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

She has a point: There aren’t too many Harlequin titles that include winking references to the Scottish writer Tobias Smollett. Still, Gabaldon doesn’t skimp on the heaving bosoms and heavy breathing. How did she turn her odd mishmash of high culture and low into a No. 1 best seller?

Hey, asshole, there aren’t too many books written nowadays, highbrow or otherwise, that make winking references to eighteenth-century Scottish authors of picaresque novels.

And sex scenes immediately make a book part of low culture? Way to break Tom Wolfe’s heart, man.

Despite Gabaldon’s insistence that her books aren’t romances, her earliest readers were, in fact, bodice-ripper fans—or, at the very least, people who enjoy juicy descriptions of bedroom gymnastics.

Yes. Wading through hundreds upon hundreds of pages of story to get about 10 pages total of sexual description is VERY efficient for us sex fiends. Outlander: steamier than Backdoor Sluts Vol. 8!

Gabaldon’s books do include the elements required to appeal to this vast market. True, they’re brainier than anything featuring Fabio on the cover (...)

Ahhh, the stigma of Fabio. See what evil those covers hath wrought?

Also, note to Laura Kinsale: You apparently write brainless smut. Just thought you’d like to know.

Lovestruck fans can relish A Breath of Snow and Ashes’ steamy bedroom scenes, which are detailed in prose that borders on purple. How else to describe an erotic encounter that begins with the line, “I made love to him at first like a sneak thief, hasty strokes and tiny kisses, stealing scent and touch and warmth and salty taste”?

Aieeee, again with the obsession with the sex scene.

OK, let’s try an informal poll here: How many people read the thousands upon thousands of pages of Gabaldon’s deathless prose just so you can get to Jamie’s turgid swordplay?

To those of you who raised your hands: May I suggest erotica as a more fruitful avenue for your smutty pursuits?

Gabaldon’s books are in fact so assiduously researched that they’re sold at British souvenir shops as accurate depictions of 18th-century Highlander life.

Oh my God, where’s Maili? Her head will EXPLODE when she reads this.

The series contains big words aplenty, a Dickensian surfeit of characters, and scenes of chilling brutality; A Breath of Snow and Ashes features a post-mortem Caesarean section, for example, that is not for the faint of heart. Even the sexual horseplay has an intellectual bent: Leave it to Gabaldon, the onetime university professor with a Ph.D. in ecology, to describe a woman’s response to getting her ass squeezed as “dissentient.”

Ladies, I think we’ve been dissed. The smutty books! They have big words! Alert the presses!

It’s a wonder that bookstores didn’t sell out their entire stock of dictionaries the day A Breath of Snow and Ashes was released, as sex-starved porn hounds bodice-ripper fans everywhere got their sticky mitts on the book.

They’re also the folks who apparently don’t blanch at passages that refer to “the warm, musky weight” of a fiftysomething Scotsman’s testicles.

Really, what’s with this article’s obsession with sex? It sounds like the Mr. Koerner has read only the jiggly bits, because those are the only parts he’s bothered quoting. At the very least, he’s unhealthily focused on them. Most reviewers who read and enjoy romance don’t dwell on and on and ON about sex scenes in quite the way this guy seems to.

I wonder what would happen if he read an Emma Holly? Would his pants catch on fire, I wonder? A fire that can only be put out by the innocent yet wildly arousing touch of a lush-figured widow who’s secretly a virgin?

See, it’s not even that this guy took potshots at a genre I read that I take offence to. It’s that he took potshots that were lazy and just plain WRONG. It’s like making fun of Chinese accents by saying “pretty prease.” Look, if you want to engage in puerile stereotypes, at least get them RIGHT.

Ex & The Single Girl is the story of Portia and the Miz Fallons, a family of three generations of women, all unmarried. Portia is in Syracuse working on her PhD when she is called home by her dramatic mother, Mags, who says she is suffering from back pain. Mags wants Portia back home for the summer to run the family bookstore in Truly, Georgia, with her aunt Vera and grandmother Bev. There is never a mention of familial titles. Vera is never “Aunt Vera.” She’s simply “Vera.” Same with Mags. Not “Mom.” Mags.

Portia drives the long distance down to Georgia and arrives to find her mother in the picture of health and her aunt, mother, and grandmother exchanging weighty glances with one another, conducting a wordless conversation beneath the audible one at every moment.

Not only is her mother healthy and not at all requiring assistance, but they’ve arranged an affair for her to help her get over her failed relationship. Peter, her live-in boyfriend of two years plus, left her suddenly - on Valentine’s Day - by moving out with no warning. And writing a “Dear Portia” note. On the title page. Of his newly-published novel. And leaving it open on the bed. With an Itty-Bitty Booklight holding open the page.

Yeah. Whatta man.

The unmarried (and rumored-to-be unmarriable) Miz Fallons have a specific manner of getting themselves back to happiness: a Flyer. A Flyer is their term for a one night stand (or short-term relationship) that they have no intention of making permanent. And Mags, Vera, and Bev have picked out a Flyer for Portia: visiting writer Ian Beckett - a sexy, handsome Brit renting a neighboring farm while he finishes his book.

For a girl with a Pride and Prejudice fetish so wide she’s reexamining Austen for her dissertation, the sexy British writer man is almost too much to resist. So Portia ends up sliding into the situation, unwilling but curious despite herself, and, during the course of her visit home, evaluates her own attitude toward romance and happily ever after, while revealing several painful longstanding family mysteries.

The core theme of the story focuses on how she learns how to change that attitude. Instead of Pride & Prejudice, we have Attitude and Expectations. Portia has to learn that there’s really no such thing as a one sided situation in a relationship, that nothing is truly one party’s fault. From the smaller, more immediately questions, (Was Peter responsible for their breakup? Was she? ) to the larger issues working back generations in her family, Portia has to find the balance between anger and assuming responsibility, and decide whether to change her own assumptions of how life will proceed, even if no one else around her wants to undertake a similar adjustment.

Ex & The Single Girl is told in an incredibly visual style, which is interesting because it is a first-person narrated story. However, I will spank my own ass if there’s not some talk of optioning for tv or movie production because the narrative itself urges the reader to imagine so much visually that turning it into a script or screenplay would seem like a facile transition.

For one thing, unless there is a section I missed, there’s no concrete description of Portia - which isn’t unusal for a first person narrative. Unless you have the unrealistic moment of the character saying, ‘My brown hair refused to blah blah hair clip mirror blah,’ you don’t have an easy way to determine what a first-person narrator actually looks like. But the reader does see Portia seeing herself in a window reflection and you know she’s got Cheetoh dust smearing all over her wineglass and her hair is staging a protest in all directions, and she’s wearing the official post-breakup uniform of an old flannel bathrobe - but you don’t ever get a moment of description that tells you what she looks like.

So here’s this visual style of writing that lets the picture play out in your brain, but no description of heroine? Fat? Thin? There was no description of her, so the reader can pin not a single assumption of her character’s issues on basic body types.  The reader is free to imagine her in whatever manner. And while that left me a bit at sea when trying to type Portia, it also let me relate to her more easily without assumptions based on image. (And for the record, I never thought Portia looked like overbite girl on the cover. No chance.)

The romance of the story between Portia and Ian is involving as it builds slowly, and is reflected in the various romantic relationships surrounding them, from her aunt, her mother, her best friend, and even her long-absent father.

Ian himself was adorably easy to picture, and Rich managed the balance of creating a character who was both a much more attractive, attentive option to the ex, Peter, but who was also intriguing and not so much a sure thing at every moment. He was clearly the intended hero, but there were times I wasn’t so sure of him and of Portia. He had his own mysteries, and avoided the trap of being that perfect paragon of unrealistic hero-dom who exists solely to support and assist the heroine’s growth (I call this the “Jack Phenomenon,” a la Jack in Titanic).

My disappointment with the book was the setting and the unlikely compactness of the cast of characters in light of that setting. Granted, this is not an epic novel that closely follows several generations, but to set a story in a small town in Georgia would imply a larger group of people with whom the heroine is very familiar, because a small town, once you walk back into it, encloses you with everyone and everything familiar. To reduce the cast of the story to Portia, her three relatives, her best friend, and the partners and romantic interests of those women seems to cheat the setting. Further, the South is itself a personality and a character, and while the characters themselves are well acquainted with Southern charm, hospitality, and indomitable strength, there wasn’t a great deal about the town of Truly to make it clear that it was, indeed, in Georgia.

However, the issues of family, history, and whether you make your own future or whether that future is half-decided by that family and history, make for a charming read. By far the most intelligent and clever element was the recurring theme of “flying:” it’s intriguing and sets the book apart from other predictable contemporary romances. Aside from serving as a euphamism for a casual and satisfying affair with no dangerous long-term attachments or expectations, it’s also a way of questioning what Portia is truly doing throughout the story. Is she flying away from her problems, or flying home? Is she letting those she loves fly away, to see if they return to her of their own volition? Did Peter fly away from her to test her or to test himself? Can she let someone she loves fly away without telling them how they feel, to test their own devotion without taking a risk?

Rich’s skill as a writer is that wonderful balance, from the balance of her characters’ issues and likeability to the balance of the plot threads. This is a book that manages to be a fun read while also exploring visceral concepts of vulnerability, so that by the time I reached the ending, I was invested enough in the character’s happiness to cry and smile over the ending.

The hero? He never really leers, but based on his internal thoughts and his behavior, I pictured him with a leering expression anyway. He’s also kind of an asshole--not in a sexy way, but in an oversexed-turd-who-will-grope-you-in-a-bar-when-you’re-tipsy-and-chuckle-condescendingly-when-you-try-to-remove-his-hand-from-your-left-tit kind of way. Or that’s the impression I got, anyway.

The heroine isn’t much better. I like the fact that she’s a librarian who is neither mousy nor shy nor wimpy nor any of the other appalling stereotypes associated with librarians, but the author kept slapping me in the face with how she’s such an ice queen, so much so that I ended up disliking her. Because if there’s one thing I hate more than wimpy doormats in a romance, it’s an ice queen who has no discernible reason to be one. Well, there may have been a discernible reason if I’d read more of the book, but I found myself not particularly caring.

The part that made me stop reading the book and start flipping to the juicy bits is when the heroine discovers a dead body in the library. She calls the police station and gets the dispatcher, who tells her the sergeant is across (the very small) town getting doughnuts. Instead of telling the dispatcher that there’s a dead body in her library and GET SERGEANT PERKINS’ ASS RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW AND SCREW THOSE DOUGHNUTS, she tells the dispatcher to ask the policeman to get her a cinammon sprinkle doughnut and oh, by the way, drop by the library when he can, she has something that needs his attention. Nary a word about the murder. Why?

Because the dispatcher is a gossip and the heroine doesn’t want news of the murder leaking out.

Now, does this make ANY kind of sense? Like, at all? What the fuck? Lady, it’s a MURDER. This makes it newsworthy, so fuck the news spreading throughout the town, it’s going to do so anyway. It also makes it an URGENT FUCKING MATTER. Screw small-town gossip, having the sergeant arrive faster is a good thing, right? Or am I using too much Earth logic, here?

So: Ice-queen heroine: -2 points.

Who dresses like a tart and isn’t ashamed about it: +5 points

But who acts like a raging ‘tard: -50 points

I am a judgmental tool. I know this. But see, because the heroine didn’t tell the dispatcher about the dead body, there was a lag of several minutes in which the hero and heroine are left alone in the library.

I am not a happy camper when devices this obvious are used to throw the hero and heroine together.

Oh, the hero is also an asshole and moves the body around, but actually, that’s believable because, well, he’s an asshole, and it’s something assholes do: fuck around with crime scenes before the cops arrive even though you know better. I got the impression that the hero had very specific reasons for messing with the dead body, but again, did not care.

However, the secondary romance is surprisingly engaging. The heroine has a loser cousin who’s a former drug addict and the town slut, and at first I had her fingered as the villain because Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Druggie Slut To Live in Romancelandia, but no, she gets her own love story with the cop. Awwww. Those parts I did more than skim through. The cop’s a really nice guy, the loser cousin chick has issues (which unfortunately are resolved in a rather facile way, but that’s a problem most romances face), and overall, if the book had focused on the two of them and their relationship, I probably would’ve read the whole thing, bonus points if she’d still been an addict when the book started.

Unfortunately, we’re stuck with Frosty and Jerkface for much of the book. The two of them do engage in some hot monkey fizznuckin’, which is fun to read about, but there wasn’t nearly enough of THAT either to hold my attention for long.

Overall, the bits I read were a C, verging into C- in spots. By no means was it horrible or unreadable, and if I’d been stranded somewhere with only this book, I would’ve read it and felt glad I hadn’t been stuck with, say, a Connie Mason or Cassie Edwards. But still: failed to engage me.

Candy: It’s kinda funny how some people completely miss the point of the potty mouth. In some ways, it’s interesting to see how people interpret the foul language--like literary criticism, I think it oftentimes reveals more about the person than the text itself.

Sarah: Foul language is such an interesting topic. WHY do these words set people off? What’s funny is that, for me, cursing is like saffron at times, and like salt at others. If I’m good and mad, whoo damn. But other times, it’s to be sprinkled in with just silliness. I mean, why not play with all the words, including the cussy ones? Like “cuntmonkey?” Hee! I mean, I know better than to say that in front of my grandma, and if I ever addressed a conference group I probably would respect my elders and keep the potty mouth to a minimum, but why not play around with all the words in a language?

Candy: I think part of it’s a class issue. Dockside workers, fishwives, sailors, etc. are the ones known for using crude language. If you’re any kind of genteel, you use euphemisms.

And here’s something interesting: a lot of the four-letter words that are considered rude are Anglo-Saxon in origin. Shit, cunt and fuck are just a few, if I’m not mistaken. The acceptable forms of these words tend to be Latinate: feces, vagina, intercourse. I wonder if there’s some sort of connection between the Normandy invasion and the relegation of these words as foul language?

Sarah: You may be right that it’s an issue of class and of status. Cuss words in other languages are also fascinating. For example, in Quebec, all the Quebecois cuss words are church words: the words for tabernacle, chalice, etc are cuss words. I thought that was the goofiest thing, but what’s the difference between that and germanic English cuss words that are pretty much linked loosely by common vowel sounds and consonant combinations?

Candy: Hey, in Spanish, isn’t it, like, the worst thing in the world to call somebody a dog, a goat or a pig? I wonder how much of that has to do with an agriculture--many farmers don’t make all that much and they’re usually close to the bottom in terms of social class, so they pick on something ELSE lower than them on the ladder to use as an insult, which would happen to be barnyard animals.

Random subject switch: One of the things that has people hot under the collar about erotica and erotic romance is the use of what have traditionally been considered taboo terms. Personally, I’m happier with a cock being called a cock (or a penis or a dick) instead of a “throbbing love spear” or “iron-hard sword of potency.” But I know it bugs the shit out of many people that words like “fuck,” “tits” and “cunt” have finally snuck their way into a popular sub-genre of romance, and these words are creeping into other genres, too--many mainstream authors aren’t afraid to use the word “cock” nowadays.

Sarah: In Spanish, hm, it’s pretty damn insulting to call people a dog or a pig, but it’s also likely to have a double meaning that insults men’s masculinity, or imply that they are gay or being cheated on. “Cabron” for example, means male goat but also means your woman is cheating on you and you are a cuckhold. But then, a lot of men use it as a familiar term of address, like black men greeting each other with “nigger” and a big smile, though it can just as easily be used to insult the same person five minutes later.

Here’s big fun: cussing in Hebrew.

Zoobi! ZOOOOOBI!

But the question of erotica/euphemisms and foul language is very interesting, because one of the definining elements of a romance is in how it addreses sex between the protagonists. There are a lot of people who use crude language while engaging in sex acts, and can only do so when with someone they emotionally trust, etc. It’s a tangled issue, to be sure.

But do I use “fuck” as a touchstone when evaluating romance novels? Does a novel wherein the hero or the heroine uses the word “fuck” automatically get mentally shelved as “erotica” or just over the border into erotica-land? I remember one Susan Johnson novel (I think - I didn’t get past page 3) where the hero said he was some kind of “master of the art of fucking” and I was so turned off I tossed the book aside. Was it the language or the intentions being described by the hero (sex with as many meaningless partners as possible) that bothered me? Hmmmm.

Candy: OK, here’s my take on the Susan Johnson character:

It has nothing to do with the word “fuck.” The dude just sounds like a wanker.

Master of the Art Of Fucking? Bitch, please. Might as well call himself Master of the Art of Tie-Dye, or Master of the Art of Incredibly Fast Celtic Tapdancing. Either way, he sounds like an arrogant asshole, and not even in a sexy way--more like in a creepy, wears gold medallions and leers at really, really drunk chicks at the local Polly Esther’s kind of way. I don’t like people who brag but clearly aren’t joking. And I would’ve tossed the book, too, mostly because the image of the hero as some sort of self-inflated date rapist would’ve stuck with me.

Behold, the power of characterization with only a few words. Sometimes, I just can’t forgive a character for saying something incredibly stupid. Just can’t.

For erotic romance, number of scenes and length and detail of scenes definitely have a lot to do with its heat level. Frank language comes with the territory, especially for contemporaries. The zing of the taboo has a lot to do with it, too, but here’s the thing: euphemisms sound too silly and their usage can push the scene into purple prose territory, and medical terms sound, well, clinical. Dirty words, when used right, make a hot sex scene even hotter.

Sarah: THANK YOU that is EXACTLY what I meant. But his use of language was an illlustration of the callous “date rapist” attitude, and it wasn’t like he said he was a master of the art of humping or lovemaking or sensual arts. It was like, “I’m a master at getting my rocks off.” OK, ew.

But in a very hot erotica, there’s a lot of opportunity for use of the word “fuck” that can be hot, sensual, even emotionally charged, and not at all off-putting. I mean, no one is going to substitute “Fuck” for “I love you” any time soon but it can come (har) close!

The other interesting thing is the power of these words to offend people. I think people get more upset if you use the word “fuck” in front of them than if you step on their foot. I mean, it’s serious offensive territory that is hard to explain for people. “It’s just a bad word. You don’t use that word,” etc.

Candy: Some theories on why fuck (and shit and cunt) still have the ability to upset some people a great deal when they hear it being spoken:

1. It’s a class thing, which I’ve already talked about. To some people, being vulgar freaks them the hell out. Having the right upbringing, being POLITE, etc. is tantamount, otherwise the fabric of society will rip at its seams, doncha know? Introducing a rude little word like that, I don’t know, it’s like seeing a cockroach or a mouse in your nice, clean kitchen. It’s a reminder of seamier things that you DON’T want to be reminded of, like the sewer line that runs under your house. Your house wouldn’t be able to function without the sewer line, but you want to pretend it’s not there as much as possible. You also don’t want to remember that the mice and cockroaches are everywhere. That they, in fact, outnumber you, and swarm in all sorts of places you can’t see.

How’s that for a convoluted theory? In my opinion, it’s only a very small part of this discomfiture--and I don’t think many people acknowledge this consciously.

2. The words just SOUND crude to an English-speaker’s ears. I think there’s a definite prejudice left over from the Normandy invasion whereby words that sound Latinate or Romance-based are deemed more mellifluous than words that mimic the hard consonants and short, staccato syllables of Germanic languages. Think of all the words that tend to offend people: most of them are one syllable with short vowels, e.g. shit, cock, piss, cunt, fuck, frig, dick, prick, ass, balls. Check out what the more polite versions sound like: Feces/manure/waste, penis, urine, vagina, sexual intercourse/making love/coitus, buttocks/bottom/rectum, testicles.

3. Cultural norms are very, very strong. Never understimate the power of societal disapproval, and if the majority of society views “fuck” as being a rude word (and language is probably the largest, most complex exercise in consensus humans have ever come up with), then most people are going to have an instinctive reaction towards that word. There are so many complex associations with that word, most of them overwhelmingly negative: it’s rude, it’s violent, it’s uneducated, it’s juvenile, etc.

Why number 3 happens kind of ties in with number 1, I think, whereby words that are commonly used by the unwashed masses are somehow viewed as less polite than those with a proper edjumacation.

There’s probably other stuff I’m missing. But that sums up a large chunk of why I think “fuck” makes some people flip.

Sarah: I am in complete agreement with your theories, especially #2; the sounds of the words themselves are unique and all related combinations of vowels and consonants (did I say that earlier? do I repeat myself? Probably - sorry) and are related in their sound construction. When I used to work at a summer camp with little kids, my favorite cuss word was “mother puss bucket” because it sounded awful but wasn’t - and I got it from Ghostbusters.

Also, consider the almost rhyming elegance of the words you’re not allowed to use on the radio: shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits. And the ever-attractive “Mongolian Cluster Fuck.” It’s almost lyrical if you say it over and over.

Speaking of, ever hear Eric Idle’s FCC Song?

Candy: Oh yeah, I forgot about the compound words! Motherfucker. Is there anything more horrific? There’s not just the icky, squidgy incest bit, you’re not tenderly making love to she who gave you life. You’re FUCKING her! Aaahahaha.

Mongolian Cluster Fuck. Wow. I love it. It has a certain rhythm. I could dance to it. Somebody needs to get Amon Tobin on the phone and have him make a song with samples of different people saying that phrase.

Suck is also rapidly becoming a rude word in and of itself, especially “It sucks.” Also, “It blows.” I realized this when an aunt of mine sniffed and said that she didn’t like her teenage kids saying “it sucks.” Part of it’s the association with sex acts, of course, but in and of themselves they have more innocent uses than not.

Sarah: Oh the compound words are the best. Cocksucker! Motherfucker! CUNTMONKEY! All these nice words all smushed up against a bad word. Heh.

Suck and Blow are totally bad words. “It Sucks” is something I’d never say in front of my grandmother, for instance. Also, it makes me think of Spaceballs: Megamaid has gone from suck to blow! Heh.

Candy: Hey, here’s another random thought about profanity:

A lot of the detractors often make noises about how profanity is an indicator of poor education, and furthermore, when used for humor, that it’s somehow appealing to the lowest common denominator.

Question: IS using “fuck” or “shit” REALLY appealing to the lowest common denominator? Given that most people still feel somewhat offended when that word is used. Though it might appeal to the lowest common denominator if the majority of people enjoyed being shocked by seeing taboos broken or whatever.

Sarah: The whole “lowest common denominator” aka “cheap laugh” theory is odd. Because I bet that one of those words is EXACTLY what they say when they stub their toe in the middle of the night on the way to the comfort station/lavatory.

The idea that cussing is lowbrow easy shock laugh also implies that uneducated people only find vulgarity funny. But then, I find Dave Barry, who is very G-rated in his language (if you consider poop G-rated that is) hysterical, as much as I do, say, Chris Rock.

But you know, I can think of a few situations wherein cussing seemed so out of place and over the top that I noticed and/or raised a brow. It has to be used correctly, you know?

Candy: Yup, God knows I find a wide range of things funny. I think most of Wes Anderson’s movies are screamingly funny, for instance, but they’re not exactly known for the blue language.

And Dave Barry rocks my world. So does the other Very Funny Dave, Dave Sedaris, who’s not quite as G-rated, but he doesn’t gratuitously cuss, either.

And yes, there’s definitely a time and place for bad language. During formal occasions, or in certain types of work environments, or among a group of people who would frown at that sort of language (unless you want to be a dick), letting fly with the bad words probably isn’t the best idea. But in informal settings? Well, why the hell not?

Sarah: Hubby has a theory that one has to be rather intelligent to appreciate Beavis and Butthead, that it’s only funny if you are smart - he later amended that with, “and you’re not insecure about it.” I think that applies to a lot of scatalogical and lowbrow humor. In “New York” magazine there is a graph of current events with an X axis of “highbrow/lowbrow” and a Y axis of “brilliant/deplorable” - and all these local and national events plotted out on the axes. I LOVE the brilliant and lowbrow, and the lowbrow and deplorable. Paris Hilton is usually somewhere on the edge of lowbrow about to fall into the abyss. It’s fabulous.

Candy: Another random thought, this one related to the coining of terminology:

I think the taboo nature of slang words for assorted smelly/squishy/sexual body functions and body parts is reinforced by the decision to use Latin and Greek roots to come up with new words for assorted conditions.

F’rinstance: coprophagy. That is one fancy word for shit eating.

But to be fair, this happens even when there aren’t any bad words involved. Doug Hoffman wrote a hilarious post about what Ear, Nose and Throat specialists have been called.

I find it interesting that a profession that is immersed in the mess and stink of human lives and disease as medicine also makes quite a conscious effort to remove itself from it, at least linguistically. Name something in a dead language for instant cachet! It makes you part of the exclusive club. You call a necrophiliac a necrophiliac, not a corpse-fucker.

And a really random question: why does “cum” look so much worse than “come”? They’re pronounced the same, and they basically mean the same thing, except the latter has non-sexual synonyms. Perhaps that’s it? When you write down “cum,” there’s no mistaking what you mean, there’s no cushion of synonyms? And then there’s the fact that the porn industry popularized that particular spelling, too.

But the book still failed to engage me. I put it down again and again, and I never felt any urgency to pick it up again. I didn’t really care what happened to Kim or her OMGHOT boytoy Lex; in fact, I thought it’d be much more interesting to see the bad guys win just to shake it up.

Kim Valenti is a codebreaker for the National Security Agency and a graduate of the l33t-as-fuck Athena Academy, which, from what I gathered in the book, is an Academy for Budding Superwomen, complete with its own shadowy intelligence branch and assorted sources of classified information. Kim is trying to trying to crack encrypted e-mails from some Middle Eastern terrorists, and thanks to some leads from the academy, she’s finally figured out the target: a location in Chicago. Unfortunately, she can’t find anybody who will listen to her, not even the hot shot bomb squad agent who helped her with a previous case, a hot piece of ass named Lex Tanner.

So acting on a hunch, she goes to a television station in Chicago, only to get trapped in a Very Sticky Situation: the station is overrun by terrorists and all the staff within held hostage. To complicate things, Kim finds out that the primary target isn’t the station. The station is a distraction, a red herring. The terrorists are after much bigger game than a mere TV station.

So being the good little l33t-as-fuck agent that she is, Kim kicks, punches, claws and leaps her way out of the station and heads over to FBI headquarters to kidnap herself a fine piece of bomb squad ass to help her defuse the bomb.

More asskicking ensues, and Kim and Lex save the day. But alas and alack, the two terrorists responsible for masterminding the attack manage to escape from the TV station, so that means more shenanigans abound before Kim and Lex have to put away their chaussures pour donner des coups de pied sur les derrieres.

There are a lot of things I like about the two main characters. Kim, like I said before, is supremely competent at her job. When I say she kicks ass, I mean it: SHE KICKS FUCKING ASS. And she gets her shit tore up by the bad guys, too--she’s good, but she’s not invincible. The sight of a heroine who is capable of doing all this without being missish or squeamish or nice about the whole thing is refreshing, especially in Romancelandia, where the female population is often distressingly dim and helpless. Kim is also commitment-shy and unabashed about enjoying sex for its own sake in a fairly realistic way, which, again, is distressingly rare in Romancelandia and its surfeit of frigid, insecure women who dedicate their lives to their work but don’t have two brain cells to rub together (ref. Zachary, Amanda).

But something about her still rings false. Her angst about her dead brother, beheaded by Iraqi insurgents, for example, feels tacked on. The grief doesn’t quite have enough bite to it. It’s hard for me to pinpoint other things about her that struck false notes, but ultimately, I think that much as I liked her, she just wasn’t particularly interesting to me. The entire book immersed me in her point of view, but I closed it feeling no closer to the character than when I’d started.

Lex is also a rather unusual hero. I really like how he isn’t portrayed as conventionally handsome: he’s skinny and he has a big nose. He’s also willing to let Kim do her job, and holy Christ I’m so happy to see a smart, assertive hero not be all shouty-shouty and “HERE LE