So… anybody who is on my Facebook page knows that Christian and Ana were having a disagreement in my head the other day about the contents of a future chapter that hasn’t even been written yet. It wasn’t even the chapter that they had a problem with… it was the idea of the chapter. Ana thought the motivation should be one thing and Christian respectfully disagreed. However, while they were respectfully disagreeing about the motivation—the motivation… geez—I couldn’t write the damn chapter. I finally gave up and told them to carry their asses to sleep—which we did—but unfortunately, I lost the idea for the chapter.
Having said that, it’s important for you to know that these people are very alive and well and living in my head on a regular basis! They talk, they fight, they fuck, they have ideas, and I get the front row seat to it most of the time. So if you didn’t think I was crazy before, welcome to my world… I’m completely certifiable!
So now, Christian is standing here with his hands in his pocket—much like he’s doing up there—telling me that he has something he wants to say. Now, I’m a little warm with him right now, because if he had just shut the hell up and let me get the chapter on paper… or docx… or voice memo… we could have argued about motivation later. However, being the arrogant, dominant, I-don’t-give-a-fuck-I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now CEO that he is, he reminded me that I have allowed Butterfly to say her piece and he wants to say his now (heavy sigh—he’s being a pain in the ass). He has informed me that if I don’t give him his say that he will keep me awake like Patrick Swayze did to Whoopie Goldberg in “Ghost” singing “Henry the Eighth I Am.” Bastard.
So, as if Ana’s oration wasn’t enough, here’s Christian’s…
CG: Gee, thanks. That was such a warm introduction.
Me: Don’t give me shit, Grey. You cost me a chapter and I’m angry about it.
CG: Excuse me, I wasn’t alone in that disagreement!
Me: No, you weren’t, but Ana’s not in my face trying to get me to “insert her point of view here” when I should be editing tomorrow’s chapter.
CG: That’s because she already said her piece!
Me: Keep it up, okay? I’ll get wine drunk and won’t type a word, and you can go scream “Henry the Eighth” from the top of Mt. Charleston!
CG: (folding his arms) You sure can be a pissy little thing, can’t you?
Me: (reaching for my wine glass and heading for the Sangria)
CG: Fuck, fine, okay. Let’s get on with it.
An address from Christian Grey (happy now?):
Yes, I am hopelessly in love with her.
Yes, I am shamelessly obsessed with her.
Yes, I desperately want to marry her…
But I have learned some valuable lessons in the 30 years that I have been on this earth, the most valuable being that there are three key factors involved in making a big decision:
And most importantly, timing.
I didn’t become a multibillionaire by jumping the gun, and I’m not about to start now.
Things are finally falling into place for me and Butterfly. We still have some hurdles to jump, but I am more certain than ever that we will come overcome all of these adversities with flying colors! She is an exceptional, brave, magnificent woman and she deserves nothing but the best.
When I choose a gift for her, it is often custom-made—intricate details, the best materials, lots of thought… and presented at the right moment.
When I make that beautiful body sing, I take my time—savor her flavor, her smell, every crease and dimple in her skin. That process can’t be hurried.
The perfect grapes are crushed to make the world’s finest wines. The nectar is then aged from several months to several years in quality barrels—preferably super-fine grain French oak—to produce that je ne sais quoi that distinguishes a $2000 vintage from a $50 bottle. When I made my move on this precious flower, I presented her with a bottle of her favorite wine, aged in the French oak and waiting for her. Though I never got a chance to sample it, I know that it wrapped her taste buds in luxurious flavor and slid down her throat like a liquid orgasm.
Location—one of the most exclusive restaurants in Seattle, though I must admit that I didn’t pick it.
Method—her favorite wine, an exquisite vintage, delivered by the owner of the establishment while I sat a short distance away, looking out of the window over the Sound as if the gesture were an afterthought and not the entire purpose of my evening.
Timing—right when the asshole pissed her off (did I mention that the bottle he picked was less than $100); and once she left him sitting at the table holding his balls in his hand along with his pride, I swoop in and escort her and her car safely back to her apartment, where we subsequently had hot sex all night.
Timing… it’s all about the timing. I could have picked a lesser vintage of Cabernet. We could have been at a different restaurant. But the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
When he showed up at her apartment, I waited to hear the context of the conversation instead of charging into the apartment to save the day. Right at that moment when I heard her make it clear that she didn’t want him there, I made my presence known prompting her to catapult herself into my arms at that very moment. A few seconds earlier and she may have just stood there enraged, staring at him. A few seconds later and she may have run out of the room crying, leaving me to handle the psychopathic, delusional asshole.
Neither of those happened.
I walked in just as she was having the biggest part of her adrenaline breakdown. When she heard me re-enforce that it was time for him to leave, she launched herself at me in pure relief. He left that day with the image in his head of the woman that he wanted in my arms clinging to me and tearfully ordering him to leave her home. That outcome couldn’t have been more perfect.
Timing… it’s all about the timing.
When I am tormenting that body, I know just when to stop my lick, my stroke, my ministrations so that her orgasm builds, then wanes, then builds, then wanes, then builds until she explodes in maddening pleasure becoming a limp, whimpering, sexy ball of flesh in my hands.
Timing… it’s all about the timing.
When it’s time to make a move, I move. Very few opportunities—business or personal—slip through my fingers. I am not perfect, and every so often something gets by me. Shit happens. However, in most situations, I am proudly the predator and most often the victor.
I make boardrooms quiver and executives sweat while I wait until the last possible moment to reveal if I am going to be the White Knight or the hostile bidder. By that time, there is nothing they can do but accept their fate or go into bankruptcy.
I have made many women wonder if they would be that special someone—never by deception, but by perfecting my skills as an artist. Yes, artist. What I do to a woman’s body—in pleasure and in pain—can only be described as art… magic, if you will. I’m not modest. I know what I want, and I know what I have to do to get what I want. I am monogamous. If I wanted a sub to be faithful, I had to treat her right and make her body quiver like a tuning fork.
That’s not timing… that’s skill. However, skill is often based on timing.
Sometimes, timing needs a little help—the right people at the right places, the right information, the right tools. But believe me, none of these things are any good if your timing is off.
Timing is everything… it’s all about the timing.
And when it’s time, I’m going to put a ring on it. So don’t rush me… I fucking hate being rushed.
CEO, Grey Enterprise Holdings, Inc