological medical instruments

If these are just his personal limits, fine (and actually kind of a positive thing to show that doms have limits too), but I think these are supposed to be the "obviously not, because that would be terrible" list, and... hey!  I've done like half of these!

No acts involving children or animals - No acts that will leave any permanent marks on the skin - No acts involving breath control 

Ugh. He has to write these down! Of course – they all look very sensible, and frankly, necessary… any sane person wouldn’t want to be involved in this sort of thing surely?

Well fuck you too, lady.

I can't believe I have to spell this out, but: the fact that I've bled during BDSM does not mean that I have to be specifically instructed not to molest children. BDSM is not analagous to child molestation, or on some sort of continuum between vanilla sex and child molestation, and for god's sake child molestation is not some kind of ultra-extreme BDSM activity.

“Well, when you’ve had sex, was there anything that you didn’t like doing?” For the first time in what seems to be ages, I blush. “You can tell me, Anastasia. We have to be honest with each other or this isn’t going to work.”  

[...] “You’re a virgin?” he breathes. I nod, flushing again. He closes his eyes and looks to be counting to ten. When he opens them again, he’s angry, glaring at me. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?" he growls.

There is a special place in hell reserved for people who say "you can tell me anything," then lose their shit when you do.  And there is an extra-hot special place within that special place for people who also say "why didn't you tell me?" after you just told them.  And within that extra-hot place, in a place Satan himself finds a little bit uncomfortable, we've got the spot for people who do that because someone admitted to being a virgin.

I bet he would've also raged out if she told him she'd had sex with someone besides him.  Because rage-beasts gonna rage.  It's not something you can avoid by doing things right. People like Musk SlamFist don't want you to do things right; they want you to give them an excuse to flip out.



The really weird thing here is that he's supposed to be the ideal fantasy man. How exactly is a guy who's constantly snapping and pouting and getting pissy over all kinds of random shit a romantic fantasy? I can sort of see the appeal of "he's so passionate he hurts you" if I abandon all my morals and squint really hard, but what the hell is the appeal of "he's a garden-variety dickhead"?