Christian is pacing back and forth in panic.

He runs a hand through his hair, then the other, and then his feet. He's looking more Brad Pittiful than Brad Pitt.

I look up.

Holy cow! It's already Chapter Eight and still no chitty chitty bang bang? The way it looks, I'm going to have to buy Christian's little soldier some ginkgo biloba, because it's forgotten how to stand at attention. When it comes to getting lucky with Mr. Rich Guy, it seems I'd have a better chance defeating Tywin Lannister for the control of Westeros. I'd go on, but, like an aging Ron Jeremy, I've only got one or two good metaphors in me and then I'm ready for a nap.

I offer Christian my hand and help him up from the fetal position he's curled up in on the floor.

"Why didn't you tell me you've never had sex?" he asks.

"I did," I answer.

"When was that?"

"Back in Chapter Six, when you weren't listening."

"Darn right I wasn't!" He shakes his head. I don’t know why he’s overreacting to the news of my virginianinity now, other than for dramatic literary purposes. And to fill up space. "When I think of all of the filthy disgusting things I wanted to do to you..."

"You make sex sound so... so... dirty."

"Sex IS dirty... if you do it right. Sex is like a Vin Diesel movie, Ana. It's fast, it's furious, and on a hot day you really sweat a lot." He eyes me at crotch level, because that's where the joke is. "You're what, twenty-one? Your hoo-hah's almost past its expiration date, and you haven't even been kissed."

"I have so been kissed."

"Pets and stuffed animals don't count."

"I'm not talking about pets and stuffed animals. Although, I did kiss my dog once, but that was the only time."

"Why?"

"It made him throw up."

"I'm talking about a man, Ana. Have you ever been kissed by a man?"

"My grandfather kissed me goodbye once."

"How was it?"

"He slipped me the tongue."

"How is this even possible, Ana? You're beautiful. At least on the inside. Maybe not even there. I don't understand why there hasn't been a long line of men waiting to take advantage of you."

I'm on the verge of tears. My bottom lip is quivering like public housing at the San Andreas fault line, which is the continental transform fault that extends approximately 745,645 miles through California. It forms the tectonic boundary between the Pacific Plate and the North American Plate, and I’m not talking about the kind of plates you put food on--mmm… food--and its motion is right-lateral strike-slip, as opposed to left-centered slippity-slip.

I look at Christian Grey. He's eyeing that very bottom lip. He wants that very bottom lip. My bottom lip is like a magnet to his steely resolve. Like catnip to a kitty. Like an all-you-can-eat buffet to Louie Anderson.

He cups my chin between his thumb and forefinger and gives it a nice wiggle.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he tells me. "Ana, you don't understand. I'm not just some kind of monster, I am a monster. You don't know what you'd be getting yourself into."

I do my best Groucho Marx impersonation.

"But I'd know what you'd be getting into," I tell him, wagging an imaginary cigar in my imaginary hand.

"Run, Ana," he begs. "Run as fast as you can."

"Oh, Christian," I over-emote, "is the thought of making whoopee with me that disgustipating to you? Am I that hideous to look at?"

"No, Ana. It's just that the last virginian I dated was a disappointing lover. She just laid there, waiting for the Rohypnol to wear off. Later, she would bring her cat with her whenever she visited. We finally broke up because that stupid thing would never stop spitting and scratching and crying and biting. The cat was nice, though. Speaking of cats, I haven’t seen Fluffy around lately. Have you?"

I look deep into his eyes where I see Vladimir Putin.

Knock, Knock!

"Who's there?"

"Vladimir Putin."

"Vladimir Putin who?"

"Ol' Vladimir sure is Putin the screws to the Ukraine."

"Christian," I tell him, "I want this. I want this. Don't be such a passive-aggressive."

"I'm not a passive-aggressive," he corrects me. "I'm aggressively passive."

"I don't care what you are. You promised me, and I'm holding you to that promise."

"And I'm a man of my word, Ana. Unfortunately, that word is 'sicko'."

"I don't care, Christian. I. Don't. Care." My voice is a staccato, which I think is some kind of Italian food. That makes me hungry.

"As you wish," Christian finally gives in.

He lifts me in his arms. How romantic, he's going to carry me to his bed. He takes two steps and puts me down.

"Um," he says, breathing heavily. From the excitement, I think. "You don't mind walking the rest of the way, do you?"

"No," I tell him.

"Fine, fine," he says. "Give me a few seconds. I'll catch up."

I go to the bed and take off all my clothes. Finally, some action. Now I get to experience... Hey! Is that a transporter?

"A transporter?" he asks.

"You know, like in Star Trek."

"My dear, the technology to 'beam' something from one place to another doesn't exist. You must be as smart as you are beautiful."

"Thanks."

Er.. ah... wha?

Christian stands before me. Naked. Not a stitch of clothing on. I can't help it, my eyes are drawn to his bo diddley. It reminds me of Yul Brynner, bald and hard to understand.

I bite my bottom lip in antici...PAYshun. He drools in response. Pavlov's dork.

"I've wanted to do this from the first moment I saw you," he tells me, finally getting his wind back.

"What? Bite my bottom lip?" I say, pretending a coyness I don't possess. I lost it betting on the Cowboys.

"No," he says. "Show you my Yul Brynner impression."

He looks at me laying before him. A feast ready to be consumed.

"Have you ever considered getting a tattoo?" he asks me, out of the blue.

"I do have a tattoo," I tell him.

"You do?"

"Yes," and I show him. "It's the Chinese character for 'Yo Quiero Taco Bell'."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a full-sized picture of a thin body tattooed over your fat one."

Geez... all this conversation. I'm hoping it doesn't affect my ability to have an orgasm. Kate tells me that everything affects a woman's orgasm.

"What about men?" I remember asking her.

"For men," she told me, "only two things will: pepper and spray."

Fortunately, I don't see either of those items.

Christian climbs into bed with me.

"Get ready, Ana," he tells me. "Get ready for the most exciting night of your life."

I am so ready for this. I've only been waiting my whole life to... to... zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

When I wake up, I see Christian standing at the foot of the bed taking off his Hazmat suit.

He looks at me and smiles.

"Was it good for you, darling Ana?"

I look around. Why do I smell bacon grease?

"Yes, darling..."

"Call me Mr. Grey."

"...it was wonderful. It was everything I dreamed it would be. It's just that... that..."

"What?"

"You know how a woman has an entrance and an exit?"

"Yes."

"Why does my exit hurt?"

"I didn't plan on that, my darling. When I rolled you over, I thought you were flirting with me."

He climbs back into bed with me. The lingering smell of the rubber suit is intoxicating.

"So... I'm no longer a... a..."

"No," he says, "not anymore."

"Now I'm... I'm..."

"Yes, now you are a woman."

"A woman?"

"Yes, a woman."

"A woman."

"That's right, a woman."

"A woman..."

"Yeah, a woman."

"I can't believe it, I'm finally a..."

"Ana..."

"What?"

"Shut up."

We lay in bed, making small talk.

"Did you have an orgasm?" he asks, and I love him for how he's always looking out for me. "Because I got mine."

"I'm not sure," I tell him.

"What do you mean you're not sure?"

"I have no point of reference."

"I'm sorry, my sweet dove. How thoughtless of me. Tell me, how do you feel?"

"I feel guilty, like I've done something wrong. I also feel soiled and used and vaguely unsatisfied."

"Well... that's exactly what an orgasm feels like," he says, giving himself a high-five. "Congratulations."

That being settled, I look around. There's not one picture of himself or his family. Or any indication of who he is or what he likes to do. I ask him how he spends his time when he's not busy exploiting the poor.

"Until I met you, I spent all my free time searching for my mother's killer."

I sit up suddenly.

"You did?" I ask him, my jaw dropping to the floor.

"Yes," he tells me, "but they all charge too much. I like you, Ana. I like you a lot. You listen, and that's a rare commodity in females. Before I met you, if I wanted a woman to listen to me, I'd have to begin each sentence with 'I'm rich" or 'Here's a dollar.'"

I snuggle up in his arms, and he hugs me close.

"Sleep, sweet Anastasia, sleep," he murmurs, a tear welling up in the corner of one eye, his good one.

Christian Grey? Sad? I don't believe it.

I close my eyes, the smell of the Chloroform comforting.

So... Christian Grey has a sensitive side.

What a wuss.