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

Me, I’m a sucker for the following:

Let’s Get It On - Marvin Gaye - someone once called this song the closest you can get to shagging with your clothes still on. Heck yeah.

Can’t Get Enough of Your Love - Barry White - and there’s plenty of the White oeurvre to replace that song on this list, too. Rwor.

You Do Something to Me - by Cole Porter - Sinéad O’Connor did a version of this song on the Red Hot + Blue album that about made me faint.

Anything by Celine Dion - Just Kidding!!

Candy’s Choices

Sex Machine - by James Brown. Most James Brown songs are good for the sexy sexxxin’, but this one is extra-sassy.

Sexual Healing - by Marvin Gaye. Oh Marvin Marvin Marvin. Was there a finer man than Marvin before the 70s and drugs finally got to him? I don’t think so. That voice! That face! Sarah and I have declared him the Patron Saint of Sex for Smart Bitches.

Anything by Barry White - His songs are, like, sex on wheels. Pity he’s not nearly as pretty as Marvin. Any of y’all seen that video in which he’s singing to hordes of screaming, panting ladies--in a purple suit with giant lapels? Aiiieeeeee.

Jungle Boogie - by Kool and the Gang. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. And oddly enough, makes me want to get down to the jungle boogie. Behold the power of suggestion!

Jungle Fever - by The Chakachas. This song is basically a bit of funky guitar, some funky bass, some funky drums--and a woman moaning in what sounds like Spanish. Almost embarrassingly intimate, and definitely very dirty, but I like it dirty.

Long Snake Moan - by PJ Harvey. I love PJ Harvey. I have a big ole crush on PJ Harvey. I will, if it comes to it, gladly forsake my heterosexuality for PJ Harvey. And PJ sounding pissed off while yelling “Moaaaaan!” into the microphone = many throbbing hearts and other bits.

Junkie For Your Love - by Poe. The song has a pretty sultry, sexy beat to it, but the lyrics are, like, RROWR. See:

I know how to wear the costume,
I know how to wear the mask.
I even like the feeling of having to ask.
I like the sound of you whistling.
I like the way you wear your grin.
I even like the taste of my will caving in.

I’m not a junkie for your love,
I’m not a junkie…

Tales of Brave Ulysses - by Cream. I know, am I channeling Nora Roberts or something, bringing Cream into this conversation? But trust me. Very. Sexy. Song.

Just about anything by Interpol - because they’re all broody and hawt and their music is also all broody and hawt.