Abstract
This article explores questions of sexual agency and consent in mainstream representations of BDSM using Pauline Réage’s Story of O and EL James’s Fifty Shades trilogy as examples. It addresses normalizing tendencies and explores to what extent BDSM can be represented before being rejected by mainstream readers. Based on critiques of both novels, I outline the degree to which the concept of consensual non-consent, that is, the illusion of suspended consent in order to facilitate erotic power play, works in both novels. A close reading reveals a return to more traditional notions of femininity and female sexual agency in Fifty Shades, as well as a growing tendency to normatively limit the depictions of sadomasochistic desires.
We act on our desires – or at least, we try to. Human interaction is governed by a multiplicity of rules and expectations, and in sexuality, more than in other areas of our lives, expectations dictate the process of events. Agency, the capacity to act in a way that leads to accomplishing a set goal, defining our sexual needs, deciding on activities we might want to engage in or not, and the ability to stop are necessary for a fulfilled sexuality. In BDSM 1 subculture, consent and sexual agency are seen as integral parts of interaction. Any erotic encounter is necessarily preceded by negotiations in order to establish boundaries and safewords, as well as discussing preferred practices and limits. While these procedures have become commonplace within sexual subcultures, mainstream, 2 or ‘vanilla’ sexuality works according to a risky exclusionary principle which posits that as long as neither participant withdraws their consent, all actions can be assumed to be consensual.
In this article I aim to compare the Fifty Shades trilogy to the ‘classic’ work of erotica Story of O. 3 Published in 1954, Pauline Réage’s story follows the protagonist O along her path to becoming a sex slave. Her lover René takes O to a château outside Paris where she is introduced to a life of sexual service. While she initially struggles with her role, O eventually becomes immersed in it, surpassing her lover’s expectations regarding her submissive potential. He subsequently hands her over to his brother, Sir Stephen, who continues to break down her boundaries, subtracting avenues of agency until O becomes that which is signified by her name: lost in (her) nothingness, less than human, stripped of her subjectivity. As Réage, or, rather, Anne Desclos – the woman behind the pen name – explained in an interview with Regine Deforges, Story of O was originally written as a love letter to a man, a seduction, and not meant for publication (Deforges and Réage, 1979: 70). Thus, it seems to have been written with a male readership in mind, which arguably might be reflected in the subject matter. Of course, I am not disputing that today’s audience is made up of readers of all genders. Similarly, EL James’s trilogy, being written as a romance and depreciatively called ‘mommy porn’ by many, follows a pattern traditionally aimed at a female audience, and while there are no exact numbers, a significant section of its audience appears to be made up of urban younger women (Roiphe, 2012).
In the past decades, alternative sexualities have undergone various explorations by mainstream media. The culture we live in is becoming more and more ‘sexed up’ (Attwood, 2006), and it has seemingly welcomed representations of formerly disavowed sexual minorities into its midst via popular music (from Madonna’s SM aesthetic to the more recent examples of Christina Aguilera, 30 Seconds To Mars, and, controversially, Rihanna), literature (Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty trilogy, 4 Walter Mosley’s Killing Johnny Fry (2007), and Nicci French’s Killing Me Softly (1999), to name only a few), fashion, advertising and so on (Weinberg and Magill, 1995; Weiss, 2006). But as Attwood notes, an increasingly accessible sexual discourse makes the portrayed practices more vulnerable to regulatory procedures. This tendency for regulation is almost tangible in James’s Fifty Shades trilogy. Set safely within a heterosexual frame, the books cautiously introduce sadomasochism to a larger audience that might until then not have come in contact with it, in a way that avoids questioning any heteronormative values.
Fifty Shades of Grey, the first novel of the three, introduces readers to the protagonists, Anastasia Steele, the narrator, a virginal college graduate who meets self-made billionaire Christian Grey and is introduced to his world of ‘dubious’ and ‘depraved’ desires (James, 2011: 149, 164). He promptly initiates sex with her before presenting Ana with the proposal to become his submissive as well as a comprehensive ‘slave contract’ which they negotiate for much of the rest of the book. It is important to note here that Anastasia never actually signs the contract or otherwise self-identifies as a submissive; on the contrary, she repeatedly gives reasons why she is not suited to be a submissive, usually conveying a sense of moral outrage at the idea. She continuously resists the idea of formalizing their relationship by signing Christian’s contract: ‘Any sane person wouldn’t want to be involved in this sort of thing, surely’ (James, 2011: 108). Ultimately, Christian agrees to a significantly more conventional relationship with her, culminating in marriage and children (at the end of the third novel, Anastasia is pregnant with their second child).
In 1984, sociologist Gayle Rubin started to write about hierarchies in sexuality and categorized various kinds of sex according to their level of acceptance within mainstream society. Her ‘Charmed Circle vs. Outer Limits’ diagram shows sadomasochism in the outer limits and away from ‘charmed’ categories like ‘normal’, ‘for kids’, ‘vanilla’, or ‘at home’. Sadomasochism, she writes, is among the ‘most despised’ practices, along with sex work and fetishism (Rubin, 2011 [1984]: 149). It is thus not in line with what is deemed acceptable by society and consequently cast out or derided. And while now, almost three decades later, views on sexuality have changed, non-monogamous relationships, pornography, and sex for money are still securely contained in the ‘outer limits’. 5 In Story of O, heteronormativity or monogamy are not important, or indeed, even seem to be desired. In the world of Roissy, any man can use any woman as he pleases; even outside the château walls, female slaves can be called upon and used by any man privy to the secret identification, a special ring they have to wear at all times. Intercourse with other women (for the voyeuristic pleasure of said men) is just as common. However, there is no mention of reproduction – or contraception, for that matter – throughout the book; neither do marriage or any traditional forms of family play a role. Fifty Shades of Grey, on the other hand, portrays a wholly different image of relations, and while I do not mean to promote the protocol suggested in Story of O, I ask how this more ‘mainstream’ image of SM was able to pass into everyday culture, and what meaning can be deduced from Fifty Shades’ perceived ‘everyday quality’.
Eleanor Wilkinson, analyzing the circulation of SM imagery in contemporary mainstream culture, cautions against seeing the increased occurrence of these images as evidence of acceptance and urges a more critical reading of context: ‘Do these images challenge the sexual status quo, or do they reinforce SM’s otherness (or can they do both simultaneously)?’ (Wilkinson, 2009: 182). Despite the fact that its subject matter is subversive, its presentation correlates with familiar generic tropes. In the sensationalized Fifty Shades of Grey, SM is portrayed in the safe context of a romance novel. Its unobtrusive yet titillating ‘kinky fuckery’ works as a secure channel to play subversive sexuality against heteronormative bliss. It is, as Lisa Downing observes, ‘in many ways a very classical romance, undeniably tritely written and riddled with cliché’ (Downing, 2013: 93). Incorporating elements of sadomasochistic play determines its ‘novelty value’ but does not otherwise disrupt the genre (Downing, 2013) or threaten the story’s status as harmless yet enjoyable, mass-marketable erotica.
The marketing appeal of SM, most recently illustrated by a rise in sex toy sales in the wake of the Fifty Shades craze and the use of SM imagery in advertising clothes and cars, connects SM as a sexual activity to privilege. Paraphernalia such as sex toys are showcased as indispensable, leaving the unaware consumer convinced that they are necessary in order to engage in erotic power play. Both novels reinforce this impression: SM seems to happen among participants of an affluent middle (or higher) class, who are well-educated, white, and able-bodied. 6 Roissy echoes with reminders of nobility through the refined setting and demeanor of its inhabitants, 7 and the Fifty Shades trilogy is equally set in the privileged surroundings of billionaire life, complete with casual helicopter rides, haute couture fashion, and latest-generation technology. This economic privilege is mirrored in the stories’ ethnic mix. The only non-white characters to appear in either book are portrayed as rather dubious in behaviour and status: Story of O features Sir Stephen’s nameless black housekeeper, who repeatedly looks at O in what she perceives as silent judgment. Fifty Shades’ José, happy Hispanic photographer, is quietly attracted to Anastasia but without a chance against either Christian’s looks or mysterious nature, a desexualized friend who oversteps his boundaries one drunken evening and is hence cast out completely as a possible partner.
Finally, heterosexual privilege is consolidated in both stories: In O’s life, same-sex encounters are aimed at pleasing men. Even in his absence, during her stay at Samois, her actions are determined by Sir Stephen’s prior commands. Fifty Shades does not feature any non-heterosexual attractions at all. Even though it is the dominating relationship paradigm today, heterosexuality as a social construct has received far less critical attention than other forms of sexual desire despite its problematic structure. Nonetheless, when writing about sexual consent David Archard (1998), for example, focuses exclusively on heterosexuality, arguing that sexual consent is an essentially female ‘problem’ and thus its discussion is tied to gender. In his examination, he identifies three key principles needed to enable valid consent: capacity, information, and voluntariness. If there is any doubt as to whether consent has been given, he advises to presume that it has not (Archard, 1998: 15). But what if the aim is to create the illusion of non-consent? To be sure, consent is one of the prerequisites of BDSM play but many practitioners take pleasure in creating an atmosphere that simulates a seemingly more ‘violent’ scene, which is made possible by the concept of ‘consensual non-consent’. This in turn has been the catalyst for an elaborate discussion about consent within the BDSM subculture, currently being intensified by public reaction to James’s novels in various BDSM activists’ blogs 8 and through workshops and activist work. It is crucial to expand and make accessible these arguments to novice erotic power players. Stacey May Fowles (2008) accordingly argues for a mainstream discussion about consent and consensual non-consent, precisely because practitioners new to the scene as well as consumers of BDSM imagery, be it in advertising or pornography, do not have an awareness of BDSM culture and thus read consensual non-consent as (seemingly acceptable) violence against women. In her analysis, she blames the stereotypical depiction of submissive women in mainstream texts in particular, tracing back to Wilkinson’s question about the purposes of portrayals and their inherent dangers (Wilkinson, 2009).
In the following section, I look closely at how consent is established in each work and draw comparisons to establish that while both O and Ana initially participate to ensure their respective lovers’ attention, Ana soon begins to work towards transforming Christian’s desires where O fully engages with her submissive role and transcends the expectations put onto her. In its most basic form consent seems to be quite uncomplicated: Any action, sexual or other, is consensual when all participating adults give their informed and voluntary consent, and the action does not hurt others. It is self-evident, however, that there are many instances that warrant a further refinement of this seemingly simple starting point. Consenting to self-harm is permitted only in certain cases and is morally acceptable in sports or for medical reasons but not for (sexual) pleasure. Consenting to be harmed in pursuit of sadomasochistic practices has previously been legally risky (Califia, 1994; Rubin, 2011 [1984]) and has only recently gained some acceptance within law enforcement. However, depending on geographical location, an open identification as an SM practitioner can lead to legal and private problems (employment, disadvantage in legal matters, etc.), and indeed, potential criminalization (see Attwood and Walters, this issue). Story of O and Fifty Shades of Grey portray two very different concepts of consent. While the former presents a more prescriptive and forceful approach, Fifty Shades employs techniques of extended negotiation to reach a mutually beneficial and acceptable agreement.
Negotiating consent
In an essay outlining the problematic implications of the normalization of BDSM, Alex Dymock (2011 [2010]) assesses female sexual agency from a psychoanalytic point of view. Reading Robin West’s analysis of the harms of consensual sex she asserts that the assimilation of BDSM within contemporary consumer culture results in normalized representations such as those found in men’s magazines where female submission is often presented as a form of compliance that is hard to distinguish from feminine masochism. This compliance is systematically rewarded within the system of heteronormativity while women’s own desires are silenced (Dymock, 2011 [2010]: 6). This reflects Rubin’s observation that a male-dominated system fosters female sexuality that responds to male needs and desires (Rubin, 2011 [1984]). But where does it leave the issue of agency in Fifty Shades of Grey?
Within feminist discourse there has been an ongoing discussion about SM, one side viewing it as an expression of sexual desires and agency (traditionally referred to as ‘sex-positive’
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), the other arguing that SM is violent and echoes heterosexual male dominance and patriarchy (‘radical feminist’).
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Discussions of the legitimacy of SM as feminist sexual practice have been brought to the fore with the recent throng of arguments surrounding the reception of the Fifty Shades trilogy, and have been focusing around these established questions surrounding female sexual agency. In an article reading SM through the lens of postcolonial feminism, Maneesha Deckha (2011) draws parallels between the western feminist reception and critique of non-western cultural practices and the treatment of SM within that same theoretical frame. She points to the marginalized cultural identities shared by practitioners of non-western painful practices and people engaging in SM, urging critical thinkers to apply a ‘world-travelling’ approach to the issue in order to establish parallels and allow for a reconsideration of SM as a legitimate feminist praxis. World-traveling emphasizes listening to unfamiliar experiences in a critical yet respectful way in order to reduce tendencies to see cultural practices as ‘different’ and inadvertently slip into an imperial position (Deckha, 2011: 134). Applying the three steps outlined in her analysis, she states with regard to SM: S/M is something that many people actively seek out and enjoy. It holds value for some women and it is too dismissive to regard this value as an expression of false consciousness. (Deckha, 2011: 141)
In Fifty Shades, Anastasia never defines herself as a submissive. She refuses to sign the contract and continues to push Christian’s desires aside as pathological and unnatural, forcing him to deal with situations he has avoided as a means of self-protection. In the course of the story, the reader discovers his past and learns that the relationships he initiated as an adult have been with women who are self-identified submissives and signed his contract without hesitation, thus actively expressing their desires. But when they are mentioned in the novel, their portrayal reflects moral judgment on Anastasia’s part. She refers to Christian’s former partners as ‘some sort of kinky sex slave[s]’ (James, 2011: 126), and is horrified by his suggestion that she might talk to one of them in order to clarify some of Christian’s expectations: ‘… If you’d like, I can introduce you to one of my former subs. You could talk to her.’
What? Is he deliberately trying to upset me?
‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ … … ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’ ‘I’m not offended, I’m appalled.’ ‘Appalled?’ ‘I don’t want to talk to one of your ex-girlfriends … slave … sub … whatever you call them.’ (James, 2011: 198)
In an article on the politics of BDSM representation, Weiss presents data gained from interviewing non-practitioners about the surprise mainstream hit movie Secretary (Shainberg, 2002). She posits that there are two mechanisms for the reception of BDSM within mainstream culture: acceptance via normalization and understanding via pathologizing. Consequently, viewers either accept representations when they are similar enough to normalized western sexuality, or they understand them as the depiction of an essentially pathological need. Either approach, however, reinforces boundaries between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ sexuality (Weiss, 2006; see also Rubin, 2011 [1984]). As Weiss elaborates, By offering modes of acceptance and understanding that reinforce the division of sexuality into normal/abnormal, privileged/policed, and healthy/pathological, these mainstream representations of SM disrupt the assumption of causation between visibility and political progress. (Weiss, 2006: 119)
‘You. Are. Mine.’
This section elaborates on the concept of ownership in erotic power play, which is often perceived as being problematic, not only historically, but in connection to contemporary issues like human trafficking. In contemporary culture, ownership is related in a more symbolic way to signal belonging and protection, rather than literal possession. Practices surrounding power play, like erotic power exchange (EPE) or total power exchange (TPE)
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are met with disapproval. But is possession of a person possible? Ownership, or an imitation of ownership, has always played an important part in erotic power play. Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s Venus in Furs, published in 1870, is an early exploration of sexual slavery and appraises the possibilities of consenting to consign ownership of one’s self – body, material possessions, time – to another person. The novella’s protagonist, Severin, first persuades his lover to test the role as a dominant, but when she gets absorbed in her performance he realizes that he is not made for this self-chosen state of servitude and abandons her. This fictional rendering of a Master/slave relationship has been highly influential within the BDSM scene as a model for power play scenarios. In a modern discussion of body ownership, Angel Butts (2007) describes ownership as not only possible but as, at times, even desirable. She reminds us that greeting cards and popular song titles openly announce the close relationship between ownership and romance in our culture, and infers that these representations postulate a body’s ‘object quality’ (Butts, 2007). Within what Butts calls ‘sexualized lifestyle communities’, and what I in this article term the BDSM community or culture, slave contracts are common: The contract stands as a written reminder that neither slaves nor Masters are free to exit the relationship at will without risking sanctions from the closely knit lifestyle communities. While such contracts may not be legally binding, they are invested with a symbolic worth. (Butts, 2007: 68)
I am making this specific statement the starting point to my exploration of Fifty Shades of Grey’s commercial success. ‘Hearts and flowers’, as conventional romantic relationships are code-named in the novel, are never equated to the arrangement Christian initially proposes to Anastasia. Her first reaction to the contract she is presented with is that it is ‘no way to have a relationship’ (James, 2011: 176), thus instantly dismissing the possibility of actually joining both his and her wishes and expectations, and alluding to the prevailing relationship paradigm as preferable, as well as setting the tone for the rest of the trilogy. Christian’s wishes as a self-identified BDSM dominant are discounted as pathological, and he is subliminally anticipated to change for a ‘better’, conventional, ‘vanilla’ romance. Any resistance on his part is described as somewhat ‘weird’ and echoed in her room-mate Kate’s vague warnings, before being refuted. In keeping with other narratives of sadomasochistic romance, 12 Anastasia repeatedly tries to detect a reason for the development of his desires and idiosyncrasies. After meeting his mother, who is fully in step with white upper-class privilege, she rules out any connection to his upbringing and instead suspects his former partner, a woman she calls ‘Mrs Robinson’ because of the unusual age difference between them. Reinforcing societal stigma of older women’s sexual agency, Anastasia unleashes her disgust and blame on her 13 even after Christian assures her of Mrs Robinson’s role in his life as a positive and helpful influence.
Anastasia, while generally portrayed as inexperienced and naive, draws on the limited influence she has over Christian, mainly his attraction to her innocence, to force him to back away from his wishes step by step. Any insistence on his part results in childish pouting, and readers are made to believe that this pushing towards changes for the ‘better’ is exerting a healing power and slowly extinguishing the consequences of Christian’s past abuse, that is, it is asserted, his sexual orientation. Hence, the power dynamic is somewhat turned around in this respect, and while it is predominantly Anastasia who fears being left by Christian, he also grows attached and is increasingly vulnerable to Anastasia’s emotional blackmail. In popular culture this behaviour is often referred to as ‘playing the game’, meaning getting one’s will by engaging in an emotional tug of war for control in the struggle for power within a relationship. The novel’s transgressive potential only becomes apparent in Christian’s desire to extend his control over Anastasia beyond her sexuality. The initial contract outlines prescriptions pertaining to her time management, health, personal hygiene, food intake, duration of sleep, exercise, and contraception. The last, especially, is a cogent indicator for its intrusive potential: Christian’s aversion to condoms simultaneously signals Anastasia’s seemingly inherent obligation to start taking hormones; alternatives altering Christian’s body are not discussed, 14 and Anastasia dutifully lets herself be examined and questioned by his doctor in order to comply with his wishes. This first step towards complete control of her body and selves is indicative of his desired dominance. It simultaneously places the relationship both within and outside the heteronormative bounds by reflecting on both the established convention of placing contraceptive responsibility on the woman as well as inculcating his claim to controlling every aspect of her body, starting with its reproductive ability.
Butts’s discussion illustrates that ownership over the body is only the start of a more comprehensive control over the aspects of the owned slave’s life, clearly extending beyond sexual behaviour (Butts, 2007: 71). The article uses a case study in which the dominant, Mistress Linda, explains why she insists on exercising control over not only her slaves’ time but bodies: She deems extending her ownership to controlling even basic bodily functions necessary in order to annihilate the traditional idea of internal ownership, which threatens her external one. While Mistress Linda’s is an indefinite arrangement, Christian assures Anastasia that her submission will be limited to negotiated time periods, clearly oblivious to the fact that already the seemingly small step of hormonal interference cannot be limited as such and thus unintentionally expanding his control over her body indefinitely. This fact, however, goes completely unnoticed by both sides in their negotiations, bearing witness to the ‘everyday quality’ of this specific intrusion. James instead focuses on the more obviously transgressive points: prescribing exercise and food intake from a pre-approved list. The latter is rejected by Anastasia immediately, even though she makes a point of eating in Christian’s presence even when she is not hungry. Some negotiation takes place about her exercise, and she can be persuaded to comply eventually. By contract, Anastasia is bound to keep her body shaved, clean, and healthy. While the health clause is reciprocal, the prescriptions for exercise or personal grooming are not, reflecting society’s acceptance of policing female bodies that have to adhere to much stricter beauty (and health) norms than men’s. This is further evidenced by the tacit acceptance of all points pertaining to these established norms of feminine beauty.
In Story of O, the rules are non-negotiable. There is prescribed clothing at Roissy, and rules are in place for the life after O’s training period, most of them related to bodily accessibility, but no rules regarding personal fitness, health, contraception, or duration of sleep. Personal hygiene is mentioned, and the women have to rouge their nipples and labia in order to draw more attention to them. I suspect the prescriptions seem much harsher in contrast, probably owing to the fact that they are offered not as starting point for mutual agreement but as regulations enforced by corporal punishment. Here, however, the focus lies in bodily accessibility. O is quickly stripped of her agency, first by being restricted at all times, and forbidden even to touch herself, and later on by a meticulous breaking down of any resistance she puts up, to the point of complete self-abandonment, though her life outside of her sexual service remains largely untouched by her status. The story itself has been criticized for its misogynist character numerous times (Benjamin, 1980; Kustritz 2008; Sontag, 2002 [1974]), and while I generally agree with a reading that sees O as tied in a heteronormative and patriarchal system, in a key scene she admits to what in the novel is called her ‘wantonness’ (Réage, 1972 [1954]: 129), the fact that she desires the men who use her. In that I read a remainder of agency on O’s part that is completely absent in Anastasia’s subjectivity. 15 In Fifty Shades it is made abundantly clear that Anastasia wants only Christian’s affections, and even though O continues on a path towards extinguishing her consciousness (Sontag, 2002 [1974]), she relishes the fact that Sir Stephen eventually falls in love with her.
Where Story of O is a fantasy, not transferable to contemporary life, Fifty Shades has managed to find a compromise for mass appeal by shrouding a conventional romance in ‘kinky fuckery’. Notwithstanding, despite its radical notions, Story of O seems to be a safer discourse with regards to ‘consent seepage’, instances where consent to sexual acts metaphorically leaks into everyday life. While there are problematic scenes in the book where O’s consent is highly questionable, or not explicitly given at all, the rules are strict enough to ensure a separation between her slave self and professional self.
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Her willingness to consent, however, is always already seen as a given: Consent, O was telling herself, consent wasn’t the difficult part, and it was then she realized that neither of the men had for one instant anticipated the possibility of her not consenting: nor had she. (Réage, 1972 [1954]: 98)
In Fifty Shades consent is the sine qua non, and it is continuously negotiated. Via her contract, Anastasia can rule out various methods of punishment, certain implements or techniques. She is encouraged to take time for research and given the opportunity to ask questions and negotiate her comfort level, securing, as Downing puts it, ‘squeaky-clean’ BDSM ethics (Downing, 2013: 96). At the end of the book, when it comes to signing the final version of the contract, she confesses to being afraid of pain and asks for punishment in order to find out if she could bear it, 18 to which Christian agrees. After the procedure, a leather belt spanking, she runs out angrily and eventually leaves him, thereby (temporarily) ending the relationship. While the narrative makes it seem like a transgression on Christian’s part, a reading from the viewpoint of consent reveals Anastasia to be at fault. While he might have inflicted unwanted pain on her, it would have been her responsibility to use the agreed upon safeword to end any action she felt she could not handle. Unlike O, she has not agreed to a premise of consensual non-consent and is thus free to renegotiate boundaries at any point. Ignoring this agreement, she betrays the trust her dominant put in her and breaks the agreement.
In this instance, Anastasia shows agency only to the point of stating what she does not want. SM play, however, is not a replication but a simulation of power imbalance. A literal reading ignores this fact and assumes that Anastasia’s bodily integrity has been violated, by reading the erotic spanking as actual violence. As mentioned earlier, this illustrates a problem of cultural literacy. Fowles elaborates on this difficulty when she talks about the appropriation of BDSM accessories to mainstream pornography, asserting that ‘while community members understand that it is important to be sensitive to the needs, boundaries, and rules of players in order for a scene to function fairly and enjoyably, mainstream porn is primarily about getting off as quickly as possible’ (Fowles, 2008: 122). The message relayed through a market-driven adaptation of SM aesthetics is one of women’s desire to be violated, completely ignoring the underlying consensual pleasure gained by both participants. Circling back to Weiss’ concepts mentioned earlier, Anastasia’s seeming acceptance of Christian’s desires in this scene turns to mere understanding, pathologizing, at which point she leaves.
From the point of view of narrative, James’s decision to abstain from more than superficial sadomasochistic play makes sense: A depiction of Anastasia as powerful participant would conflict with the requirements for what Tanya Gold (2012) has termed a rise in ‘loving-slave fantasy’, tracing a ‘swelling of female masochism’ in popular fiction to both Fifty Shades and its inspiration, Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series (2005, 2006, 2007, 2008). While imitating adherence to neoliberal concepts of ‘free choice’ (Weiss, 2011: 18), loving-slave narratives reject the notion of SM as play and cast it as pathology in opposition to conventional relationship paradigms, and hence, unhealthy. Choices are only valid as long as they comply with conventional tropes of romantic love. Instead of acknowledging its potential for establishing a deeper connection, SM is repudiated as violent. Actual violations of personal space that reproduce dominant romantic discourse are encouraged: Christian’s stalking behaviour throughout the trilogy is perceived as romantic, caring, and protective, instead of instantly being discredited as abusive. Christian uses his privileged position to ignore any of Anastasia’s objections to his choices, 19 As Downing observes, his sexual orientation as a BDSM dominant is conflated with his attitude towards his partner, insinuating that his sexuality and nature are one and the same (Downing, 2013: 93). His proclivity to infantilize Anastasia is only surpassed by her willingness to comply. While she does remark on his stalking behaviour, she ultimately worries more about how he perceives her. Aided by her ‘inner goddess’, the personification of the internalized male gaze always reflecting an outside image back at her, she begins to police her own actions and finally completely conforms to Christian’s life and wishes. Unlike O, however, she does not manage to find satisfaction in her position: she cannot ‘will to will’. Self-directed instrumentality, trying to will oneself to liking something, certainly offers opportunities. However, what philosopher John Locke calls second-order volition (‘the will to will’) is not possible and must inevitably fail (Hall, 2009: 7, original italics), as happens at the end of Fifty Shades of Grey. To remain within the prescribed genre conventions and comply with mainstream expectations, James abides by established femininity. Réage’s O, while in a similarly privileged position, relinquishes her subjectivity and potential to act autonomously, because by doing so she can realize a growing desire in herself. Anastasia never even begins to explore her subjectivity and instead replaces her own wishes with her lover’s, at the same time adhering to outdated mores. The narrative thereby reinforces the harmful boundaries between what desires are presently accepted as mainstream, and the ones that continue to be pathologized, cast out, and ridiculed.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Donald E Hall and Finn Ballard for their support and encouragement, and to everybody who was willing to discuss my thoughts and ask the right questions to help me along.
Funding
My thanks go to the Austrian Agency for International Cooperation in Education and Research (the OeAD) for making possible the research for this article by awarding me the Marietta Blau stipend.