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

Please note: The Sundance Channel version is rated TV:MA, and according to the Sundance website, the four parts air on May 19 and May 20th/21st at midnight and 1am. Check your local cable listings to see if that same schedule applies in your area, and if you have parental controls enabled on your DVR, it might not record things that are designated with a TV:MA rating.

As narrator Martin Torgoff says, the documentary explores why the US is a “sex drenched” culture, and how it got to be that way. If you’re looking for insightful depth of commentary, this isn’t it. The style of this particular type of documentary runs so fast through decades of change that it seems to encourage through name dropping and celebrity interviews the Google-research of its viewers. I happen to watch tv with a computer on my lap, as does Hubby, so as we watched Parts 1 and 2 on Friday night, he was curious about the supreme court cases mentioned, while I was curious about Sandstone, Plato’s Retreat, and Bette Midler’s career in the bathhouses of New York City. As a habit, we Google while we watch - and this documentary is perfect for our obsessive multitasking viewing style. Our search history, it is a kinky place.

The style of narration, which is edited together with musical clips, archived footage, and contemporary interviews, is similar to the other VH1-umentaries, but it works for this subject as well as it did for The Drug Years (which I watched multiple times whenever I encountered it on tv) because the undertaking is so multi-facted. The sexual revolution encompasses several major socio-political uprisings, from feminism to gay rights, and touching on all of them requires a deft flexibility that doesn’t always flourish in documentary work. I don’t know that the series actually explained why we’re a sex-drenched culture, though I agree that we are. I always figured it was part of the Puritan morality that was part and parcel to the founding of the whole damn place, concurrent with that fear that someone, somewhere, was having an orgasm and must be stopped. The documentary seems to attribute the drenching to the excess and then the backlash, with the two sides washing over each other since the early 1990’s but I don’t think a firm conclusion was ever erected.

Also, I wish that the individuals being interviewed were identified with more alacrity, because there were times I was fascinated by someone’s attitude or with their commentary, and wanted to know who the crap they were, and had to wait until the subtitles got around to telling me who they were and what they’d written. The expectation that I know who Erica Jong is? Not a stretch. I do know who she is (and I totally got a kick out the idea that the woman who coined the term “zipless fuck” and wrote candidly about assertive female desire was a classicly elegant woman in a black dress and pearls). But New York Magazine columnist Ariel Levy, who wrote Female Chauvanist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture, was onscreen about three or four times before she was identified, and I was Googling the text of her comments to see if they could tell me who she was. I get that the focus is on what these folks have to say rather than who they were (though why Cybill Shephard, exactly?) but some of the elements of who they are inform the fact that they’re talking to me.

I was fascinated by the uncensored nudity, not because it was nudity (look, boobs!) but because it was nearly naked or naked people who looked normal, and not toned, airbrused and post-production edited within an inch of their actual skeletons. Even the Playboy bunnies serving drinks had jiggly bottoms, which isn’t what I’m used to seeing from Playboy.

Some of the highlights:

1. Watching Hugh Hefner get his ass verbally handed to him on The Dick Cavett show by feminist Susan Brownmiller.

2. Footage of the aftermath of the Harvey Milk and George Mosconi assassinations, and the outrage following Dan White’s manslaughter conviction.

3. Helen Gurley Brown and the rise of Cosmopolitan in constrast and comparison with Playboy

4. Two words: Bathhouse Bette. Love her.

As I watched, I kept trying to figure out where, when, and how romance novels would hook into the sexual revolution. There’s no doubt in my mind that they are related, especially since The Flame and the Flower debuted in 1972, and romance novels were among the first depictions in popular culture of female sexual fulfillment at the hands (and mouth and mighty, mighty wang) of the hero, born partially out of his sexual and emotional compulsion to please her - to say nothing of the rape motif of early romance and the critical presumption of ambivalent sexual attitudes on the part of the early romance reader. There’s a good bit of revolution present in the repeated narrative of a mighty wang, meeting the powerful va-hay-hay, and going on over there to live happily ever after.

As I chew on the role of romance novels in the revolution, it makes me ponder the possibility of a documentary that would weave the two together, examining the socio-political climate as romance novels hit the market, and the changes therein as the genre flourished. Sex: The Revolution examines pornography, and pro-sexuality texts like the Masters & Johnson studies and the Kinsey reports, and of course The Joy of Sex, but there likely wasn’t enough time to take a left turn into narratives that embrace female sexuality like those found in romance novels (and no, I’m not saying they’re porno. Far from it). If you watch the documentary, I’m curious what you think of it. Let me know.

Entry #1: Taint Bottomwell

Lord Taint Bottomwell III surveyed the quivering ass flower so shamelessly displayed before him. Sir Christopher’s anus was an exotic star fruit ready to be plucked from the vine, ripe for the breed of love one man could only find with another.

With the delicacy of a botanist about to stroke a soft, blushing rose petal, Lord Bottomwell reached out one long, thick finger--the sort of tan, manly finger only men of strength possess--and slicked pale oil like cool white wine, oil scented with endless forbidden nights of strong masculine heat, over the rosy, puckered hole beckoning him as a diamond beckons a master thief.

“Taint! Oh god!” Sir Christopher howled his pleasure as Lord Bottomwell plunged first one digit and then two into the tight man hole. “Yes!”

“Then you would have me claim you as my own?” Taint’s own anus twitched with excitement at the thought of claiming and being claimed in return.

Sir Christopher arched his hips in silent invitation. Taint could wait no longer.

He plunged in, driving his lean, well-muscled, panther-like hips forward, a wanton cry escaping his lush mouth as the entire throbbing length of his purpled lovepump was swallowed by Sir Christopher’s smooth-walled, quivering backdoor tunnel. Sir Christopher’s round buttocks, smooth and hot like a stone in the sun, smacked against Taint’s aching groin.

Just then, the study door flew open. “Taint you are the terrible bastard king of assholery!”

Taint smiled and plunged deeper. “Why yes, father. Yes I am.”

Entry #2: Heather’s Hollow

Heather’s pert breasts heaved with excitement as Raoul prepared her tight hollow for the commanding thrust of his hard rod of love.  Plunging two fingers into the wet haven between her silky thighs, Raoul swept up the sweet creamy passion dripping from the nest of curls and rubbed it around the shy opening peeking at him from between the smooth globes of her round ass.  Raoul’s eyelids fell as he stroked inside her tight love-hole, watching as cries of passion fell from her cherry red mouth.  Positioning the broad head of his manroot, flushed a dull plum and shining from his passion, at the opening of her forbidden hollow, he pushed it into her petite cavity with short strokes, the ripe globes of her breasts bouncing against the mattress from the force of his passionate thrusting.

“Can you take it all, little girl?” Raoul asked, his voice rough with dark need.  She had pushed him too far this time, but with a start he realized he loved the little hellion laid out before him, and he wanted to be sure she was ready for his massive cock, the thick shaft nearly as wide as her wrist.

“Yes!” Heather screamed, driving against the hot length of him, burying it deep in her tight channel.  Raoul’s eyes rolled back in his head at the feeling of her fist-tight channel gripping his steel-hard cock.  Raoul groaned, grasping her hips and pumping the length of his shaft in and out of her.  Heather gasped at every rocking thrust and sobbed at every long withdrawal, her shuddering cries heightening his pleasure, until he shouted his climax.  Whimpering at the feeling of his hot seed shooting into her, Heather felt her womb convulse, as a rampaging orgasm overtook her.

Entry #3: Treatment Effects

Ally sucked in her gut and tried hard not to let the burp escape.  She had been waiting for months for Tom to finally put the moves on her and after a fabulous dinner at Red Lobster and their glorious, buttery, mouth-watering Ultimate Feast she was partially sated. 

Now she wanted more… and she was getting it!  Tom was a vigorous and virile lover and couldn’t seem to get enough of her bountiful, bodacious booty.  He had her bent over his card table and was experimenting with Crisco.  Ally whimpered then burped. Tom chuckled and slapped her cheeks muttering about ripples in a pond. 

Ally wasn’t paying attention to him.  Instead she was trying to ignore the gurgling, burbling, and rumbling in her gut.  Gripping the table she cursed herself for taking an Alli before her date.  She cursed herself for having the extra butter dip brought to the table.  But most of all she was cursing Tom for trying to dip his lobster tail in her rear butter dish.  Her gut twisted while Tom hooted and plugged her Crisco coated brown cauliflower. 

Grunting out a desperate “Gnnnngghh!” Ally gave way to the burning and churning passion inside her intestines and let the Alli sweep her away.  With an explosive gasp Ally let Alli have its wicked way with her and expelled Tom as well as a wave of “treatment effects“.  Heaving Tom aside Ally made a mad dash for the bathroom, silently despairing of her craving for tasty, buttery, fried fish.

Entry #4: Amelia Buttington

Miss Amelia, the prim, virginal, near-spinster American heiress to the obscenely large Buttington fortune, would never have dreamed she would have found herself in the arms of Lord Derrier Beefwhistle, the devilish, half-French, and also obscenely large Duke of Assbourne. In a course of a few minutes she lay face down on his brown satin sheets as he pulled apart her tender cheeks like a priest opening his favourite Bible or a loyal hound trying to explain comparative theology to another hound, or really any important subject, as doggy communication all really amounted to the same thing. Speaking of amounted, she could feel him gathering himself behind her to push his manly bough in between the ripe, round flesh of her peach-like bum till he reached the pit itself. Mother always said to watch out for heartless rakes, so eager to turn a brown eye blue, but now she wanted him to, although in a distant part of herself she admitted it would probably be more purple or red by the end of it – she was a virgin near-spinster after all, and he was obscenely large.

“What do you want?” she moaned.

“In the butt,” he replied. “What, what!” Who could resist that British charm?

Entry #5: Fessess Rimmer

Fesses Rimmer writhed in agonized pleasure, face-down on the large bed, entwined with two gorgeous men like a multi-limbed human starfish. She gazed lustfully at the chocolate buns presented by her firm’s senior partner, Ben Doon. As she reached forward to grasp the resilient globes of his ass, she shuddered at the firm caress delivered sharply against her own generous bottom by the junior partner, Phil McCraken.

“Did you know, Fesses,” Phil crooned, as he generously applied lube to her sweet Rosette, “that fine chocolate can actually help lower your cholesteral?”

Fesses did know, but her answer was muffled by that most sensuous of body parts, as she delved feverishly into the nerve-rich cornucopia of male pleasure before her. Her tongue ached with delight as she tickled Ben’s wrinkled bon-bon. His gasps and twitches melted her insides with shared arousal, as Phil’s finger circled her posterior entrance.

“Ooh, yeah, take it, baby,” Phil muttered as he introduced a second finger into her. “God, you’re tight!”

“Do it, Phil!” Ben hollered, as his ass cheeks quivered in Fesses’ grasp. “I’m gonna blow!  Do it now!”

Phil whipped his fingers out and abruptly pried apart Fesses’ sweet booty. As the blunt head of his cock began to inch slowly inside of her nether amuse-bouche, he growled, “Chocolate contains phenylethylamine, an amino acid which has aphrodisiac prop—AAH, God!”

His Mr. Big sent ripples of ecstasy up and down her spine.  It was too much.  With a (still muffled) scream, she came.

Entry #6: Vishous & Butch

Vishous didn’t waste any time after he stepped into the shower. He stripped down, letting the water sluice over his steroid-free muscles and over his rampaging erection. Damn, that O or KY Jelly or whatever that bastard Omega’s name was always got him hot… after a fight.

It wasn’t because of that pasty white skin or the lurking power beneath those soulless eyes. Nope, Vishous didn’t swing that way unless it was…

“Ice ice baby,” Butch rapped, washing the suds off those hard, steroid-induced muscles.

Yeah, he wanted some of that. Before he knew it, he found himself standing behind Butch. His fangs lengthened as did his cock. “Your ass is mine,” he growled.

Butch glanced over his shoulder. “Bitch, if you don’t give me some of that hard cock, I’m going to have a serious case of some blue balls.”

“Whatevah, Napoli. Place your hands on that wall and spread them—now.” Vishous’ dead heart started pumping again as Butch leaned forward, his butt muscles clenching. He closed the distance between them, taking his long, hard thick cock—all three inches—in one hand and rubbing it between the cleft of Butch’s ass.

Butch moaned. “Don’t go slow… like last time.”

Vishous didn’t answer but concentrated on slipping his cock inch by inch by inch until he was firmly settled inside. “So damn hot, Butchy.”

He knew he wouldn’t last long. He never did.

And when he came two seconds later, he bit Butch’s neck, marking him. “Mine.”

Entry #7: The Greek Billionaire’s Bottom Lines, The Secret Mistress/Virgin Bride’s Revenge, or *

Nico, the world’s tallest purveyor of starfruit, okra, garbanzos, and zucchini, studied the mysterious e-mail. It was from BVSM at hotmale.com, and consisted of a large asterisk and the word “tonight.”

The illiterate fool. Anyone who could not spell BDSM was no threat to the bottom line of his lovely vegetable empire.

Although the asterisk was somewhat…menacing.

Nico looked away from the computer as the door swung open. “Peggy,” he said blankly. What was his virgin bride doing here?

Then another woman appeared. Verita, his secret mistress, holding a gun.  Pointed at him.

He rose. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve been married six years, Nico, and I’m still a virgin,” Peggy replied coldly. “You’ve been too busy boinking Verita to deflower me.” She pulled an enormous zucchini out of her shoulder bag. “Now it’s payback time.”

Nico looked over at Verita, but saw no sympathy there. “I’ve had four secret babies with you, Nico,” she said. She cocked the gun. “Now it’s time for you to feel what it’s like to be shafted. Put your hands on the desk.”

“This is all a big misunderstanding,” Nico said slowly.

“Misunderstanding, my ass,” said Peggy. “Turn around and bend over, Nico.”

He turned and planted his hands on the smooth mahogany of his desk. Peggy unzipped his trousers and shoved them down. He felt the sudden penetration and smiled as his cock grew hard. It was ironic. 

Because this was his favorite rape fantasy. 

Entry #8: Porcelane

Daryoon shuddered in anticipation. He had never met anyone as wild and spunky, downright fiery, even adventurous, as the young woman he had only met a day ago. She had stirred his blood and his loins. Now here they were, alone, next to a convenient waterfall, her hair blowing westerly, his shirt blowing northeast. “Porcelane, I’m not sure this is, well, kosher.”

She rolled her large tawny eyes, “Look, it totally doesn’t count as real sex, this way I’m still a virgin. Trust me, I’ve done this loads of times.”

He started to think about that last bit, but then she was already in front of him. There Porcelane placed the two perfect pale pert pillows of her posterior that when parted would present a practicab-

“Uh-hum!” She let out irritably.

“Oh, right, sorry. So, um, should I take it slow or…”

“Nah. Just go for it.”

“Erm.”

“Really. In fact, the faster and harder the better.”

He steadied himself placing his hands on her slender hips. Indeed, his fiery, sort of, virgin beckoned to him and he would both heed and answer the call. He plunged forth into her pleasurable postern portal, and lost himself in further blissful alliteration.

Entry #9: Do You Dare?

“Do you dare?” He whispered as softly as a sigh. A bead of rain water fell from his hair and slipped down between her breasts.  She felt the water warm as it ran down her torso.

She couldn’t answer him and instead looked upon the pile of wet clothes they had shed after finding shelter from the downpour. She brought her eyes up to his; his crystal blue eyes stealing her breath. “I dare.”

His smiled coyly as he always did when he got his way. As he bent down to kiss her his hand found her breast and teasingly massaged her nipple.  His hand trailed down further to the spot he called “pearl” and she came in a series of pleasurable moans.

His fingers went lower. He ran his hand along her buttocks and then pushed between them.  Slowly one finger entered, then two. He brought his other hand up, running his fingers lightly over her thighs, and these fingers now found pearl.  She bit her lip as his penis entered the warm wetness just below pearl; she came again. He withdrew, and brought his penis down further, gently spreading her legs even wider and pushed in. She winced, and he withdrew. He pushed in again and again, every time going further and pushing harder.  The hand massaging pearl brought her orgasm after orgasm.  He came and collapsed to his side to gaze over at her with those crystalline eyes.

She smiled coyly at him. “Do you dare?”

Read on.

On 6 June, the Pilot published two letters, one from JulieAnn Singleton-Smith, a fellow military wife, who stated that she has “a career and a series of degrees” and therefore objected to the “cheap, hot pink high-heeled shoes” as an image that “conveys a message that military wives are cheap and trashy.”
Another letter praises the image as on par with the WWII era photo of the sailor kissing a nurse on V-J Day.

But the reaction continued on!

On 7 June, more letters appeared.

First, a rather fascinating analysis from Dr. Frederick Lubich Chair of Old Dominion’s Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures, who calls the image “controversial” as it may be “insulting” or “intimidating to those military wives who are...more than just lusty ladies in waiting.” But Dr. Lubich then likens the image to:

mythic memories of seafaring warriors” such as Ulysses and Penelope, providing the epic model for this timeless human experience, in which ‘passion’ in its archaic sense connotes the suffering of separation and the ecstasy of reunion.

From the shorts of ancient Greece to the modern ports of Hampton Roads, there is nothing offensive about young lovers dressing up to celebrate the magic...of homecoming and its nostalgic euphoria.

Dr. Lubich also recognizes the similarities to the V-J Day photo, and states that the photograph “symbolically encodes the increasingly more complicated lifestyles and love lives of our own times and...stand[s] as an iconic image.”

But wait, there’s more. A former military wife weighed in by relating her memories of “choosing carefully what to wear to enhance that special first evening home,” and pointedly responding Ms. Singleton-Smith that “one can have degrees and careers and still look fabulous while celebrating while celebrating the ship’s return from a difficult mission.” A second military wife also said she thought the picture was “absolutely great” and that it had “nothing to do with how many degrees you’ve got” but the “joy of having your ‘sailor’ home again.”

Another letter said he thought the image was not cheap or trashy, but “touching and poignant” and offered “a unique perspective on that familiar theme” of families reunited during wartime.

But another spouse was “saddened” by the paper’s decision to highlight that particular photo as “inappropriate” for the Truman’s homecoming, as “a woman’s legs and her high heels with the price tag still on the bottom...do not capture a...homecoming for one of our beloved aircraft carriers.”

I’m struck by two things: one, the seeming desire to asexualize a homecoming. Those who objected referred to the aircraft carrier, not the people on it - people who loved and missed their families, and in some cases spouses who, one would hope and pray, were loved in a demonstrative fashion once they arrived home. The asexualization of the military and the concept of homecoming vs. the sexuality and human need for contact on the part of the servicemen and service women on board are quite at odds with one another in the responses, especially in the context that we are, after all, at war, and deployment is a life-or-death issue for many, many enlisted individuals. Coming home safe means coming home alive, and let’s be frank, the most affirming way to celebrate the fact that one is alive, home, and safe? Sex. Hugging. Kissing. Possibly more sex. (I hope it was awesome.)

And two: that yet again hot pink shoes are very, very eye catching.

Personally, I thought the image was very evocative and certainly sexual, and that’s not at all a bad thing from where I stand in my shoes which, today, are brown. I don’t know if I can stand anywhere and judge the welcome-home wear of a woman whose husband has been deployed for seven months, but I surely wouldn’t dare start by casting aspersions on the relative cost of someone else’s shoes.

However, what is the lesson in this minor kerfuffle? That pink shoes are eye catching? Publishers already know that!

No, the lesson may be: take the price tag off the bottoms of your shoes. You never know from what angle you may be photographed.

Addendum: welcome home and thank you to the service men and women of the Harry S. Truman, the Oscar Austin, the San Jacinto, and the Winston S. Churchill and anyone else who returned home. Hope your reunion was so great you had to take your shoes off.

The photographer, Rich-Joseph Facun, didn’t think he had a great picture when he took the shots of Knilans, but the Pilot photo director thought the picture illustrated “[a]ll the joy of the day.” While other photo editors “complaints about the insinuations of sexuality in the shoe color and the crossed ankles” the photo ran anyway.

And yup, the complaints rolled in. Detractors were a minority, and they objected to the sexuality in the image as predicted.
Some insisted that a more innocent picture, that of a 5 year old waiting for his father, should have been the front-page above the fold image to portay the sailors’ homecoming. Yet again, I am struck by the desexualization and the preference for “wholesome or patriotic” images, which underscore a preference for chaste innocence when it comes to portrayals of military figures.

But the majority applauded, and the public editor, who is also an associate professor of English at Old Dominion, wrote:

...many readers were reveling in that giddy anticipation that accompanies the long-awaited arrival of a loved one.

With that moment came a flash of insight. Our military neighbors deserve to be celebrated for their sacrifices - sacrifices the rest of us seldom share.

For that awareness, we are indebted to Candice Knilans and her love of pink.

I wonder if Ms. Knilans is now a bit hyperaware of her choice of footwear when she leaves the house. 

Do what I do ... Launch your own guerrilla marketing campaign! Take a salaciously-covered book you’ve already read to a public place—for extra thrills, go somewhere slightly inappropriate—and visibly and conspicuously read the last few pages (e.g. let your eyes get big, give a satisfied sigh.)

Then, pretend to call someone on your cell phone and improv something along the lines of the following ...

For modest misses: “Sheila? Yes, you’re right! NAME OF BOOK was great. Totally not what I expected. Very romantic. Also, touching and poignant. I’m so glad I tried something new. Wait, I’ve got another call ... Hello? Oh, right! Yes, I’m on my way!”

or ...

For crazy batshit misses: “Sheila? Yes, you’re right! NAME OF BOOK was great. So romantic ... and totally hot. The sex was awesome. I loved the part in the bathtub. No, the other part in the bathtub. Wait, someone’s calling. Oh, it’s Tristan. I’m supposed to meet him later. I’m so glad I read that book, because now I’m totally ready to go. Yeah, ha ha. Bye ... Hello? Hi Tristan ...”

At the end of either little speech, LEAVE THE BOOK and run out, as if in a hurry. Then hide and watch someone, furtively, pick it up. Another convert!

I HAVE DONE THIS. I kid you not.

Terri sent me a link to something I’d never seen before - the Phaze Publishing ratings, complete with icons. As Terri pointed out, the icon for “anal” is a hoot. It’s so saucy and cute - but what killd me ded was “Gore (not Al)”. Clearly, Phaze has missed the boat on Al Gore erotica. I can think of plenty of convenient truths to explore with Big Al.

But what about the icons for the more adventurous forms of erotic romance, like hemipene heroes with double the wang? Heroines with conditions that require the sex and the orgasm four times a day or else she’ll diiiiiie? Need more icons, please!

Moving on: I am such a sucker for lists. When VH1 or E! has a list of the 100 most bizarre celebrity shoes, I am transfixed and can’t change the damn channel. But this list of the 50 worst sex scenes in cinema?OMG WITH VIDEOS? Seriously? Most of these gave me a major case of the squicks. I can read the purplest of prose with many a purple turgid member aching with need, but some of these give me the gibblies. Not in a good way. Many of them are visual depictions of rape - though what they called the 50th worst I thought was rather funny, in and out of context.  Thanks for the link, though, Rebyj. It made me appreciate even more some of the most well written sex scenes I’ve read.

Thanks to the many, MANY readers who forwarded me this link, one that makes me fear for the footwear of the girl babies who hang out with Baba: Heelarious hot pink heels for babies. And to think, I used to worry that Robees were prohibitively expensive.

And finally, a small taste of what it’s like in The House of Sarah.

Sarah: Hey, I got a book in the mail today!
Hubby: Cool. What’s it about?
Sarah: Some guy who is a Lord of the Satyr.
Hubby: *really excited* Seriously?
Sarah: *confused* Yeah. He’s some Lord of Satyr. I haven’t read it yet.
Hubby: Lemme see!
Sarah: *hands book over*
Hubby: Oh! Never mind.
Sarah: What?
Hubby: I thought you said “Lord of the Seder.”
Sarah: What, like, “I’m the Lord of Passover. Give me hot sex and a cracker?”
Hubby: Sure. That’d be great!