Confusion

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Your victims are sufficiently intrigued and their desire for you is growing, but their attachment is weak and at any moment they could decide to turn back. The goal in this phase is to lead your victims so far astray— keeping them emotional and confused, giving them pleasure but making them want more— that retreat is no longer possible. Springing on them a pleasant surprise will make them see you as delightfully unpredictable, but will also keep them off balance (9: Keep them in suspense— what comes next?). The artful use of soft and pleasant words will intoxicate them and stimulate fantasies (10: Use the demonic power of words to sow confusion). Aesthetic touches and pleasant little rituals will titillate their senses, distract their minds (11: Pay attention to detail). Your greatest danger in this phase is the mere hint of routine or familiarity. You need to maintain some mystery, to keep a little distance so that in your absence your victims become obsessed with you (12: Poeticize your presence). They may realize they are falling for you, but they must never suspect how much of this has come from your manipulations. A well-timed display of your weakness, of how emotional you have become under their influence will help cover your tracks (13: Disarm through strategic weakness and vulnerability). To excite your victims and make them highly emotional, you must give them the feeling that they are actually living some of the fantasies you have stirred in their imagination (14: Confuse desire and reality). By giving them only a part of the fantasy, you will keep them coming back for more. Focusing your attention on them so that the rest of the world fades away, even taking them on a trip, will lead them far astray (15: Isolate your victim). There is no turning back. Keep Them in Suspense- What Comes Next? The moment people feel they know what to expect from you, your spell on them is broken. More: you have ceded them power. The only way to lead the seduced along and keep the upper hand is to create suspense, a calculated surprise. People love a mystery, and this is the key to luring them further into your web. Behave in a way that leaves them wondering, What are you up to? Doing something they do not expect from you will give them a delightful sense of spontaneity— they will not be able to foresee what comes next. You are always one step ahead and in control. Give the victim a thrill with a sudden change of direction. The Calculated Surprise In 1753, the twenty-eight-old Giovanni Casanova met a young girl named Caterina with whom he fell in love. Her father knew what kind of man Casanova was, and to prevent some mishap before he could marry her off, he sent her away to a convent on the Venetian island of Murano, where she was to remain for four years.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Lursay knew full well that she was the source of the young man's awkward- a-fire, that she had ness, but she was a tease; you must tell me, she said, with whom you are in longings to taste other fare love. Finally Meilcour confessed: it was indeed Madame whom he desired. than the muscatels that hung on the trellis, as also His mother's friend advised him to not think of her that way, but she also by her hot, wanton, and sighed, and gave him a long and languid look. Her words said one thing, wild speech, he did her eyes another—perhaps she was not as untouchable as he had thought. promptly seize on so fair an opportunity. So catching As the evening ended, though, Madame de Lursay said she doubted his hold of her without the feelings would last, and she left young Meilcour troubled that she had said least ceremony, he did lay nothing about reciprocating his love. her on a little couch that was there made of turf and Over the next few days, Meilcour repeatedly asked de Lursay to declare clods of earth, and did very her love for him, and she repeatedly refused. Eventually the young man de- pleasantly work his will of cided his cause was hopeless, and gave up; but a few nights later, at a soiree her, without her ever at her house, her dress seemed more enticing than usual, and her looks at uttering a word but only: "Heavens! Sir, what are him stirred his blood. He returned them, and followed her around, while you at? Surely you be the she took care to keep a bit of distance, lest others sense what was happen- maddest and strangest ing. Yet she also managed to arrange that he could stay without arousing fellow ever was! If anyone comes, whatever will they suspicion when the other visitors left. say? Great heavens! get When they were finally alone, she made him sit beside her on the sofa. out!" But the gentleman, He could barely speak; the silence was uncomfortable. To get him talking without disturbing himself, did so well continue what she raised the same old subject: his youth would make his love for her a he had begun that he did passing fancy. Instead of denying it he looked dejected, and continued to finish, and she to boot, keep a polite distance, so that she finally exclaimed, with obvious irony, "If with such content as that after taking three or four it were known that you were here with my consent, that I had voluntarily turns up and down the arranged it with you . . . what might not people say? And yet how wrong alley, they did presently they would be, for no one could be more respectful than you are." Goaded start afresh. Anon, coming into action, Meilcour grabbed her hand and looked her in the eye. She forth into another, open, alley, they did see in

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  My head is buzzing. How can I possibly agree to all this? And apparently it’s for my benefit, to explore my sensuality, my limits—safely. Oh, please! I scoff angrily. Serve and obey in all things. All things! I shake my head in disbelief. Actually, don’t the marriage vows use those words…obey? This throws me. Do couples still say that? Only three months—is that why there have been so many? He doesn’t keep them for long? Or have they had enough after three months? Every weekend? That’s too much. I’ll never see Kate or whatever friends I may make at my new job, provided I get one. Perhaps I should have one weekend a month to myself. Perhaps when I have my period. That sounds…practical. He’s my master! I’m to be dealt with as he pleases! Holy shit. I shudder at the thought of being flogged or whipped. Spanking probably wouldn’t be so bad—humiliating, though. And tied up? Well, he did tie my hands together. That was… Well, it was hot, really hot, so perhaps that won’t be so bad. He won’t loan me to another Dominant—damn right he won’t. That would be totally unacceptable. Why am I even thinking about this? I can’t look him in the eye. How weird is that? The only way I ever have any chance to see what he’s thinking. Actually, who am I kidding? I never know what he’s thinking, but I like looking into his eyes. He has beautiful eyes—captivating, intelligent, deep, and dark, dark with dominant secrets. I recall his burning smoky gaze and press my thighs together, squirming. And I can’t touch him. Well, no surprise there. And these silly rules… No, no, I can’t do this. I put my head in my hands. This is no way to have a relationship. I need some sleep. I’m shattered. All the physical shenanigans I’ve been engaged in over the past twenty-four hours have been, frankly, exhausting. And mentally… Oh, man, this is so much to handle. As José would say, a real mind-fuck. Perhaps in the morning this might not read like a bad joke. I scramble up and change quickly. Perhaps I should borrow Kate’s pink flannel pajamas. I want something cuddly and reassuring around me. I head to the bathroom in my T-shirt and sleep shorts and brush my teeth. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. You can’t seriously be considering this… My subconscious sounds sane and rational, not her usual snarky self. My inner goddess is jumping up and down, clapping her hands like a five-year-old. Please, let’s do this. Otherwise, we’ll end up alone with lots of cats and your classic novels to keep you company.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  A week later the two women walk into Buy Buy Baby, a two-story chain store that sells motherhood as a lifestyle. As the automatic doors shush closed behind them, Katrina slings her jacket over her purse, and then, to Reese’s surprise, takes Reese’s hand in her own, and intertwines their fingers. It creates, to Reese, a confusingly dyke- coded moment: two women walking into a Chelsea store to create a baby registry. The suggestion that their new partnership, that of raising a child, could bleed into romance has haunted the past few weeks. Katrina and Reese had even begun to joke together about the necessity of Ames to the project—that perhaps he had already made his big “contribution,” and they could take it from here. This hand-holding, however, is the first time that Katrina has initiated any kind of intimate touch. Reese isn’t sure how she feels about it. Maybe Katrina herself needs the emotional support physically, and Reese wonders whether, in proper lesbian fashion, they really ought to stop and process this moment. But Katrina isn’t stopping: She keeps a firm grip on Reese’s hand and leads her past a fleet of strollers, where a few of the particularly sporty models stand spotlit on pedestals, the way a dealer’s prize Corvette lords it over the anonymous sedans at the Chevy showroom. Past the strollers, following a fence that encloses what seems to be an acre of baby clothing, stands a lounge adorned with a large REGISTRY sign. There, a young woman in a flowered blouse sits behind a large desk. The woman doesn’t yet look old enough to be a mother herself, which Reese finds comforting—perhaps without personal mothering experience, this woman will not detect Reese’s motherly lack. Katrina, still holding Reese’s hand, announces their intention to create a baby registry with the tone a groom uses to claim that he and his betrothed shall be wed on the morrow. The woman behind the desk surveys the apparent couple standing before her with a practiced nonchalance, offers them water, and leads Katrina and Reese to a low couch in a little lounge area beside her desk. There, she hands them a tote bag of brochures, free samples of baby goods, and a large bar-code scanner. Katrina eyes the scanner doubtfully, and the woman explains that any item in the store that they scan will be immediately added to their baby registry. The vibe of the little in-store lounge reminds Reese of her visits to a medical spa for Botox or laser. There lingers the faint suggestion that this is a place where other women understand what you as a woman might need and will be prepared to provide it to you—but with the good taste and discretion never to ask directly what might bother you about your body.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Captured by the Bolivian army, Guevara said, “Shoot, coward. You are only going to kill a man.” I thought back to Simón Bolívar’s last words in García Márquez’s novel—“How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!” South American revolutionaries, it would seem, died with flair. I read the last words out loud to Lara. She turned on her side, placing her head on my chest. “Why do you like last words so much?” Strange as it might seem, I’d never really thought about why. “I don’t know,” I said, placing my hand against the small of her back. “Sometimes, just because they’re funny. Like in the Civil War, a general named Sedgwick said, ‘They couldn’t hit an elephant from this dis—’ and then he got shot.” She laughed. “But a lot of times, people die how they live. And so last words tell me a lot about who people were, and why they became the sort of people biographies get written about. Does that make sense?” “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah?” Just yeah? “Yeah,” she said, and then went back to reading. I didn’t know how to talk to her. And I was frustrated with trying, so after a little while, I got up to go. I kissed her good-bye. I could do that, at least. — I picked up Alaska and the Colonel at our room and we walked down to the bridge, where I repeated in embarrassing detail the fellatio fiasco. “I can’t believe she went down on you twice in one day,” the Colonel said. “Only technically. Really just once,” Alaska corrected. “Still. I mean. Still. Pudge got his hog smoked.” “The poor Colonel,” Alaska said with a rueful smile. “I’d give you a pity blow, but I really am attached to Jake.” “That’s just creepy,” the Colonel said. “You’re only supposed to flirt with Pudge.” “But Pudge has a giiirrrrlllfriend.” She laughed. — That night, the Colonel and I walked down to Alaska’s room to celebrate our Barn Night success. She and the Colonel had been celebrating a lot the past couple days, and I didn’t feel up to climbing Strawberry Hill, so I sat and munched on pretzels while Alaska and the Colonel drank wine from paper cups with flowers on them. “We ain’t drinkin’ out the bottle tonight, hun,” the Colonel said. “We classin’ it up!” “It’s an old-time Southern drinking contest,” Alaska responded. “We’s a- gonna treat Pudge to an evening of real Southern livin’: We go’n match each other Dixie cup for Dixie cup till the lesser drinker falls.” And that is pretty much what they did, pausing only to turn out the lights at 11:00 so the Eagle wouldn’t drop by. They chatted some, but mostly they drank, and I drifted out of the conversation and ended up squinting through the dark, looking at the book spines in Alaska’s Life Library.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  blushed and told him he should go, but the way she arranged herself on the another part of the garden sofa and looked back at him suggested he should do the opposite. Yet Meil- the other pair, who were cour still hesitated: she had told him to go, and if he disobeyed she might walking about together just as they had left them at cause a scene, and might never forgive him; he would have made a fool of first. Whereupon the lady, himself, and everyone, including his mother, would hear of it. He soon got well content, did say to the up, apologizing for his momentary boldness. Her astonished and somewhat gentleman in the like condition, "I verily believe cold look meant he had indeed gone too far, he imagined, and he said so and so hath played the goodbye and left. silly prude, and hath given his lady no other entertainment but only Meilcour and Madame de Lursay appear in the novel The Wayward Head words, fine speeches, and and Heart, written in 1738 by Crébillon fils, who based his characters on promenading." • Afterward libertines he knew in the France of the time. For Crébillon fils, seduction is when all four were come all about signs—about being able to send them and read them. This is not together, the two ladies did fall to asking one another 140 • The Art of Seduction how it had fared with each. because sexuality is repressed and requires speaking in code. It is rather be-Then the one which was cause wordless communication (through clothes, gestures, actions) is the well content did reply she most pleasurable, exciting, and seductive form of language. was exceeding well, indeed she was; indeed for the In Crébillon fils's novel, Madame de Lursay is an ingenious seductress nonce she could scarce be who finds it exciting to initiate young men. But even she cannot overcome better. The other, which the youthful stupidity of Meilcour, who is incapable of reading her signs was ill content, did declare for her part she had had to because he is absorbed in his own thoughts. Later in the story, she does do with the biggest fool and manage to educate him, but in real life there are many who cannot be most coward lover she had educated. They are too literal and insensitive to the details that contain ever seen; and all the time seductive power. They do not so much repel as irritate and infuriate you the two gentlemen could see them laughing together by their constant misinterpretations, always viewing life from behind as they walked and crying the screen of their ego and unable to see things as they really are. Meilcour out: " O h ! the silly fool! is so caught up in himself he cannot see that Madame is expecting him to the shamefaced poltroon and coward!" At this the

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I take a large slug of pinot grigio—he’s right, of course; it’s delicious. Jeez, all these revelations, it’s so much to think about. I need time to process this, when I’m on my own, not when I’m distracted by his presence. He’s so overwhelming, so alpha male, and now he’s thrown this bombshell into the equation. He knows what it’s like. “But it can’t have been full-time?” I’m confused. “Well, it was, though I didn’t see her all the time. It was…difficult. After all, I was still at school and then at college. Eat up, Anastasia.” “I’m really not hungry, Christian.” I am reeling from your disclosure. His expression hardens. “Eat,” he says quietly, too quietly. I stare at him. This man, sexually abused as an adolescent—his tone is so threatening. “Give me a moment,” I ask. “Okay.” He continues with his meal. This is what it will be like if I sign, him ordering me around. I frown. Do I want this? Reaching for my knife and fork, I tentatively cut into the venison. It’s very tasty. “Is this what our, um…relationship will be like?” I whisper. “You ordering me around?” I can’t quite bring myself to look at him. “Yes.” “I see.” “And what’s more, you’ll want me to,” he adds, his voice low. I sincerely doubt that. I slice another piece of venison, holding it against my mouth. “It’s a big step,” I murmur and eat. “It is.” He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they are wide and grave. “Anastasia, you have to go with your gut. Do the research, read the contract. I’m happy to discuss any aspect. I’ll be in Portland until Friday if you want to talk about it before then.” His words are coming at me in a rush. “Call me. Maybe we can have dinner—say, Wednesday? I really want to make this work. In fact, I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want this to work.” His burning sincerity…his longing, is reflected in his eyes. This is fundamentally what I don’t grasp. Why me? Why not one of the fifteen? Oh no… Will that be me—a number? Sixteen of many? “What happened to the fifteen?” I ask. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, then looks resigned, shaking his head. “Various things, but it boils down to…” He pauses, struggling to find the words I think. “Incompatibility.” He shrugs. “And you think that I might be compatible with you?” “Yes.” “So you’re not seeing any of them anymore?” “No, Anastasia, I’m not. I’m monogamous in my relationships.” Oh…this is news. “I see.” “Do the research, Anastasia.” I put my knife and fork down. I can’t eat any more. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to eat?”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I giggle and applaud politely. He bows gracefully, grinning. How can I resist him when he’s like this? He places my dress on the lone chair beside his chest of drawers. “And for your next trick?” I prompt, teasing. “Oh, my dear Miss Steele. Get into my bed,” he growls, “and I’ll show you.” “Do you think that for once I should play hard to get?” I ask coquettishly. His eyes widen with surprise, and I see a glimmer of excitement. “Well, the door’s closed. Not sure how you’re going to avoid me,” he says sardonically. “I think it’s a done deal.” “But I’m a good negotiator.” “So am I.” He stares down at me, but as he does, his expression changes. Confusion washes over him, and the atmosphere in the room shifts abruptly, tensing. “Don’t you want to fuck?” he asks. “No,” I breathe. “Oh.” He frowns. Okay, here goes…deep breath. “I want you to make love to me.” He stills and stares at me blankly. His expression darkens. Oh shit, this doesn’t look good. Give him a minute! my subconscious snaps. “Ana, I—” He runs his hands through his hair. Two hands. Jeez, he’s really bewildered. “I thought we did,” he says eventually. “I want to touch you.” He takes an involuntary step back from me, his expression for a moment fearful, and then he reins it in. “Please,” I whisper. He recovers himself. “Oh no, Miss Steele, you’ve had enough concessions from me this evening. And I’m saying no.” “No?” “No.” Oh. I can’t argue with that…can I? “Look, you’re tired, I’m tired. Let’s just go to bed,” he says, watching me carefully. “So touching is a hard limit for you?” “Yes. This is old news.” “Please tell me why.” “Oh, Anastasia, please. Just drop it for now,” he mutters exasperated. “It’s important to me.” Again he runs both hands through his hair, and he utters an oath beneath his breath. Turning on his heel, he heads for the chest of drawers, pulls out a T-shirt, and throws it at me. I catch it, bemused. “Put that on and get into bed,” he snaps, irritated. I frown but decide to humor him. Turning my back, I quickly remove my bra, pulling the T-shirt on as hastily as I can to cover my nakedness. I leave my panties on; I haven’t worn them for most of the evening. “I need the bathroom.” My voice is a whisper. He frowns, bemused. “Now you’re asking permission?” “Er…no.” “Anastasia, you know where the bathroom is. Today, at this point in our strange arrangement, you don’t need my permission to use it.” He cannot hide his irritation. He shrugs out of his shirt, and I scoot into the bathroom.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He seemed confused. Why? I have to say as physical experiences go, that was very satisfying. But emotionally—well, I’m rattled by his reaction, and that was about as emotionally enriching as cotton candy is nutritious. Mrs. Jones is still in the kitchen. “Would you like your tea now, Miss Steele?” “I’ll have a shower first, thank you.” And I take my blazing face quickly out of the room. In the shower, I try to figure out what’s up with Christian. He is the most complicated person I know, and I cannot understand his ever-changing moods. He seemed fine when I went into his study. We had sex…and then he wasn’t. No, I don’t get it. I look to my subconscious. She’s whistling with her hands behind her back and looking anywhere but at me. She hasn’t got a clue, and my inner goddess is still basking in a remnant of postcoital glow. No—we’re all clueless. I towel-dry my hair, comb it through with Christian’s one and only hair implement, and put my hair up in a bun. Kate’s plum dress hangs laundered and ironed in the closet along with my clean bra and panties. Mrs. Jones is a marvel. Slipping on my shoes, I straighten my dress, take a deep breath, and head out to the great room. Christian is still nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Jones is checking the contents of the pantry. “Tea now, Miss Steele?” she asks. “Please.” I smile at her. I feel slightly more confident now that I’m dressed. “Would you like something to eat?” “No, thank you.” “Of course you’ll have something to eat,” Christian snaps, glowering as he strolls into the kitchen. “She likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs, Mrs. Jones.” “Yes, Mr. Grey. What would you like, sir?” “Omelet, please, and some fruit.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me, his expression unfathomable. “Sit,” he orders, pointing to one of the barstools. I oblige, and he sits beside me while Mrs. Jones busies herself with breakfast. Gosh, it’s unnerving having someone else listen to our conversation. “Have you bought your air ticket?” “No, I’ll buy it when I get home, over the internet.” He leans on his elbow, rubbing his chin. “Do you have the money?” Oh no. “Yes,” I say with mock patience as if I’m talking to a small child. He raises a censorious eyebrow at me. Crap. “Yes, I do, thank you,” I amend rapidly. “I have a jet. It’s not scheduled to be used for three days; it’s at your disposal.” I gape at him. Of course he has a jet, and I have to resist my body’s natural inclination to roll my eyes at him. I want to laugh. But I don’t, as I can’t read his mood. “We’ve already made serious misuse of your company’s aviation fleet. I wouldn’t want to do it again.” “It’s my company; it’s my jet.” He sounds almost wounded. Oh, boys and their toys!

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  The only man I’ve ever been attracted to, and he comes with a bloody contract, a flogger, and a whole world of issues. Well, at least I got my way this weekend. My inner goddess stops jumping and smiles serenely. Oh yes, she mouths, nodding at me smugly. I flush at the memory of his hands and his mouth on me, his body inside mine. Closing my eyes, I feel the familiar delicious pull of my muscles from deep, deep down. I want to do that again and again. Maybe if I just sign up for the sex… Would he go with that? I suspect not. Am I submissive? Maybe I come across that way. Maybe I misled him 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. I wander back to my bedroom. This is too much to think about. I need a clear head—a fresh morning approach to the problem. I put the offending documents in my backpack. Tomorrow…tomorrow is another day. Clambering into bed, I switch off the light and lie staring up at the ceiling. Oh, I wish I’d never met him. My inner goddess shakes her head at me. She and I know it’s a lie. I have never felt as alive as I do now. I close my eyes and drift into a heavy sleep with occasional dreams of four-poster beds and shackles and intense gray eyes. Kate wakes me the next day. “Ana, I’ve been calling you. You must have been out cold.” My eyes reluctantly open. She’s not just up—she’s been for a run. I glance at my alarm. It’s eight in the morning. Holy Moses, I’ve slept for a solid nine hours. “What is it?” I mumble sleepily. “There’s a man here with a delivery for you. You have to sign for it.” “What?” “Come on. It’s big. It looks interesting.” She hops from foot to foot excitedly and bounds back into the living room. I clamber out of bed and grab my robe hanging on the back of my door. A smart young man with a ponytail is standing in our living room clasping a large box. “Hi,” I mumble. “I’ll make you some tea.” Kate scuttles off to the kitchen. “Miss Steele?” And I immediately know who the parcel is from. “Yes,” I answer cautiously. “I have a package for you here, but I have to set it up and show you how to use it.” “Really? At this time?” “Only following orders, ma’am.” He smiles in a charming but professional he’s-not-taking-any-crap way. Did he just call me ma’am? Have I aged ten years overnight? If I have, it’s that contract. My mouth puckers in disgust. “Okay, what is it?” “It’s a MacBook Pro.” “Of course it is.” I roll my eyes. “These aren’t available in the shops yet, ma’am. The very latest from Apple.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I shake my head, so much to think about. It’s tempting to reach out and touch him, but like a small child, he’s so lovely when he’s asleep. I don’t have to worry about what I’m saying, what he’s saying, what plans he has, especially his plans for me. I could gaze at him all day, but I have needs—bathroom needs. Slipping out of bed, I find his white shirt on the floor and shrug it on. I walk through a door thinking it might be the bathroom, but I’m in a vast walk-in closet as big as my bedroom. Lines and lines of expensive suits, shirts, shoes, and ties. How can anyone need this many clothes? I tut with disapproval. Actually, Kate’s wardrobe probably rivals this. Kate! Oh no. I didn’t think about her all evening. I was supposed to text her. Crap. I’m going to be in trouble. I wonder briefly how she’s getting on with Elliot. Returning to the bedroom, Christian is still asleep. I try the other door. It’s the bathroom, and it’s bigger than my bedroom. Why does one man need so much space? Two sinks, I notice with irony. Given he doesn’t sleep with anyone, one of them can’t have been used. I stare at myself in the gigantic mirror above the sinks. Do I look different? I feel different. I feel a little sore, if I’m honest, and my muscles—jeez, it’s like I’ve never done any exercise in my life. You don’t do any exercise in your life. My subconscious has woken. She’s staring at me with pursed lips, tapping her foot. So you’ve just slept with him, given him your virginity, a man who doesn’t love you. In fact, he has very odd ideas about you, wants to make you some sort of kinky sex slave. ARE YOU CRAZY? she’s shouting at me. I wince as I look in the mirror. I am going to have to process all this. Honestly, fancy falling for a man who’s beyond beautiful, richer than Croesus, and has a Red Room of Pain waiting for me. I shudder. I’m bewildered and confused. My hair is its usual wayward self. Just-fucked hair doesn’t suit me. I try to bring order to the chaos with my fingers but fail miserably and give up—maybe I’ll find hair ties in my purse. I’m starving. I head back out to the bedroom. Sleeping beauty is still sleeping, so I leave him and head for the kitchen. Oh shit…Kate. I left my purse in Christian’s study. I fetch it and reach for my cell phone. Three texts. RU OK? Where RU? Damn it, Ana!

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I’m the one beguiled,” I whisper. He gazes at me. His expression is disconcerted, alarmed even. Placing his hands on either side of my face, he holds my head in place. “You. Are. Mine.” Each word staccato. “Do you understand?” He’s so earnest, so impassioned—a zealot. The force of his plea is so unexpected and disarming. I wonder why he’s feeling like this. “Yes, yours,” I whisper, derailed by his fervor. “Are you sure you have to go to Georgia?” I nod slowly. And in that brief moment, I watch his expression change and the shutters coming down. Abruptly he withdraws, making me wince. “Are you sore?” he asks, leaning over me. “A little,” I confess. “I like you sore.” His eyes smolder. “Reminds you where I’ve been, and only me.” He grabs my chin and kisses me roughly, then stands and holds his hand out to help me up. I glance down at the foil packet beside me. “Always prepared,” I muse. He looks at me confused as he redoes his fly. I hold up the empty packet. “A man can hope, Anastasia, dream even, and sometimes his dreams come true.” He sounds so odd, his eyes burning. I just don’t understand. My postcoital glow is fading fast. What is his problem? “So…on your desk…that’s been a dream?” I ask, trying humor to lighten the atmosphere between us. He smiles an enigmatic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and I know immediately this is not the first time he’s had sex on his desk. The thought is unwelcome. I squirm uncomfortably as my postcoital glow evaporates. “I’d better go have a shower.” I stand and start to move past him. He frowns and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a couple more calls to make. I’ll join you for breakfast once you’re out of the shower. I think Mrs. Jones has laundered your clothes from yesterday. They’re in the closet.” What? When the hell did she do that? Jeez, could she hear us? “Thank you,” I mutter. “You’re most welcome,” he replies automatically, but there’s an edge to his voice. I’m not saying thank you for fucking me. Although, it was very… “What?” he asks, and I realize I’m frowning. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “What do you mean?” “Well, you’re being more weird than usual.” “You find me weird?” He tries to stifle a smile. “Sometimes.” He regards me for a moment, his eyes speculative. “As ever, I’m surprised by you, Miss Steele.” “Surprised how?” “Let’s just say that was an unexpected treat.” “We aim to please, Mr. Grey.” I cock my head to one side like he often does to me and give his words back to him. “And please me you do,” he says, but he looks uneasy. “I thought you were going to have a shower?” Oh, he’s dismissing me. “Yes, um, I’ll see you in a moment.” I scurry out of his office completely dumbfounded.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I’m fine.” Damn, should have checked in the mirror. I avoid her piercing green eyes. I’m still reeling from my morning’s event. “Yes, this is Christian’s jacket.” She frowns. “Did you sleep?” “Not very well.” I head for the kettle. I need tea. “How was dinner?” So it begins. “We had oysters. Followed by cod, so I’d say it was fishy.” “Ugh…I hate oysters, and I don’t want to know about the food. How was Christian? What did you talk about?” “He was attentive.” I pause. What can I say? His HIV status is clear, he’s heavily into role play, he wants me to obey his every command, he hurt someone he tied to his playroom ceiling, and he wanted to fuck me in the private dining room. Would that be a good summary? I try desperately to remember something from my encounter with Christian that I can discuss with Kate. “He doesn’t approve of Wanda.” “Who does, Ana? That’s old news. Why are you being so coy? Give it up, girlfriend.” “Oh, Kate, we talked about lots things. You know—how fussy he is about food. Incidentally, he liked your dress.” The kettle has boiled, so I make myself some tea. “Do you want tea? Would you like me to hear your speech for today?” “Yes, please. I worked on it last night over at Becca’s. I’ll go fetch it. And yes, I’d love some tea.” Kate races out of the kitchen. Phew, Katherine Kavanagh sidetracked. I slice a bagel and pop it into the toaster. I flush, remembering my vivid dream. What on earth was that about? Last night, I found it hard to sleep. My head was buzzing with various options. I am so confused. Christian’s idea of a relationship is more like a job offer. It has set hours, a job description, and a rather harsh grievance procedure. It’s not how I envisaged my first romance—but, of course, Christian doesn’t do romance. If I tell him I want more, he may say no…and I could jeopardize what he has offered. And this is what concerns me most, because I don’t want to lose him. But I’m not sure I have the stomach to be his submissive—deep down, it’s the canes and whips that put me off. I’m a physical coward, and I will go a long way to avoid pain. I think of my dream… Is that what it would be like? My inner goddess jumps up and down with cheerleading pom-poms shouting Yes! Kate comes back into the kitchen with her laptop. I concentrate on my bagel and listen patiently as she runs through her valedictorian speech. I am dressed and ready when Ray arrives. I open the front door, and he’s standing on the porch in his ill-fitting suit. A warm surge of gratitude and love for this uncomplicated man streaks through me, and I throw my arms around him in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

• From The Lover (1984)

  Her mother won’t stop her when she tries to make money. The child will say, I asked him for five hundred piastres so that we can go back to France. Her mother will say, Good, that’s what we’ll need to set ourselves up in Paris, we’ll be able to manage, she’ll say, with five hundred piastres. The child knows what she’s doing is what the mother would have chosen for her to do, if she’d dared, if she’d had the strength, if the pain of her thoughts hadn’t been there every day, wearing her out. In the books I’ve written about my childhood I can’t remember, suddenly, what I left out, what I said. I think I wrote about our love for our mother, but I don’t know if I wrote about how we hated her too, or about our love for one another, and our terrible hatred too, in that common family history of ruin and death which was ours whatever happened, in love or in hate, and which I still can’t understand however hard I try, which is still beyond my reach, hidden in the very depths of my flesh, blind as a newborn child. It’s the area on whose brink silence begins. What happens there is silence, the slow travail of my whole life. I’m still there, watching those possessed children, as far away from the mystery now as I was then. I’ve never written, though I thought I wrote, never loved, though I thought I loved, never done anything but wait outside the closed door. • • •

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Phew… My subconscious and I both breathe a silent sigh of relief. “So…?” I prompt. “I like the control it gives me, Anastasia. I want you to behave in a particular way, and if you don’t, I shall punish you, and you will learn to behave the way I desire. I enjoy punishing you. I’ve wanted to spank you since you asked me if I was gay.” I flush at the memory. I wanted to spank myself after that question. So Katherine Kavanagh is responsible for all this, and if she’d gone to that interview and asked her gay question, she’d be sitting here with the sore ass. I don’t like that thought. How confusing is this? “So you don’t like the way I am.” He stares at me, bewildered again. “I think you’re lovely the way you are.” “So why are you trying to change me?” “I don’t want to change you. I’d like you to be courteous and to follow the set of rules I’ve given you and not defy me. Simple,” he says. “But you want to punish me?” “Yes, I do.” “That’s what I don’t understand.” He sighs and runs his hands through his hair again. “It’s the way I’m made, Anastasia. I need to control you. I need you to behave in a certain way, and if you don’t… I love to watch your beautiful alabaster skin pink and warm up under my hands. It turns me on.” Holy shit. Now we’re getting somewhere. “So it’s not the pain you’re putting me through?” He swallows. “A bit, to see if you can take it. But that’s not the whole reason. It’s the fact that you are mine to do with as I see fit—ultimate control over someone else. And it turns me on. Big-time. Look, I’m not explaining myself very well. I’ve never had to before. I’ve not really thought about this in any great depth. I’ve always been with like-minded people.” He shrugs apologetically. “And you still haven’t answered my question: How did you feel afterward?” “Confused.” “You were sexually aroused by it, Anastasia.” He closes his eyes briefly, and when he reopens them and gazes at me, they are blazing. His expression pulls at that dark part of me, buried in the depths of my belly—my libido, woken and tamed by him but, even now, insatiable. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs. I frown. Jeez, what have I done now? “I don’t have any condoms, and you know, you’re upset. Contrary to what your roommate believes, I’m not a priapic monster. So, you felt confused?” I squirm under his intense gaze. “You have no problem being honest with me in print. Your emails always tell me exactly how you feel. Why can’t you do that in conversation? Do I intimidate you that much?”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  You are learning to speak a different kind of language. Most people employ symbolic language—their words stand for something real, the feelings, ideas, and beliefs they really have. Or they stand for concrete things in the real world. (The origin of the word "symbolic" lies in a Greek word meaning "to bring things together"—in this case, a word and something real.) As a seducer you are using the opposite: diabolic language. Your words do not stand for anything real; their sound, and the feelings they evoke, are more important than what they are supposed to stand for. (The word "diabolic" ultimately means to separate, to throw things apart—here, words and reality.) The more you make people focus on your sweet-sounding language, and on the illusions and fantasies it conjures, the more you diminish their contact with reality. You lead them into the clouds, where it is hard to distinguish truth from untruth, real from unreal. Keep your words vague and ambiguous, so people are never quite sure what you mean. Envelop them in demonic, diabolical language and they will not be able to focus on your maneuvers, on the possible consequences of your seduction. And the more they lose themselves in illusion, the easier it will be to lead them astray and seduce them. Symbol: The Clouds. In the clouds it is hard to see the exact forms of things. Everything seems vague; the imagination runs wild, seeing things that are not there. Your words must lift people into the clouds, where it is easy for them to lose their way. Use the Demonic Power of Words to Sow Confusion • 263 Reversal Do not confuse flowery language with seduction: in using flowery language you run the risk of wearing on people's nerves, of seeming pretentious. Excess verbiage is a sign of selfishness, of your inability to rein in your natural tendencies. Often with language, less is more; the elusive, vague, ambiguous phrase leaves the listener more room for imagination than does a sentence full of bombast and self-indulgence. You must always think first of your targets, and of what will be pleasant to their ears. There will be many times when silence is best. What you do not say can be suggestive and eloquent, making you seem mysterious. In the eleventh-century Japanese court diary The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon, the counselor Yoshichika is intrigued by a lady he sees in a carriage, silent and beautiful. He sends her a note, and she sends one back; he is the only one to read it, but by his reaction everyone can tell it is in bad taste, or badly written. It spoils the effect of her beauty. Shonagon writes, "I have heard people suggest that no reply at all is better than a bad one." If you are not eloquent, if you cannot master seductive language, at least learn to curb your tongue—use silence to cultivate an enigmatic presence.

• From My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018)

  THE THIRD AWAKENING MARKED nine days locked inside my apartment. I could feel it in my eyes when I got up, the atrophy of the muscles I’d use to focus on things at a distance, I guessed. I kept the lights low. In the shower, I read the shampoo label and got stuck on the words “sodium lauryl sulfate.” Each word carried with it a seemingly endless string of associations. “Sodium”: salt, white, clouds, gauze, silt, sand, sky, lark, string, kitten, claws, wound, iron, omega. The fourth awakening, the words fixated me again. “Lauryl”: Shakespeare, Ophelia, Millais, pain, stained glass, rectory, butt plug, feelings, pigpen, snake eyes, hot poker. I shut the water off, did my due diligence with the laundry, et cetera, took an Infermiterol, and lay back down on the mattress. “Sulfate”: Satan, acid, Lyme, dunes, dwellings, hunchbacks, hybrids, samurais, suffragettes, mazes. • • • SO MY HOURS WENT by in three-day chunks. Ping Xi was dutiful about the calendar and the garbage. One time I wrote a Post-it note and asked for Canada Dry instead of Schweppes. Another time, I wrote a Post-it note and asked for dryer sheets. I paid minor attention to the dust on the windowsills, swirls of lint and hairs caught between the floorboards. I wrote a Post-it note: “Sweep or tell me to sweep when I’m blacked out.” I forgot Ping Xi’s name, then remembered it. I passed the hallway to the locked door of the apartment and vaguely nodded at the idea of the lock, as though it might be just an idea, the door itself, just the notion of a door. “Plato”: chalk, chain, Hollywood, Hegel, carte postale, banana daiquiri, breezes, music, roads, horizons. I could feel the certainty of a reality leeching out of me like calcium from a bone. I was starving my mind into obliqueness. I felt less and less. Words came and I spoke them in my head, then nestled in on the sound of them, got lost in the music. “Ginger”: ale, smoke, China, satin, rose, blemish, treble, babka, fist. • • • ON FEBRUARY 19, I stared into the mirror. My lips were chapped but I was smiling. Two syllables chimed in my mind and I wrote them down on a Post-it for Ping Xi: “Lip balm.” “ChapStick”: strawberry, linoleum, pay scale, sundae, poodle. And then, another Post-it note: “Thank you.” • • • ON FEBRUARY 25, I could tell immediately that something was different. I awoke not sprawled on the mattress in the bedroom, but curled up under a towel on the floor in the northeast corner of the living room, where my desk used to be. I thought I smelled gas, and the association with fire alarmed me, so I got up and went to the stove before remembering that it was electric. Maybe, I thought, what I’d smelled was my own sweat. I relaxed.

• From My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018)

  “Family time can put a strain on the mentally deranged.” She clucked her tongue as though out of pity. Why? She licked a finger and leafed slowly through the pages in my folder, too slowly. Maddening. “The blind leading the blind,” she said wistfully. “The expression has been misused for centuries. It isn’t about ignorance at all. It’s about intuition—the sixth sense, which is the psychic sense. How else could the blind lead? The answer to this question has more to do with science than you might think. Ever seen doctors try to revive someone whose heart has stopped? People don’t understand electroshock. It’s not like sitting in the electric chair. The shocker. Psychiatry has come a long way, into the spiritual realm. Into energies. There are deniers, certainly, but they all work for big oil. Now tell me about your most recent dreams.” “I don’t know. I always forget them. And I’m not sleeping at all, I don’t think.” “We don’t forget things, OK? We just choose to ignore them. Can you accept responsibility for your memory lapse and move on?” “Yes.” “Now let me ask you a technical question. Do you have any heroes?” “I guess Whoopi Goldberg is my hero.” “A family friend?” “She took care of me after my mother died,” I said. Who hadn’t heard of Whoopi Goldberg? “And how did your mother die? Was it sudden? Was it violent?” I had answered this question half a dozen times by now. “I killed her,” I said then. Dr. Tuttle smirked and adjusted her glasses. “How did you achieve that, metaphorically speaking?” I racked my mind. “I crushed oxycodone into her vodka.” “That would do it,” Dr. Tuttle said, scribbling maniacally with a ballpoint pen to get the ink flowing. I couldn’t watch. Dr. Tuttle had never been so irritating. I closed my eyes. It was true that my father had kept a white marble mortar and pestle in his study—an antique. I tried to imagine taking a leftover bottle of his oxycodone and crushing the pills in there. I could see my hands grinding, then spooning the white powder into one of my mother’s frosty bottles of Belvedere. I swirled it around. “Now sit still for a minute,” Dr. Tuttle said, dismissing my confession. I opened my eyes. “I’m going to assess your personality shift. I notice today that your face is slightly off center. Has anyone pointed that out to you?

• From My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018)

  I opened the fridge, stood in the yellow light, and chewed my piece of pizza. My salivary glands were hesitant at first, but then they acquiesced, and the pizza tasted better than I’d remembered it. I pulled clean pajamas from the dryer and put them on in the hallway. I sniffed the air again and recognized the distinct tang of turpentine. It was coming from the bedroom. The bedroom door was locked. I knocked. “Hello?” I listened with my ear pressed against the door, but all I heard was my own shallow breathing, the blink of my eyes, my mouth filling with spit, the echo in my throat swallowing it down. I took my vitamins, but did not bathe. When I took the Infermiterol that day, I pictured Ping Xi’s paintings. They flashed into my mind like memories. They were all “sleeping nudes,” mussed beds and tangles of pale limbs and blond hair, blue shadows in the folds of the white sheets, sunsets reflected on the white wall backgrounds. In every painting, my face was hidden. I saw them in my mind’s eye—small oils on cheap prestretched canvases or smaller primed panels. They were innocent and not very good. It didn’t matter. He could sell them for hundreds of thousands and say they were self-conscious critiques of the institutionalization of painting, maybe even about the objectification of women’s bodies through art history. “School is not for artists,” I could hear him say. “Art history is fascism. These paintings are about what we sleep through while we’re reading books our teachers give us. We’re all asleep, brainwashed by a system that doesn’t give a shit about who we really are. These paintings are deliberately boring.” Did he think that was an original idea? I would never remember posing for the paintings, but I knew that if I was high on Infermiterol, I must have just been feigning sleep. I took an Infermiterol, lay down on the living room floor, a fresh towel folded under my head as a pillow, and went back to sleep. Over the next month, when I’d wake up, my mind was filled with colors. The apartment began to feel less cavernous to me. One time I awoke to find my hair had been cut off, like a boy’s, and there were long blond hairs stuck to the inside of the toilet bowl. I imagined sitting on the toilet with a towel over my shoulders, Ping Xi standing above me, snipping away. In the mirror, I looked bold and sprightly. I thought I looked good. I wrote Post-it notes requesting fresh fruits, mineral water, grilled salmon from “a good Japanese restaurant.” I asked for a candle to burn while I bathed. During this period, my waking hours were spent gently, lovingly, growing

• From My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018)

  It was Dr. Tuttle. I cleared my throat and tried to sound like a normal person. “Good morning, Dr. Tuttle,” I said. “It’s four in the afternoon,” she said. “I’m sorry it took me so long to return your call. My cats had an emergency. Are you feeling better? The symptoms you described in your message, frankly, puzzle me.” I realized I was wearing a hot pink Juicy Couture sweat suit. A tag from the Jewish Women’s Council Thrift Shop dangled from the cuff. There were new used VHS tapes stacked on the bare floor in the hallway, all Sydney Pollack movies: Three Days of the Condor, Absence of Malice, The Way We Were. Tootsie. Out of Africa. I had no memory of ordering Chinese food or going to the thrift store. And I had no memory of what I’d said in any message. Dr. Tuttle said she’d been “baffled by the emotional intensity” in my voice. “I’m concerned for you. I’m very, very, very concerned.” She sounded like she always sounded, her voice a breathy, high-pitched hoot. “When you say you’re questioning your own existence,” she asked, “do you mean you’re reading philosophy books? Or is this something you thought up on your own? Because if it’s suicide, I can give you something for that.” “No, no, nothing like suicide. I was just philosophizing, yes,” I said. “Just thinking too much, I guess.” “That’s not a good sign. It could lead to psychosis. How are you sleeping?” “Not enough,” I said. “I suspected as much. Try a hot shower and some chamomile tea. It should settle you down. And give the Infermiterol a try. Studies have shown it wipes out existential anxiety better than Prozac.” I didn’t want to admit that I’d already tried it, and it had resulted in this strange mess of food and thrift store purchases, at the very least. “Thank you, doctor,” I said. I hung up the phone and found a voice mail from Reva giving me the details for her mother’s funeral and reception in Long Island later that week. She sounded soft, sad, and a little scripted. “Things are moving forward. I guess time is like that—it just keeps going. I hope you can come to the funeral. My mom really liked you.” I’d met her mother once when she’d visited Reva at school senior year, but I’d completely forgotten it. “We set the date for New Year’s Eve. If you could come up early to the house, that would be good,” she said. “The train leaves from Penn Station every hour.” She gave me specific instructions for how to buy my train ticket, where to stand on the platform, which car to sit in, where to get off. “You’ll finally meet my dad.” I almost deleted the message, but then I thought I’d better keep it, and let my mailbox fill back up, so nobody could leave me any more voice mails.