Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

Some of you know that my parents didn’t really bother restricting what I read when I was a kid. They hid actual pornography from me, which was useless because I ferreted out my dad’s stash of Playboys by the time I was 10--and just about gagged when I saw my first glimpse of pubic hair, because goddammit, isn’t armpit hair bad enough? Now I’m going to get hair there when I grow up?

Anyway, I had access to all the bookshelves in the house, and a half-hearted effort was made to keep the spicy books on the higher shelves, but c’mon, there were CHAIRS around and nobody ever specifically told me I couldn’t read specific books or had to stay away from certain shelves (not that it would’ve done any good), so once I’d exhausted all the relatively innocuous books in the lower regions, like Agatha Christie mysteries, I explored new hunting grounds. And found a whole new world. A new, confusing world.

I’ve mentioned before that Special Gifts by Anne Stuart was the first novel with oral sex I’d ever read. I now realize that’s not true. I’m pretty positive Nine and a Half Weeks contains oral sex scenes as well, and I was 11 when I read that, three years earlier than Special Gifts. However, so much of that book whizzed right over my head; I’m sure all sorts of box-munching and cocksucking went on in that novel—I just had no idea.

And while Nine and a Half Weeks was by far the most explicit book I’d read, many other books I read at about the same age contained explicit sex scenes too. When I found out about Rainbow Party, I admit I felt a little shocked that it had been released as a YA title, but I thought back on some of the novels I was reading between the ages of 10 through 15, and I seriously doubt Rainbow Party can beat Lucky or I’ll Take Manhattan (or Nine and a Half Weeks) for sheer sweaty dirtiness. I can’t say for sure, of course, because like everyone else talking about this book, I haven’t read Rainbow Party yet, though I plan to do it soon because I’m very, very curious about how the author treats the subject matter. Stay tuned for the review, which I will definitely stick up on Amazon.com to counteract all the hysterical “NO I HAVEN’T READ IT YET BUT I HATES IT BECAUSE IT’S SO FILTHY OH THINK OF OUR PRECIOUS CHILDREN OH THE DEPRAVITY OH THE MORAL DECAY CAUSED BY THOSE HORRIBLE LIBERALS WITH THEIR SEX EDUCATION AND THEIR SECULAR HUMANISM WHOOPS CAN’T TALK ANY MORE ALL THE FOAM IN MY MOUTH MAKES IT DIFFICULT OK GOTTA GO BITE SOMEBODY NOW IN THE NAME OF JESUS K THX BYE” reviews.

And not only did my parents not bother restricting my book choices, they also didn’t bother to discuss any of my reading material with me. My mom certainly couldn’t, because she’s illiterate. And I don’t mean functionally illiterate, I mean she seriously can’t read anything except numbers. Being born a female in the late 30s to a Chinese family in the poorest neighborhood of the most crime-ridden state in Malaysia doesn’t lead to quite the high-quality education one would expect. My dad? He reads the newspapers. If he’s feeling really sassy, he’ll read Newsweek or Time Magazine. So it’s not as if we were reading these books together and discussing them, and even if we were reading the same books, my parents are old-fashioned in that They Don’t Discuss That Sort of Thing with Children, no no no.

So I read all this adult material in an almost-vacuum, with all except one of my older siblings in college or married with their own households already, and I was far too embarrassed to ask my one remaining brother any detailed questions. I would talk about some of this stuff with my best friends, but shit, they had no clue either—we came up with all sorts of wacky theories, including one I won’t even go into about what would possibly happen if you happened to accidentally drink dog pee. (Don’t ask. No, seriously. Don’t.)

So while part of me kind of wishes I had more guidance at that age, part of me is not at all sorry, and when it comes down to it, I wouldn’t change my learning process for the world. If nothing else, I learned to perform research at a very young age, plus some of the weird misconceptions I had make for some funny-ass stories.

However, lax though my parents were when it came to policing my reading material, they were very, very stringent about teaching me a few important lessons and making sure these lessons had sunk in: they taught me that fiction is not reality, and they taught me basic ethical principles. They were also very careful to keep tabs on me when I went out with friends, and set firm boundaries on what was and wasn’t acceptable behavior.

See how wacky my parents were? They cared more about what I was doing in real life than what kind of fiction I was reading. Crazy, man, crazy.

The point (or one of the points) of all this rambling is: I turned out OK. No, really, I did. I’m not saying that the way I was raised is ideal. But despite of my extensive, omnivorous and not-necessarily-appropriate-for-children reading experiences, I am not and have never been sexually promiscuous, I have never been accidentally pregnant, I have never contracted a disease, I have never cheated or been cheated on, I have never been addicted to drugs (unless chocolate counts), I have never molested any children or furry little animals, or whatever other worst-case scenario people imagine when they think of what would happen to a kid if the kid took a look at some titty or read about a guy getting a blowjob. I finished college in just over 3 years instead of the usual 4, I graduated maxima cum laude, I hold down a steady job and I am able to sustain healthy, loving relationships. Not too bad for a kid who started reading Jackie Collins at an age when the mere thought of kissing boys was gross.

I’m willing to bet that millions of other kids have sneaked peeks (and more than peeks) at books with explicit sex and/or outright pornography, and turned out all right too. I don’t think reading material is a particularly good predictor of sexual pathology or ethical integrity; I think parents, the kid’s home life and genetics have a much, much bigger influence.

Yes, teenagers can be impressionable. I also think we tend to underestimate how smart children and teens are. Yes, there will always be dumbass teenagers who watch Jackass and decide Johnny Knoxville is a hero and attempt to barbecue themselves the way he did on that one episode, except they forgot Knoxville had a fire-retardant suit on. But these are dumbasses, real Darwin Award candidates in the making. We’re not talking toddlers with no concrete concept that fire = pain, we’re talking 14-year-olds, 15-year-olds, and if by that age they haven’t figured out that jumping off a roof or laying on a hot grill is going to hurt like a motherfucker, well, I’m not sure that lesson is ever going to fully sink in. And dumbasses make up a pretty a small proportion of the population—after all, the vast majority of teenagers who watched Jackass didn’t attempt any of the stupid stunts.

Similarly, I have no doubt that some teenagers will read the smutty-smut and decide to give some of the stuff a whirl, but--and feel free to call me crazy--I’m going to bet that a lot of kids will discover all sorts of naughty things by their creative little selves. There’s a report out showing that kids who vow to stay abstinent are more likely to engage in oral and anal sex but less likely to use condoms. If necessity is the mother of invention, then teenage horniness has to be a close second.

I think this is all a REALLY long-winded way to say this: Just because you have no faith in your own kids doesn’t mean you should assume other people’s kids are as stupid, disobedient or impressionable. By all means wrap your children in a hermetically-sealed environment and fanatically police all their reading material (including what they’re looking at on the Internet) to make sure that there is nary a mention of “cocksucker” or “motherfucker” because you believe (to steal a phrase from Seanbaby) that “hearing the word ‘fuck’ is how Satan enters children’s groins.” But don’t try to restrict what other people can have access to in the process of rabidly ensuring your children’s physical and mental purity.

And honestly, what’s the big deal? A kid looks at something sexual and wants to know about blowjobs, or what an erection is, or what the word “cunt” means. Aside from the excruciating embarrassment resulting from discussing sex with your kid (an embarrassment that is very much cultural, by the way), what’s so bad about it? Isn’t this a wonderful opportunity to discuss certain issues, or at least lay the foundation for some future discussions? Wouldn’t you rather talk about this with your kids and explain some of the bigger ramifications rather than wait for them to find out for themselves when they start dating?

But then some people don’t ever want their kids to have oral sex. Like, ever. What’s up with that?

I just don’t get it, I guess.

NOTE: RWA Offensive Word Count: 10 total words in 6 out of 7 categories. The only one I missed was “cock,” although frankly, since I used variants of “cocksucker” twice, I think that should count, too.

You know the kind I mean. No one ever says a word about them that is remotely negative. They charm the hero, his best friend, the dog, the cook (of course the hero has a cook), the butler, the household staff- soon the heroine gets better treatment than the hero and everyone’s looking at the hero like he’s Satan’s left asscheek for being out of sorts with that so nice young lady.

Why is this a common device? From historicals to medievals to contemporary romance - even contemporary suspense, when someone might be trying to kill the heroine, which is a shame because she is so nice, the perfectly amiable heroine is everywhere. Why the hesitation to paint a chick with some flaws? And I don’t mean the size-12-oh-God-I’m-fat kind of flaws either.

I have a theory that it’s easier for women, who make up the majority of the romance readership, to forgive massive flaws in a hero (like, oh, say, raping the heroine, Mr. Historical Manstud) but it’s harder to forgive massive flaws in the heroine, because essentially, as a fellow woman, that’s her imaginary competition. The reader wants to like the heroine, wants to root for her and be her friend, and having her crafted with major personality flaws or the penchant for making boneheaded decisions creates a scenario where the reader knows better, and that there heroine might be so nice but she is also so stupid- and therefore, she doesn’t deserve that fine man.

The book I’m reading right now features a criminal heroine - she’s a no-mistaking-it felony-committing criminal - and yet she’s so charming and so nice that everyone adores her, and whenever the accusation surfaces among the charmed masses that her motivations might be less-than-pure, there’s no way they’ll believe it. Is this a plot device to arrange reader sympathy? Is her unmitigated niceness a way to circumvent dislike on the part of those readers who have been victims of her brand of criminal activity? She might be a criminal but, oh, she’s so nice. She’s a good person. Bless her heart. 

Hi, I’ll have the unbalanced dichotomy with a side order of bullshit, please.

My problem with the heroine who is so nice is the lack of redeeming that goes on. Most often, she redeems the hero from his snarly, cranky ways with the soothing balm of her eternal niceness. Or maybe she speaks up for herself and tells the mean antagonist to go fuck herself, but no one thinks otherwise of her for doing so.

More importantly, I don’t like people who are eternally so nice in real life, and as heroines, they’re vanilla. They’re boring. I continue reading the book and think, ‘Are you really that nice?’ At the end of the story, not much will be done to alter the heroine’s overall niceness because the heroine, and here’s what makes me really mad, is happily reinforcing the idea that women are always nice. We’re never mean. We are supposed to be so nice.

Fuck that.

*note: RWA-forbidden word count: 3

The jury is still very much out as to whether the chapter will ever be formally recognized, but at least the application process is underway at the time of this Bitchery posting. And I’ll bet even the most uninformed, disinterested non-writer among you can guess why: that awful world, erotic. And, of course, everything for which it stands. Because even after the lot of us agreed, following much outrage and gnashing of teeth, to eradicate the offensive word from our
title and description, nothing has been guaranteed. After all, even if we don’t CALL ourselves authors of erotica or erotic romance, the fact remains that we consistently write about The Act in terms that leaving little-to-nothing to the imagination, and often include same-gender participants and/or threesomes, foursomes and moresomes.

And even those of us who don’t stray far from the more vanilla combos of one man/one woman/one horizontal surface often force our couples to indulge in hedonistic activities like, as mentioned by an incensed author in an RWR* letter-to-the-editor, ORAL SEX ON THE FIRST DATE. This, the aforementioned author insists, is not her idea of romance. She didn’t bother to give an alternate definition, but I’m guessing the word “porn” wasn’t far from her mind. Or maybe “smut.” Frankly, I’d be surprised if she were thinking “erotica,” but I could be wrong. It’s been known to happen.

So, to recap…

We can’t call ourselves the Erotic Romance Chapter because...well, because. No one’s really given us a GOOD answer as to why the word is verboten. Lot’s of blather about “image,” and what romance really IS, and what it ISN’T. None of which has anything to do with the fact that EVERY MAJOR NEW YORK HOUSE is now dipping its toes--hell, its heels, soles and ankles, too--into the erotic waters. Even Harlequin, that bastion of the closed bedroom door, is beating the coochie drum with its new “Spice” line. And yet, RWA remains resistant. Seems nonsensical to me, but what do I know? I’m unpublished, and a trashy, ill-bred EROTIC ROMANCE WRITER, to boot.

I am one member of a potential chapter, among over two hundred, who is waiting to hear if the sitting National Board has the grace to say, “We don’t much like HOW you write romance, but since you’re writing about people in love and including that all-important happily-ever-after, we agree that you DO WRITE ROMANCE. So come on down, girls, and get yourself a slice of the
pie!” But I’ll be surprised if they do.

On the other hand, I’ll be equally surprised if they say, instead, “Sorry. You just don’t make the cut. In fact, you fall so short of what we consider an exemplary group of romance authors that we sort of wish you’d just...disappear. Completely. And take those icky-poo readers who LIKE your nasty girlie-porn with you.” (Rounded off nicely with a delicate, ladylike shudder, of course.)

We should be so lucky to get such a direct, honest response. If I could face the board today, here’s what I’d tell them: Don’t squirt me with feminine hygiene spray and tell me it’s raining. For God’s sake, ladies, if you haven’t the balls to say you don’t like us or the studmuffins we rode in on, at least don’t lower yourselves to hypocrisy. I--and, I suspect, many of my sisters in smut--would respect you more for a little forthright bitchiness than all the genteel double-speak in the world.

For one thing, your average forthright bitch has class. And I can appreciate that, even when I don’t agree with her about much else.

*RWR - Romance Writers Report, a monthly journal distributed to RWA members.

(Smart Bitch Editorial Note: Two paragraphs of unduly sensitive and detailed information that wasn’t meant for public consumption have been deleted by request.)