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

On one hand, it’s difficult to ask the right question. Would the presence of an interracial couple stop someone from buying a romance? (Would it stop me? Nope.) Is interracial romance solely the domain - and by domain I mean “located in the bookshop section” - of Black romance, because the minute one half of a protagonist pair is Black, the book moves toward Black Romance as a subgenre marker? Speaking solely for myself, I’m curious why interracial romance appears to be mostly found in epubs, small presses, erotica, or within Black romance publishing lines. Brenda Jackson has written several for Silhouette Desire, but those seem to be an exception among the backlist of series romance - and yet another reason how the dismissed-as-staid category romances can sometimes not just push but shred the envelope of boundaries every now and again like nothing else.

I’m also curious whether it’s a target people shop for, a type of storyline that some really enjoy the same way I am a total and complete sucker for a certain plotlines, including one that is too embarrassing to mention. If people shop deliberately for interracial romances, then why aren’t there more of them in mainstream romance (unless they’re there and my Google-fu has failed me)? Is there a difficult barrier towards publication of a romance that takes place across cultural and racial lines?  And what counts as interracial, anyway? Does a Black woman and a Middle Eastern man count as interracial? (This reader thinks so.) Or is “interracial” code for solely white/black combinations? Hell, depending on what anti-Semite you ask, my marriage would be interracial.

Mostly I’m wondering simply why there aren’t more interracial couples in romance. There’s more than a few powerhouse examples in mainstream romance across several genres, so I am curious why there’s not more of it. For example, Ward’s Brotherhood plays with race, and the question’s been asked of her point blank whether the Brothers are Black (her answer was that they are not an identifiable human race so it’s impossible to say). Kleypas’ Mine Till Midnight also crossed a racial line in the historical sense, in that her hero was Rom and the heroine was white - a combination that caused me to question the endurance of their happy ending, given the social prejudice working against them. And someone will hunt me down and kick me in the knees if I don’t mention the multi-book subplot of Brockmann’s Sam & Alyssa. All three examples were holy crapping damn successful. Perhaps the problem is that what I perceive of as “few” needs to be adjusted. Someone else might think that’s plenty.

I’m not so much asking for a list of interracial romances, though feel free to suggest some that you’ve enjoyed, but more of a “Interracial romance: what’s up with that? How come there’s not more of it?” type of random musing. So? Your thought? Ha. I crack me up. I know you have more than one.

While the theme of many contemporary romances relies heavily on the self-actualization of the heroine, Black romances also navigate a minefield as they struggle to portray Black protagonists that are very, very different from the majority of images of Black relationships portrayed in popular entertainment media:

As Emma Rodgers of Dallas’ Black Images Book Bazaar says, “African-American romance novels are so popular because they reflect the values of the majority of the Black community [better] than most other types of media. The men and women are educated professionals, gainfully employed . . . or are entrepreneurs, upwardly mobile. The women are independent, career-minded with goals. Both are law-abiding citizens. Readers seldom see these images reflected on the evening news or in the daily paper.”

But soft! What criticism from scholars through yonder window breaks? It is the critics, and they don’t like the sex. No, seriously: the idea of sexual content in a Black romance is a target of some sharp criticism, because the “the open sexual expression in romance novels can only reinforce negative stereotypes about Black women’s sexuality. Renee Redd says, ‘I think most Black women still believe that the sexual expressiveness allowed the women in romance novels and to women of other races is not equally extended to Black women.’”

Plus, there’s that lovely old romance=porn accusation, which of course raises it’s engorged and stupid head everywhere it goes. Hooray for Shareta Caldwell who, like many readers of romance, can actually tell the difference between romance novels and pornography: “Romances portray love, romance, and sensuality in an positive adult manner.  In romance novels, a man puts a woman’s pleasure first. This is not the case in pornography.”

Jennifer Coates of Chicago enjoys the committed relationships depicted in African-American romances. “In other media, we see intimate relationships being treated casually—like a handshake, but not that personal. The romance, the courting, the mystery seems to have disappeared from contemporary literature.” Coates cites Beverly Jenkins’ Night Song among her favorites because the interaction between the hero and heroine “demonstrates their appreciation and love for one another and solidified their relationship for me, elevating their sharing and mutual respect from a by-product, to the backbone of their intimate exchanges.”

Osborne’s article also examines cover art - a graceful curtsey to Ms. Osborne because, well, that’s just plain awesome and important. Boy howdy, is it important. Black romances not only face criticism as to their content, but also the cover art - whether it’s “Black enough” or “too Black.” One article cited featured a quote from an unnamed magazine publisher who stated that romance covers featuring Black characters in “Afrocentric styles” might make white readers uncomfortable. This same publisher said that covers without people would be preferable.

(White reader Sarah says: “What a bunch of unmitigated poppycock.")

Readers cited in the article disagree: “Shareta Caldwell says, ‘I like it when there are Black faces on the books, especially if the cover is an accurate portrait of the character in the book. That is the reason I picked up Beverly Jenkins’ Indigo. I loved the picture. And I don’t like the idea of fooling people by not having real Black people on the front. If White readers can’t get past the braids, locks, bald-heads, and Black skin on the cover, then how are they going to get through the book?’”

Osborne’s examination of Black romance ends with an assessment that the genre is evolving as more authors publish in mainstream fiction, and as new authors enter the genre. But the various influences entering Black romance concerned one reader, who is unwilling to see what she views as a more courtship-and-commitment focused narrative become more influenced by “hip-hop values:” “Courtship, marriage, commitment and sex are definitely seen differently by this generation,” says reader Jeanette Cogdell who, according to the article, reviews books at Romance In Color.

Which generation, I wonder. Osborne’s final statement, that “Readers are drawn to the romance genre because the stories provide an escape and are devoid of racial conflict, gratuitous sex and profanity,” undermines and contradicts some of the statements made by readers and writers in the article itself, especially that the stories are devoid of sex or acknowledgment of racial conflict. But Osborne’s examination brought my attention to elements of Black romance that I hadn’t known about. The evolving image of Black in American popular culture is an issue that’s been examined with greater focus, it seems, in the past few years, but is the idea of books focusing on female sexual experience going to underscore or somehow validate negative sexual stereotypes of Black women? If scholars and critics distrust Black romance for its focus on Black female sexuality, what would the appropriate venue be for an exploration of the topic? Already erotica received a big boost in it’s turgid longevity by the strength and backlist of writers like Noire and Zane - I wonder what those same scholars and critics would say about the influence of those writers on the erotica market as a whole.

What we have here is a Google-translated article from Finland, but really, that picture is worth a thousand translated words.

Except for maybe these six words: “Cunt brings the art of anything.”

I think that phrase might hold the secrets of the universe. Or at least the secret as to why the Pens didn’t win the Stanley Cup.

But on the whole (ha!) this is romantic comedy gold. Biking vulvas that bring the art? One can only assume they also bring the noise and the funk. So you know what this means?

Smart Bitch Contest!

Write us up some advertisement copy for a radio ad promoting your new romantic comedy, a comedy which, obviously, features bikes, vulvas, possibly art, and certainly cuntular hilarity. Celebrity endorsements? Hyperbolic statements? Bring it on! Bring us the finest meats and cheeses, plus a 200 word promotional radio advertisement for your book, and send it to by midnight tomorrow night, 10 June, Eastern time. I’ll be putting up the advertisements for your judging, and we’ll pick us a winner.

Prizes? Man, it would be cool if I could give away a bike, but alas, that isn’t in my inner tube. How about a $25 gift certificate to Powell’s or Amazon, your choice, and the CD audio book of Christina Dodd’s Some Enchanted Evening.

Pedal on, Bitches, Pedal on.

Entry #1 Frankie O’Malley

Frankie O’Malley’s giant vulva sculptures were to make her the next Georgia O’Keefe. She couldn’t believe it when CLOCK magazine decided to cover her newest exhibit. But when BMX champion Maddox Raine saw the graceful curves of Frankie’s biggest vulva outside the art museum, he simply thought it was a wicked awesome ramp.  Suddenly CLOCK magazine has a more interesting article than just an upcoming artist.  Frankie hated him for mocking her art and stealing her publicity, but her friends knew the truth.  When Maddox rode his bike into the vulva he also rode into the artist’s heart.  Now her two best friends, estranged cousins, and precocious daughter must convince the artist and the biker of their love.  They set-up an online profile at Bikers Anonymous for ‘Pudenda-tascular Artist’ and chat up Maddox to convince him that Frankie feigned her hate.  But what happens when Maddox’s scheming fiancée, an Olympic swimmer, discovers their scheme?  Will her amorous flood coldly leave Frankie without satisfaction?  See THE VULVA WAY, in theaters this summer, to discover the climax of Frankie and Maddox’s love.  It’s a completely original film of bikes, vulvas, art, and meddlesome others sure to be the hit of the summer.

Entry #2 The Heart Shaped Box by Cella deVenus

Vanessa couldn’t believe the stipulation her uncle had left in his will! In order to collect her inheritance she would have to bike across Italy carrying a priceless art piece on her person—The Heart Shaped Box. Little does she know that the fellow cyclist she joins up with along the way is Manen Gorged, a man more interested in getting his fingers on the secret treasure in her folds than the Italian countryside. But he’ll reassess his feelings when, after an accident, he must plunge himself into the hidden cleft known as Aphrodite’s Flower to save Vanessa.

Cella deVenus spreads herself wide over every page in her first novel. Her descriptions of weeping grottos, dewy mounds, moist caves, and worshipping at sacred altars, coupled with glistening, firm gripping prose will have you aching for more. Ride this warm velvety road romance today!

“Tight, slick passages!” says Smart Bitches.

Entry #3 The Money Shot

Mimosa Pale, princess of Unholaan, is royally pissed. Named for a sissy drink and forbidden from the sun and anything fun, she slips her palace guards, dresses down and poses as a photographer’s assistant. Not just any photographer, but Jedi-journalist Jatti Hapy, the pedaling prince of the paparazzi, the man who’s made her every move a misery.

An artist with vast vision, Jatti does not agree to stay in Unholaan forever, just long enough to score a snap of the mysterious Miss Mimosa’s pristine pink perfection. Once People pays him, he’ll plunk down the cash for a camper and canvas the countryside in search of hard copy and put his Payless-shod feet out to pasture. But when a crazy mixed-up kid who doesn’t know a camera from a clusterbomb catastrophically confuses his chemicals, he cottons on his cutie is not who she claimed. And could it be? The pouting princess has been under his proboscis the whole time!

The Money Shot, a rollicking intergalactic romantic comedy inspired by Roman Holiday--- only with bikes and spaceships instead of scooters ---will tickle you from your tonsils to your toenails. Buy it at bookstores from Beirut to Bangor!

Entry #4 Cross Cuntry

Cherry Stone doesn’t think art and Mormonism are exclusive. She’s promoting premarital virginity by riding her VulvaCycle in an all-female, coast-to-coast bike race.

Actor Rod Hardy needs some attention. Wearing a wig, he’s riding as Lola Lamb on his bike, the Trojan Horse. Cherry never saw a horse with no head and such prominent ribs, but it is aerodynamic.

When “Lola” and Cherry collide, “Lola” offers to help repair Cherry’s damaged petals. Lesbians are an abomination to Mormons, but Cherry feels something for her butch competitor that she never felt for her Mormon fiancé. Maybe it’s just appreciation for “Lola’s” facility with tools.

Rod’s lust is crimped by having to tuck in his bike shorts, but he manages to convince Cherry that girly action won’t violate her vow. If “Lola” helps Cherry win the race, Cherry will let “Lola” taste her juices. Then Rod’s agent calls. Provided Rod wins the race and unmasks, he’ll get the TV condom campaign he wants.

While Cherry lubes her chain, Rod falls in love. If she wins the race, can he win her heart? Will he have to get a sex change and embrace polygamy? Find out, in Cross Cuntry.

Entry #5 Loose Lips

Coming soon: “Loose Lips” Starring Vajayjay Loving and Peter Cuntsmore. 

Loosinda Massengill, the critically acclaimed sculptor of the 10 foot tall vagina called “The Love Cave”, is commissioned to create a new master piece for the city’s new museum with Dicky Sackson, a new up in coming artist who’s art centers around bicycle seats and limp chains.  Dicky insists that they combine their distinctive styles to create a new symbolic statue that represents love, cycling, and brazillian waxed cooches.  He wants to put Loosinda’s Love Cave lips against his banana seat. 

But Loosinda has taken a vow to never allow a banana to slip against her lips.  As they toil in the workroom day in and day out, slowly Loosinda allows Dicky to touch her vadge and mold it, work it and even…set it on his racing seat!  Dicky wins Loosinda over with his knowledge of bicycles, sense of humor and vulva themed limericks.  It’s a special moment when Dicky opens up and shows Loosinda his purple helmet.  The training wheels come off and Loosinda rides Dicky like a Schwinn!  But will their love survive?  Will their sculpture “Ride and Grind” impress the museum committee? Watch and see!

And (alert! Abrupt sort-of change in topic!) that’s kind of how I feel about a lot of the erotic romance on the market right now. I mentioned to Jane recently that the fallout of her turning me on to ebooks and my purchase of the Kindle-ade is that I’m a lot less patient as a reader. Used to be if I was trapped on the bus with one book, and I didn’t like it, I’d keep going because, well, I was trapped on the bus. But with the Kindle-Ade, if I don’t like something, click, click, there’s about fourteen thousand something-else’s I can try. There’s a much smaller window of opportunity to grab me when I know I’ve got a buffet of other books waiting in my hands.

Erotic romance is a tough one with me. This is not because I don’t like explicit sex, but because there are times when the construction of the erotic romance reads like someone took an average plot and brought it over to the Semi-Homemade set for some processed doctoring. Erotic romance, Semi-Homemade style, is a perfectly fine basic narrative, with sodium-heavy, tasteless, partially hydrogenated sex stuffed into every possible orifice, coupled with impossible paranormal backstories that allow any number of coy bestiality hints or what have you.

Look at it like this: imagine your basic contemporary plot. It’s a store bought angel food cake (Sandra Lee LOVES those) and you need to doctor it up for the erotic romance party that’s coming over to your house to gawk and chatter at the Kama Sutra tablescape you constructed with coathangers, some Chinese silk remnants, those web-and-flower-sparkle slippers that everyone wore two years ago, a peace lily, and a bowling ball. What can you do with your angel-food cake plot to make it over-the-top Erotic Romance, the semi-homemade way? Add the following:

Name Brands:

Always stuff as many named brands as possible into your erotic romance. Not only does it show you did your research, but it lends that touch of realism that just can’t be faked. Sure, your hero may have a fourteen foot man-hose, and the heroine might like triple-double penetration (that’s six dudes, two holes) and you’re wondering how that might be choreographed, but one mention of Folger’s crystals and your reader will be transported into a reality that is too, too real, and that makes the absolutely-anatomically-impossible sex that much more possible. And thus, more hotter.

Manwich:

This is a two-part Semi-Homemade improvement. Dump two cans of Manwich on your angel-food cake plot. First, always have a threesome, or a manwich, wherein the heroine gets smushed between two men. It doesn’t matter who the other dude is. He might be an ancillary character. He might be some guy who is glued to the wall in a priapic state who exists merely for the manwich purposes. He might not be a he—he might be a pole in the ground. Doesn’t matter. Not only does the heroine need to take it in the two-hole for it to cross the border into erotic romance, she needs a double-stuffing for that erotic romance to float the boats of today’s discerning crowd.

What, angel food cake and Manwich don’t really go together? Tough. We need manwiches and threesomes galore.

And speaking of men, there’s part two of the Manwhich requirement. If your hero can muse to himself as much as possible using the word “Man,” it adds that certain touch of quality to your erotic romance. Nothing says “man who thinks with his dick” than constant use of the word “man” itself. From Man, her ass was tight inside her jeans, so tight he wondered if he’d be able to pull them off or would he have to get the shoehorn he kept hidden in the bedside table as a backup amorous device? to Man, her boobs jiggle a lot, the erotic romance hero must constantly self-identify to remind himself that he is, in fact, so manfully manly and manhoodly-man-man. Man.

Scent:

Your Brand-name Manwich angel food cake erotic romance plot needs scent. All these alpha predatory male heroes, man, are sniffing up her skirt, scenting her essence, and generally remarking on the whiff eau heroine, man. This is particularly true for paranormals, because it’s not an erotic paranormal romance unless the animal-esque hero ruminates upon the smell of her arousal at least three or four times. Get it? He’s part-animal, that sexy man-beast, and his sense of smell is fourteen thousand times more sensitive than everyone else’s, and so you have no secrets every time you’re hot to trot. There’s nothing more erotic than being turned on and having the dude who turned you on inform you that he could tell each and every time you were turned on in the past four years since you moved into the apartment next door, and what is it about QVC that gets your love honey flowing, anyway? Is it the Quacker Factory?

Love’s Baby Soft:

After you’ve covered your angel food cake plot with Manwich, threesomes, some additional scent, and enough name brand references to choke a shopaholic, there’s just one more thing you need to make a Semi-Homemade Erotic Romance: “baby.”

Ever notice that moments after the erotic romance hero meets his erotic romance heroine, and he’s figured out that between that page and the end of the book he’s gonna get a loooootta tail, he starts calling her “Baby?” It’s part of that whole alpha-male protection thing, and part of the sexy treatment that makes any Semi-Homemade erotic romance such a total treat to read. If he’s not remarking to himself, man, he’s calling the newly-met heroine “Baby,” regardless of whether she’s older than he is, or whether she might even like the reduction of power inherent in a diminutive nickname. Maybe she has a name, but after she meets him, it’s “Baby.” And you can bet your sweet bippy he’ll be putting baby in the corner, over the banister, in the back yard, up the wall, in the shower, and on the kitchen table.

Now that you’ve put your personal Semi-Homemade touch on a basic romance plot, and used 30% fresh ingredients to make that narrative your own, it’s time to shop it around for sale. This is when the Kama Sutra/Bowling League tablescape will come (ha!) in handy: invite all the erotic romance editors whose names you can find online over to your house for a Semi-Homemade erotic romance party.

But don’t forget the cocktails that are at least 85% alcohol. They’ll need at least three.

Remember, keep it simple, keep it smelly, keep it sexy, but always keep it Semi-Homemade Erotic Romance.

There are myriad issues surrounding their relationship, from letting go of their high school impressions of one another, and of the “jock” and “nerd” roles they played at that time, to determining whether acting on their attraction is worth the risk should they be caught, not to mention the obvious “is this a passing fancy or is this permanent?” wondering on the part of both parties. It’s been a while, now that I think about it, since I’ve read a story that includes the “does s/he like me, or does s/he like me like me” uncertainty. In this case, it was quaint and effective.

The story is told with a lot of head hopping between Brandon and Jake, so the reader experiences the story through a rapidly shifting point of view. That switching can be distracting, as there were moments when I wanted more of Brandon’s impressions or more of Jake’s perspective. Overall, I thought more of the story was explored from Brandon’s point of view, but Jake was a slightly more fascinating character to me: a silly, casual guy who loves sports, loves his job, and misses the opportunities that might have been his had his health and his joints not been sacrificed too early in this lifetime. But that is no slight to Brandon, who is quiet, adorably dedicated in the same way that Jake is to his job and his life, observant, wickedly smart and adaptable in most situations.

Two things that I noticed, one a minor nitpick. I wonder if one of the writers isn’t Australian, because I caught a few instances of Aussie idioms ("What are you on about?” and “good on you,” for example) that I couldn’t quite imagine folks in Georgia using - though one of my friends who lives in Georgia is an Aussie ex-pat, so maybe she’s influenced the world of gay romance. But if I go down South and hear someone ask me if I want a cuppa, I’m more than happy to admit I’m wrong on this one.

The other thing was a potential scene that I kept waiting to materialize but never did. Brandon is a former med student with two Masters degrees in various sciences. When Jake’s shoulder is seizing up on him, causing him considerable pain, Brandon (in a scene of electric sexual tension like yowzer boy howdy) gives him a massage, and explains where the injury is, revealing both his own understanding of human anatomy, and his ability to translate that in to a practical understanding for himself and the reader of how much pain Jake tolerates on a daily basis to simply do his job. Because Jake had surgery on his shoulder, knee, and ankle, and was pushed to keep playing by coaches and his own need for continued scholarship, his body bears a good amount of painful damage, and with Brandon’s explanation, Jake’s dedication and commitment to his teaching job and his coaching responsibilities become more than his joking, laid back persona reveal.

Brandon then offers Jake a massage, using equipment that he has at home from his med school days, and Jake grudgingly accepts - but no massage scene!? What what?! But, but! I was anticipating that scene for many reasons, and was so disappointed when it never arrived. One, hot hot! Two, electric tension, they has it. And three, the power dynamics in Brandon’s and Jake’s relationship are constantly shifting, but most of the time, Brandon is the fish out of water in Jake’s athletic world, and Jake is the individual with the most power, control, and authority. If Brandon gave Jake a therapeutic massage (or a non therapeutic one, nudge nudge, wink wink!) then the authors would have had the opportunity to show off even more of the depth of Brandon’s knowledge (which is holy shit considerable) and his dedication to his own medical school career. At the beginning of the novel Brandon mentions his doctorate, and when his overloaded schedule reaches a breaking point, he has to decide what to do with all his commitments, but I really missed this possible opportunity for these two characters.

However, I have to say, my goodness, I really liked this book. There wasn’t a tremendous amount of angst or “Oh, oh, the anti-gay lynch mob is after us!” fear, but both men acknowledged the reality of being gay within their community that seemed appropriate without being overwhelming. Caught Running grabbed me, and left me with a big fat smile on my face. Those who reject gay romance out of hand would do well to try this story, as it balances well the sexual, emotional, and social elements of contemporary romance between two very real and very captivating men. 

Elizabeth Wadsworth (paranormal): It is a truth universally acknowledged, that any single Vampire Lord newly arrived from Transylvania with a wad of cash and several wooden boxes of dubious function, must be in want not only of prime London real estate but several nubile females upon whom to slake his insatiable bloodlust.

Elizabeth Wadsworth (contemporary): “Damn you, Brad Parker, damn you to hell!” gritted Verity Toussaint, her pearly teeth clenched, full, moist pink lips compressed in an unfeminine snarl of frustrated rage, dark eyes flashing sparks like a malfunctioning electrical outlet as she struggled to contain the snarling beast held captive between her quivering, glistening thighs; then, with a wild mocking laugh in which triumph and revenge commingled, she gunned the vintage Harley forward and ground to a powder Brad’s cherished, fragile collection of Weird Tales pulp magazines.”

Lyvvie: Brandy let out a long sigh when she realized she was caught with no chance of escape from Captain Armatey, the filthy pirate, which was a big mistake as no sooner was the rib-expanding breath out of her then a faint ripping sound was heard traveling from her heart to her navel and suddenly her ample pink globes burst forth for all the see, heaving again and refusing to be restrained behind her dainty hands.

Lyvvie: Sophie was very nervous about having her “woman’s” examination in this new city with a new doctor. Yet when she saw Dr. Holding’s lush as an Irish field green eyes her knees fell open before he even had to ask her. When he ran the speculum under warm water before turning to her, she knew he was The One.

AnimeJune: Lady Eleanor Wadsworth-Pennington had always thought she’d understood her mother when she said, “Beware the rakes, they cause only pain and misery!” until she finally stepped on one and the stout wooden handle swooped up and smacked her on the face, breaking her nose and causing her to curse the lazy but irrepressible gardener Louis in a most unladylike manner.

AnimeJune: The interesting thing about living with one’s vampire boyfriend, thought Candace, was that they both craved comfort food at a certain time of the month, at the same time, and for exactly the same reason.

Marna: There was nothing quite like hearing protestations of love and devotion from a man on a second date while also hearing him thinking “How much more of this crap do I have to spout before she goes down on me?” to drive home to a girl just how much it really, truly sucked to be a telepath, completely unable to indulge in the pleasant fantasy that somewhere out there a man really was interested in intelligence, wit, charm; indeed anything more than big boobs, flat abs and an ass tight enough that he’d be able to bounce quarters off of it in some sort of obscure drinking game dreamed up in a college frat house ten years earlier.

MS Jones: The Billionaire’s Secret Foot Fetish
Sophia entered her Italian boss’s boardroom trepidatiously, ready to retreat like a snail, which she could do faster than any gastropod because the only similarity between her jelly shoes and a slimy Tuscan molluscan was the translucent shiny gleam so like her boss’s eyes when they fell upon her toes.

MS Jones: The Blood-Stained Glass
If Vheronica could have studied her reflection in the mirror she would have seen eyes the deep purple color of eggplant, lips that pouted like a pigeon in heat, and fangs like one of those sunsets when the sky is all kind of streaky red and yellow; but she was a vampire so she couldn’t.

MS Jones: The Ballad of the Bodacious Bust
Prudence swept onto the train platform, her bustle rustling like a passel of cattle thieves, marched up to Jake and said, “You’re my ticket out of here, cowboy,” and just to make sure he got her drift she ripped open her bodice to display breasts the creamy, soft consistency of Brie cheese.

Esri Rose: Portia Delacroix’s dainty kid slippers faltered to a halt beneath the whispering willows as two swarthy men, their faces hidden by filthy rags, stepped onto the path ahead of her only to run for their lives as Lord Rakeraven’s horse’s hooves, the size of French porcelain dinner plates, pawed the air above their greasy heads, its master shouting, “Lay a hand on her fair head and I’ll eat your nadgers on toast, come the morrow!”

Alex: Hi my name is Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that’s how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!).

Carrie Lofty: Thrusting and thrusting again into the gasping blonde groupie sprawled across a hot pink Naugahyde loveseat, Leo “Nasty” Houston’s member was like a hard-working mole digging its winter shelter: its snout slick and hairless, blind to all but its instinctual purpose, and intensely fond of warm, dark, welcoming warrens.

Ellie: Trevor reached out a hand to his new bride, Valerie, who looked up at him through her eyelashes, her gaze an equal mix of fear and raw passion, and as he pulled her towards him, the scent of her hair, orange and jasmine, filled the air in the honeymoon suite, which was hot and close and full of promise, like a Southern summer night, but without all the June bugs.

Anonymiss: Whimpering prettily, as she had been taught, heiress Daphne du Bazoombas scolded her seamstress for using a zipper on her bodice instead of flimsly ribbon ties - how, she reasoned, was she supposed to meet the broodingly handsome titular Lord Manly Pectarious by page 20, receive three punishing kisses by page 65 (spurring heretofore never felt sensations in her regions de nether by page 66), and ultimately end up by page 93 in a windswept cliff-filled valley surrounded by rearing horses, Ionic columns, erect moonbeams and tangerine colored peacocks with Manly driving his knee improbably into her sacral spine and his hands rapaciously down her chemise (causing her mouth to form a perfect ‘o’ like the wedding band of gold he would give her no later than page 587 after she had borne him two children and one nasty rash), if for heaven’s sake he had to find and pull down one of those little zipper pulls that disappears into a seam?!

Lyra: The Pirate Rogue’s Nordic-Ethiopian Bride
Captain Llwyn trapped the jewel of his latest plundering between his leathery, anchorchain arms, regarding her with a smug, anticipatory grin that showed off his rotten and broken teeth to their full effect; she was a pretty one, this wench, with her dark, volcanic soil skin, her eyes the colour of his salty mistress after a storm, and her spun gold hair that tumbled and twisted in the air as if pulled by some non-existent breeze—he would enjoy the process of taming her, of teaching her that the proper place for a woman was strapped to the helm of his pirate ship as an ornament.

Lyra: Blood Drive
Pynylope shouldn’t have been surprised that it happened at twilight, dusky with its lacy, gently wafting curtains of cloud, her transformation to vampyredom; still, nothing prepared her for Edmynd revealed in his full glory: his eyes, green as phlegm from a congested kid’s nose, stalking her; his lips, redder than Cartier rubies, whispering sweet nothings; his teeth, spears more penetrating and sure to satisfy than any phallus, sinking into her flesh with a ripping, tearing sound that reminded her of the neighborhood butcher.

Ellie: If you make me marry him, Mother, I’ll kill myself!” screeched Alveola, referring to the Duke of Mahntitte, who was a cad and a scoundrel and scarred to boot, and the object of her deepest loathing, because she had not yet discovered that his daring playboy exterior was just a cover to hide the pain of an unhappy childhood, and he had gotten the scar duelling to defend the honor of Aldenta, her half-sister whom she would soon meet for the first time.

Karen: James Wright didn’t just think he was God’s gift to women, he was reminded of it every time a pretty little skirt decided to join him back at his place for a ride on his pony, if you know what I mean.

Suze: Miyuki gazed in wonder at the tall, very-long-legged, blue-eyed, silver-haired Japanese billionaire-ninja-rockstar-host who was also the president of their high school’s student council (so accomplished, and only 17!) and sighed happily, wondering why such a beautiful bishounen was so attracted to her short, plain, ordinary, nerd-like self that he needed to blackmail her into becoming his maid-mistress-secretary AND make her fill in for their missing maths teacher (and she was SO bad at maths!) by threatening to reveal to the school population that she worked part-time as a famous model in disguise; and she hoped desperately that she’d be able to get home (where she lived alone because her parents had recently been transferred overseas for two years, leaving her behind by herself) before her cruel lover’s legion of rabid fangirls chased her down and cut all her hair off, stole her shoes, and threw mud on her clothes.

Malin: Mama had always insisted that chasing after men was vulgar. Thus, Sophie (instead of stalking her man as would have been more convenient) was obliged to lay in wait along pathways, ready to pounce.

Laura: “She writhed against him, rotating her hips as though they were blades on a wind-powered turbine generator, the bulbous white expanses of her heaving breasts undulating like water balloons resting upon a vibrator powered by a bank of fully charged hybrid fuel cells.”

Gail S: IRIDIA AND THE SWORD OF LOVE
Iridia struggled, flailing her pearlescent limbs, thrashing her platinum-tressed head, heaving her creamy bosoms upward in a frantic battle to free herself from the dreams that held her captive, and yet did little more than free those bosoms, luscious, orbs glowing with the moon’s sensuous intensity, peaked with rosy tips the size, shape and hardness of erasers on the end of a pencil, from the diaphanous gauzy fabric of her gown, and all the while Hygenio, Duke of Alhambra, watched and lusted in his heart after her, as well as in the prodigiously hungry and growing sword of love in his groinal region.

Pamela: Bruce left a lasting impression, like those memory foam mattresses – sure, he was a bit dense and quick to mold to anyone who put pressure on him, but he offered firm support and automatically adjusted to weight fluctuations which more than made up for the occasional bit of off-gassing.

Lyra: The Argentine’s Secret Graveyard Mistress
Despite the sudden thunderstorm that plastered their clothes to their heated, writhing bodies, Francesca knew that they were too far gone in the throes of passion to stop and seek shelter in the memorial garden’s gazebo; Andreas, the gorgeous stallion of an Argentine she’d only met hours ago, ran his rough manly hands over her, eagerly denuding her body and exciting her to screams of ecstasy that surely would rouse the dead from their nearby graves.

Phadem: The Island
Olivia Pendlebottom was getting off that damn island, even if she had to hump a humpback to do it, but the only male in site was Timothy Bareback of the Derbyshire French Letter factory fame and as she was quite beyond the pale desperate at that point, she had only one last thought before the plunge: At least he’d come prepared.

Ellie: Victoriana was blonde, leggy, and had curves in all the right places, except the top of her head, which, Buck noticed, was actually quite pointy, not to mention, as he now couldn’t stop noticing it, very distracting.

Malin: Crossing the plaza with her arms full of books, Beth suddenly felt a horrible, consuming urge to scratch an intense itch in her crotch.

Marna: Mellisande d’Alagnace listened fearful