While reading Fifty Shades of Grey by E.L. James, I came across the chapter where Christian Grey is unable to explain his attraction to Anastasia Steele. The only answer he is able to say, and repeats often is, “There’s something about you…” This concept in romance novels is not a foreign one. After all, don’t all girls want to be special?
Even Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight illustrates how this thought process begins (at least) in high school. Edward’s attraction to Bella starts because he can’t read her thoughts and that makes her unique. TV shows, movies, books, and plays typically focus on a special individual. And why wouldn’t they? Average life is boring. We strive for the excitement of being different.
For females, being special to their own special someone is one of the greatest joys. To know that the bond you share is unlike one he’s ever had before, and could ever have in the future. Isn’t that why we try to change the bad boy? Cause if he changes, it will be because of me and no one else.
This line has become my new horror. Some girls want to be special. Unique. Not just someone, but The One to the person of their affections. I do not share this dream.
Though my first lover was only a couple of years older than me, he had generations of more experience. I was deflowered on my bunk bed that was still covered in the sheets I had since I was eight. What had occurred wasn’t the Hollywood high school love of two teenagers becoming adults. It was a girl who still hadn’t had her period with a juvenile delinquent covered in tattoos and scars from street fights. But it wasn’t some Lifetime movie either. He was gentle and kept saying, “Are you sure?” I had chosen him for this reason. He had fucked a lot of virgins in my grade and the reports seemed positive. Through my tears I nodded in agreement and he pushed on.
I wish I could say something about my emotional state afterwards but I never thought it was a big deal. I wasn’t in love, I arranged it solely, and I was honestly relieved that I had broken my cherry in elementary school on the playground. I was more concerned about a blood stain on my rainbow heart comforter than the man entering me.
After being pushed into dating him by my friends — no one wants the reputation of being a slut — I entered into my first dysfunctional relationship. He cheated on me so I said we were in an open relationship. He played sexual mind games since he was already bored with intercourse at the tender age of 17. His favorite was having me resist him while he fondled me until I caved and begged to have sex with him. I did this wrong a lot. I didn’t resist enough. I didn’t act like I wanted him bad enough. I was 15.
My own personal Christian Grey.
While he has never hit me, he was the first male to raise his hand to me. He told me that he has never thought about hitting a woman, except for me. “There’s something about you…”
Over seven years later at 22-years-old I had moved in with a boyfriend after dating for less than a month. The night we signed the lease we went out to celebrate the only way our age group knows how; with hardcore drinking. An argument ensued after jealous flair in his extremely drunken condition. When he grabbed my wrist and I recoiled, propelling my drink onto a police officer, we were promptly thrown out of the bar. Furious, I walked quickly to my car, cursing him as he trailed behind me. Before I could put the key into the lock I was on my back with his hands around my neck.
Shock? Disbelief? Those were just the whip cream and cherry on top of this abusive Sundae. Pure unadulterated fear and horror coated the event like hot fudge. But I never saw the details of his face; the angry grimace, the vacant eyes, the madness that had become my boyfriend. My eyes blurred with tears as struggled for a breath, hiding all but the vague shape and colors of a man on top of me. I fought back with every ounce of strength I had but I knew I couldn’t win.
For keeping him in my life, everything that happened after this was completely my fault. I spent the next two years being abused physically, mentally, and emotionally. I was the reason why he felt jealous and insecure. Why he was incompetent in bed. Why he cheated with my friends and strippers. I had slept with more people and done more things sexually, so despite all of my efforts to put him at ease, hide my past, nullify his fears, it was always, “Something about you.”
As if more confirmation was needed, my most recent lover, well-known as a ladies man, freaked out with jealousy. Again I heard the too familiar line, “I’ve never done that, there’s something about you.”
Here I am. The special girl. Something so unique about me that makes men love and hate me equally in passion. Ana Steele knows how I feel. She gets the sexy, multi-billionaire, out-of-her-league bachelor with a big dick that beats her to get off. Bella, just stop your heart, put all your family members and loved ones in danger, and you too can have the glittery stalker that watches you as you sleep.
This is what we’ve been wishing for? Come on ladies…
Yet, I have this uncontrollable desire to know what this “something” is. Most would argue it’s just the men I pick. Or my thrill seeking personality. Perhaps pheromones? Am I so lost in my own crazy I can’t see the blatantly obvious?
And more importantly, how come they don’t know either? Why don’t guys know more adjectives?