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

Candy: He looks inordinately pleased that he’s broken her hip, doesn’t he? Maybe because it means she can’t run away from his swarthy charms as fast as she used to.

Sarah: A new facet of Native American culture that I didn’t know about: ear wax, it is teh sexxey.

At least, that’s the only explanation I’ve got as to why she’s posed such that he’s gazing down her ear canal.

Candy: Good lord, people! What’s with all the poor freaked-out horsies on romance novel covers? Is every day Throw A Rattlesnake in Front of Your Horse Day in Romancelandia? Jesus, do I even want to know what kind of euphemism “rattlesnake” stands for? (Or is it, in fact, a spitting viper?)

The guy, on the other hand, looks surprisingly sanguine--indifferent, even--at the prospect of having his neck snapped in short order, because given the way his shirt is flailing in the wind, I seriously doubt he’s keeping his seat for much longer.

Sarah: The reins are to the left, his ass is to the right, his jacket’s off his middle - and UNH! Down he goes! I hereby invite that horse to take a bite of this moron, because he’s a disgrace to horseback riders everywhere.

Unless what we’re seeing here is Outraged Horsie’s Revenge, as we witness the opening moments of Mr. Stallion whipping Captain Bonerdeath around by the reins and tossing him into the nearest embankment.

Candy: She looks awfully blissed out for somebody who’s getting her upper back humped by a gym monkey. Maybe because he’s putting a vibrating cock ring to novel uses? Or maybe it’s all part of a new Sexy Chiropractic Adjustment regime--the, uh, staff of manliness is utilized as a lever?

Aww, using your cock therapeutically--if that doesn’t say Twu Wuv, I don’t know what does.

Sarah: Ah, the ice dancing romance novel cover art series. This is book 1. Stay tuned for the covers for book two and three, based on ice dancing’s more advanced and certainly cover-worthy poses. 

And speaking of absurd, check out the page for the “limited edition solid silver anus:”

55 grams of hallmarked silver, cradled in a magnificent presentation box and exquisitely crafted into that most sensuous of body parts: a unique, elegant and thought-provoking gift.

People come and people go. Our solid silver anus is immune from the daily wear and tear that similar products experience. A quality product immortalised in silver…for the man who has everything.”

Two words, people, two words: Father’s. Day.
Two more words - no, three: Smart Bitch Contest! 

All awe and giggles at the solid silver booty holes aside, we must consider it our solemn dooty, I mean, duty, to hold a contest to celebrate the imminent sales extravaganza that is the solid chocolate doorway to the doody canal. Seriously! What better promotional effort could release wads of dollars from the tight brown folds of your nearest wallet like the Smart Bitchery’s purplest prose?

So, here’s the deal: your finest over-the-top purplest purple (or brown) prose example of an anal sex scene (250 word limit, please!) by midnight tonight 21 May 2008, Pacific Time. I’ll collate and post them all and you can vote and giggle at the wonderment.

Winner as voted in the comments will receive a Smart Bitch Title™, a Romance Novel Magnetic Poetry Kit, and a gift certificate to Powell’s or Amazon, winner’s choice.

Any questions? Send ‘em where the sun don’t shine. Just kidding. 

In a way, I guess I should thank this absolutely hideous cover. I had never heard of Loretta Chase, but I was hungry for more romance novels after glomming everything by Judith McNaught and Lisa Kleypas I could find. It was so ugly, it caught my eye at the book rental store in Malaysia, and I picked it up on the whim. The guy’s glistening curls were hypnotic, I tells ye. And then I started reading the book.

I think I might’ve paused to eat or pee or interact with people, but honestly, I might not have. When I was done, I ran back to the store for more, and wailed and gnashed my teeth when I found only two more books by her.

But enough about my ridiculous love for Loretta Chase novels. That cover. THAT COVER. Y’all. What in the everloving name of fuck were they thinking of when they came up with it? I mean, what is the guy DOING? Is he rearing up from the grave to drag the weirdly pale chippy in with him? Or is she the reanimated corpse, attempting bash him on the forehead with her chin before shoving him down to spend eternity with her in the cold, damp earth? And why are they both hurtling around with their eyes closed? To hide their UNDEAD ZOMBIE EYES?

And here comes the make-over. No more curly mullets, but there’s a thoroughly insipid guy in a thoroughly insipid romance novel pose: shirt unbuttoned (but still tucked in! We have to have standards, people, or the world is going to fall apart), hands on hips, manly, determined gaze into the distance. The cover isn’t even hilariously bad, the way the original cover was; it’s just boring. And bad. At least the original cover made me stop in my tracks and go “hot donkeys that cover is hilarious.” This cover inspires mild distaste, followed by boredom.

This sequel to The Lion’s Daughter was the first romance novel I’d read in which the villain of the previous book was made into a hero. Loved it, though I still liked The Lion’s Daughter better. And the cover was a worthy successor of The Lion’s Daughter in every way. What’s not to love about two sweaty jaundiced people getting fresh with each other on top of what look like theater curtains? Delicious! I can see the tagline now: Two things bound these star-crossed lovers together: a love for musical theater . . . and class C liver cirrhosis. HOT.

OK, so Berkley ditched the cirrhosis and the girl, but kept the curtain theme, and instead of getting someone with hepatitis, they chose a Jensen Ackles knock-off with a weird flat-top haircut and an aversion to shaving. OK, fine. He’s not the greatest, but at least he looks healthy, and he’s pretty cute, if you unfocus your eyes a little. But dude: that dead look on his face. That expression, combined with him coming around the curtains, makes me think of this strip from A Softer World. Stalkeriffic!

Y’know, I have to admit a fondness for this cover. It’s clinchy and kind of embarrassing, and the pink and orange tones are pretty lurid, but this is one of the very few covers in which the models actually look a lot like the characters. The woman, in particular, looks like Jessica: beautiful, dark-haired, just a touch exotic. The guy...he’s not quite as big and imposing and Italian as I picture Sebastian, whom I picture as a more rough-hewn member of Dieux du Stade, but you know, he’s still kinda hot.

And the revision? Meh. It’s not horrible, but what’s with the watered-down pastels? Jessica and Sebastian are probably one of the most vivid, well-matched pairs in all of Romance. They’re bright jewel tones and fire, not big soft flowers and a woman looking vaguely down at some stain she has on her sleeve. This cover is downright soporific, and part of it’s due to the soft, sleepy woman. This does not look like a woman who’d shoot a man who’s wronged her. This looks like a woman who’d think about maybe shooting him, then go take a nap instead.

And that’s it for this round. Next time: Jude Deveraux and the special trainwrecks that were the covers for her early releases.

Man, that’s a lot of hair. Hair only Clairol could love. Seriously, why do you think the guy looks so intent? His gaze isn’t on her face or her body. It seems focused somewhere above her left ear. He’s checking her roots, man.

And oh my God! She’s wearing the puffy shirt.

Except her shirt is even more so. Look at those sleeves! They’re practically ready to pop, they’re so full. Did they have air-filled inserts for those things back in the day, or mini-panniers for arms? Is it stuffed with chunks of man-titty, which she cut off as proof of her conquests?

This cover is so deliciously tacky, I kind of expect Chuck Norris to be driving out of his grave in his supercharged pickup truck any fucking minute in the background of this cover.

The new cover: it’s the ubiquitous Horse Freaking the Fuck Out, except in silhouette. Let us ponder the significance of the shadow suspended in all eternity, running away from heroes who consider using cream to lubricate their cocks sufficient foreplay towards a future bright with miles upon miles of Aquanetted hair.

This cover comes from the school of “Let’s pour melted Crisco on everybody, because if there’s anything more attractive than 80s bangs and mullets, it’s greasy 80s bangs and mullets.” It’s also from the “Limbs are confusingly and randomly placed for optimal confusion and resemblance to xenomorphic aliens.” Seriously. Look at the bit of leg jutting out towards the lower left corner of the cover. Then look at the placement of her butt, and then the hump in the cover where her knee presumably is. I can’t make sense of it. It’s positively Escher-like. Does she have six limbs, or is there a corpse under the covers? I can’t tell.

And the image for this cover is...a tree.

A dripping tree. Though I can almost see a face in it. See that dangly bit down the middle? It’s totally an elephant! Mmmm, Rorschach-a-licious.

This is about as innocuous as it gets, and the change in tone and feel between the old and new covers is enough to give me whiplash.

More greasiness! More 80s bangs! More mullets! Except her hair is being blown directly off her face, indicating a wind coming from the ground. Maybe it’s generated by the grass collectively exhaling in exasperation? Maybe she just dropped from the sky directly onto this dude?

What I find hilarious is how tasteful and restrained the new covers are compared to the originals. This one could be plastered on just about anything nautically related, from a biography of Magellan to stories featuring people with names like Hornblower, Ramsbottom and Bracegirdle. There’s absolutely no hint of the copious amounts of sexx0ring and brutish hero antics that lie within the pages. It’s tantamount to false advertising, but them’s the rules: the bestselling authors get tasteful covers, no matter how lurid the contents within; the mid-listers and newbie authors take what they can get and feel grateful they’re not stuck with the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Candy (in an appalling David Attenborough impression): “And here we see the rare Bedsheet Hellbeast consuming its prey. By cleverly simulating high-threadcount linens, this nocturnal beast often sets out lures for the unsuspecting human, often in the form of a member of the opposite sex with over-developed mammaries. The victims’ attempts to escape are futile once they fall into its grasp. Witness the writhings of this particular victim. Her attempts to claw her way out will only entangle her further.”

Sarah: Some heroes shapeshift and turn into wolves. Seals. Lions. Tigers. Lygers. Oh my. But this guy, he shapeshifts into the finest Egyptian cotton bedsheets. Pretty handy when company invades at the last minute. But then, you know the wet spot? He IS the wet spot.

And what is up with her toes? Check out the udder-ly bizarre toes under the “SS” in “Passion.” Perhaps she’s shifting, only instead of bedsheets, she’s a mop.

Candy: “And here we see a close cousin of the Bedsheet Hellbeast, the Wedding Dress Snorcher. Notice how the lure in this instance is coated with a sheen of digestive enzymes. This makes the breaking down of the copious amounts of keratin on this particular prey an easier enterprise.”

Sarah: There’s simply not enough double-leg amputee romance out there. And there’s really not enough double-leg amputee who was the victim of a rogue wedding gown that twisted itself around his thighs, cutting off circulation in a fit of jealous rage.

Candy: “And here we see a juvenile Snorcher in the preliminary stages of acquiring its prey. Notice how it attaches a feeding veil to the head of its victim. This allows it to render its victim unconscious, thereby eliminating the dangers associated with vigorous struggling.”

Sarah: Yet another secret kept by heroines all over RomanceLandia: how to hide the hideously calloused feet. Climbing all those mountains barefoot wearing wedding dresses and ballgowns, it leaves one with soles of leather, rough enough to sand chopped wood into floorboards and thick enough to walk over hot coals, hot water, and the hot oil treatment preferred by this and every hero. It’s a trick, keeping those yellow soles hidden from view. How do they do it? We may never know.