Let's Read Fifty Shades of Grey! Chapter 8!

When we left off, Dirk HardPec was raging out at Ana because she admitted to him that she was a virgin. I remind you that this is our romantic hero who is supposed to be the epitome of the sexually appealing man.

Content warnings for this chapter: graphic sex, general abusive dickheaddery. I tell some icky personal stories, one of which involves coerced ickiness and both of which involve blood.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me,” he castigates me. “The subject never came up. I’m not in the habit of revealing my sexual status to everyone I meet. I mean, we hardly know each other.” I’m staring at my hands. Why am I feeling guilty? Why is he so mad? I peek up at him.

This is another one of those cases where E.L. James is showing her hand more than I'd expect.  Because everything Ana is saying to him is completely reasonable, and she's completely right that she shouldn't feel guilty and he shouldn't be mad.  Basically, everything here makes sense except the part where this is going to turn into a hot sexy romance.

“No one’s really, you know.” Come up to scratch, only you. And you turn out to be some kind of monster.

He is a monster, but not because he's kinky.  Considering that he's a stalker and a kidnapper (and an entitled douchebag and a shitty boss), being kinky is the least monstrous thing about him.

(And no, I don't know what is even going on with the grammar here.)

“We’re going to rectify the situation right now.” “What do you mean? What situation?” “Your situation. Ana, I’m going to make love to you, now.” “Oh.” The floor has fallen away . I’m a situation. I’m holding my breath. “That’s if you want to, I mean, I don’t want to push my luck.”

Hey, sort of a reference to consent!  James is really throwing me a bone here!

Even if that bone is wrapped in "being a virgin means you're broken and need a man to fix you" bullshit, I still appreciate it.

“Forget about the rules. Forget about all those details for tonight. I want you. I’ve wanted you since you fell into my office, and I know you want me."

...And it's gone.

"Forget about the rules" is not sexy, not when all your limits and safewords are in the rules.

Plus it's kind of galling how he's offering to have sex with her as a super special concession, like he's really doing a favor here because he's moved by her situation, and she ought to weep with gratitude for the gift of his cock.

The muscles inside the deepest, darkest part of me clench in the most delicious fashion.

I try not to think of my vagina as the "deepest, darkest part of me," either literally or metaphorically.  Maybe the thoracic aorta.

“You smell so good,” he murmurs and closes his eyes, a look of pure pleasure on his face, and I practically convulse.

Once again, can't say E.L. James doesn't spell this shit out.

“You’re very beautiful, Anastasia Steele. I can’t wait to be inside you.” Holy shit. His words. He’s so seductive.

Okay, note to all authors, everywhere: do not do this.  If he's seductive, the audience will notice.  If he's not, you can't fix that just by saying he is. This would be the latter case.

“How do you make yourself come? I want to see.” I shake my head. “I don’t,” I mumble.

Seriously?  She's spent the entire book oozing lust from every pore until she develops clogged lust-zits, and she's never once masturbated?  If she were a real person, I'd acknowledge "hey, some people don't," but this book isn't about the diversity of sexual experience. It's about how it's so wonderful and pure for women to have no sexuality until the right man forces them into it.

“Let’s see if we can make you come like this,” he whispers, continuing his slow, sensual assault. My nipples bear the delicious brunt of his deft fingers and lips, setting alight every single nerve ending in my body so that my whole body sings with the sweet agony.

And so she has an orgasm, in like thirty seconds, from nipple stimulation. Which is completely possible (hell, I've both done and caused it), but... generally not your first time out. Especially when you've never had any sexual thoughts or feelings or actions before in your life. Getting into the groove of partnered sex is to some degree a learned skill.

Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on the floor. Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free. Holy cow…

Sproioioing! Moooooo.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Steele,” he murmurs as he positions the head of his erection at the entrance of my sex. “Hard,” he whispers, and he slams into me. “Aargh!” I cry as I feel a weird pinching sensation deep inside me as he rips through my virginity.

Okay, it's Awkwardly Personal Cliff Story Time!  The first time I had intercourse, it was quite painful and bloody (dramatic hymen tearing isn't always part of first intercourse, but boy, it can be), but at least he went slow at first.  Then he started pounding me porn-style and it's the only time in my life I've involuntarily cried from pain.  I shoved him off, scrambled away, and screamed "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"

"I was trying to make it good for you. I was trying to hit your G-spot."

So... that's what comes up for me when I read this scene.

Two orgasms… coming apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine, wow.

Shoulda set it on "delicates."

“I want to fuck your mouth, Anastasia, and I will soon,” his voice is hoarse, raw, his breathing more disjointed. Fuck my mouth! I moan, and I bite down on him.

Atta girl.

I'm skipping over a lot here.  I don't know, I'm probably jaded, but the sex scene is just... thrust thrust thrust, moan moan moan, yep he sure did put his sticky-outy part in her sticky-inny part, there ya go.  It's more boring than the dialogue, because at least the dialogue is entertainingly bad.

“See how you taste,” he breathes against my ear. “Suck me, baby.” His thumb presses on my tongue, and my mouth closes round him, sucking wildly. I taste the saltiness on his thumb and the faint metallic tang of blood.

What is it with this book and my personal terrible sex experiences?

Alright, this one is embarassing because at the time I tried to play it off as me being super kinky, but the truth is I had no choice in it: way back when I was sleeping with Benny, I started my period while we were having sex. And I didn't know it. And I was blindfolded.  And he stuck his bloody fingers in my mouth and rubbed them on my face.  And I licked them all sexy-like because I thought it was just regular sex juices, and he didn't tell me any different.  And then he started laughing at me and told me to go look in the mirror, and I was covered with blood.

Blurgh.

(A note for those who just started following: my relationship with Benny did not subsequently evolve into a beautiful romance wherein I gradually wore down his coarse exterior and with my kindness and patience earned the right to be treated like a human. It just evolved into more and more overt abuse.)

“You. Are. So. Sweet,” he murmurs between each thrust. “I. Want. You. So. Much.”

This. Is. Not. Sexy. It. Sounds. Like. He. Is. Being. Sarcastic. On. The. Internet.

I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress

"Oh, Christedward GreCULLENNNNNNNN!"

When I wake, it’s still dark. I have no idea how long I’ve slept. I stretch out beneath the duvet, and I feel sore, deliciously sore.

I'm glad she finds it delicious, because she didn't really have the option not to be sore.  Mister "I fuck... hard" was pretty clear that he wouldn't deign to control himself.

I sit up, staring out at the cityscape in front of me. There are fewer lights on amongst the skyscrapers, and there’s a whisper of dawn in the east. I hear the music.

She's supposedly in Escala, which is a real building in Seattle.  (It's super expensive and "exclusive," of course, because nothing but the finest will do for Mr. MeatJuice.)  Escala, like most of downtown Seattle, is built on a steep southwest-facing slope.  There's a lovely sunset view, but if you look east, all you're going to see is a bunch of buildings and hills.

PoundCake is at the piano, completely lost in the music he’s playing. His expression is sad and forlorn, like the music. His playing is stunning. Leaning against the wall at the entrance, I listen enraptured. He’s such an accomplished musician.

The more I read Fifty Shades of Grey, the more I like Twilight. For all the terrible lines she gave us, all the sparklevamps and fang-c-sections, I don't think Stephanie Meyer ever wrote anything approaching the thudding wordbrick of "He's such an accomplished musician."

The "he plays piano because he's Sensitive and Tortured" thing was cheeseball in Twilight too, but at least there was a whiff of plausibility--Edward's had a long time to practice and a good reason to cultivate solitary hobbies.  Slab SquatThrust doesn't have that backstory; he's just good at piano because he is Perfect Perfectness.

I’m mesmerized watching his long skilled fingers as they find and gently press the keys, thinking how those same fingers have expertly handled and caressed my body. I flush and gasp at the memory and press my thighs together.

In a way, I guess it's kind of sweet how she never takes sexuality for granted?  Maybe her going all googly every time she thinks "Smash LampJaw has a penis under his clothes!" is a beautiful thing, like a person who lives next to the ocean but never stops feeling in awe of it.  But it keeps coming out less as "she has a beautiful sense of wonder" and more as "she is completely not able to process any of this."

At least she's happy, I think. Enjoy that while it lasts.