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

In today’s Dear Abby there is a letter (bottom of the page) from an attractive woman who is tired of getting stared at because she is married to a dwarf. She adores her husband and was looking for suggestions from Abby as to how to address rude comments, questions, and stares.

Manner-issues aside, this got me thinking: would there ever be a romance novel with a dwarf hero? Heroine? What other unlikely scenarios could there be - and if you think about them, how unlikely are they really?

Obvious case in point: there’s a romance that makes Candy do the pee-pee dance about a stroke-victim mathematician and a Quaker heroine.  If you’d explained the scenario to me before I read it, I’d have thought you were nuts. After I read it? Heck, I STILL think about it. The more unlikely the hero, or heroine, the more fascinating the romance can be.

Consider the number of military heroes and heroines with post-traumatic stress syndrome symptoms, who aren’t sure they can trust what they experience. Or the number of lead characters who have survived personal trauma that shapes their personality, and provides them an internal conflict to overcome.

So why, when I think, “Hm. Dwarf romance...” do I immediately follow with, “Nah, no way.” Is physical difference a blow to the fantasy? It shouldn’t be.

What unlikely hero or heroines can you think of, and more importantly, is there a condition or scenario that is just completely impossible? I mean, we have people humping the undead left and right at this point in the published romance world. Is there anything that’s truly “untouchable?”

Sort of related to our ”Things That Only Happen in Romances” entry: What is up with all the heads thrashing in ecstasy in romance novels?

I was feeling kind of blah during the weekend, so I picked up a few old favorites and skimmed through my favorite bits, many of which involved the nookery. And the women? All of their heads, they thrashed. Often fitfully, and right before orgasm, or as the heroes initiated something shocking to their sensibilities, like having their tongues say “Hello, luv!” to their clitorises (clitores?).

The men grunt, groan, shudder and grind during le petit mort, but ne’er do they thrash. Is head-thrashing a girly thing to do?

I have to admit, I’ve had my fair share of really, really hot nookifying in my time, but never have I thrashed my head. Because dude, OW, WHIPLASH. But maybe I’m missing out on something?

I haven’t seen porn stars do it too often, either, but then I haven’t watched much porn--anyone want to weigh in on the state of head thrashery in hardcore flicks?

The only time I thrashed my head with any regularity was when I was 16 and really, really into Guns n Roses and Nirvana. Oh, also that one time when I was 14 and my brother was driving me back from school, and our Toyota got sideswiped by a Proton Saga. Head-thrashing was brief, but suitably vigorous and snappy.

Why can’t these romance novel heroines act like more conventional slutbags, and be satisfied with arching their backs and making keening sounds of desperate desire? All that vigorous head movement makes me think of this girl, who, God knows, did a whole lot of thrashing.

Yarr, the scurvy knave Doug tagged me with a meme!

THE SEARCH FOR JOY

Search your blog for the word “joy” used in the context of “happiness.” If you cannot find the word in your weblog, you may use any of the select list of synonyms below.

joy — amusement, bliss, cheer, comfort, delectation, delight, ecstasy, elation, exaltation, exultation, exulting, felicity, gaiety, gladness, glee, good humor, gratification, happiness, hilarity, humor, jubilance, liveliness, merriment, mirth, pleasure, rapture, regalement, rejoicing, revelry, satisfaction, wonder

If your weblog does not include a built-in search engine, then you can use Google to search it only for the word you wish to find.

If you’ve found the word and it was not used facetiously or sarcastically, good for you. All you need to do is link to your earlier entry, and write a few words about that joyous moment. If, however, you have no joy (whole words only) in your weblog, you must dig deep in your soul and find something wonderful in your life right now. One little thing that fills you with warmth, that bubbles you over with quiet happiness, or tickles you with its good-hearted hilarity, or makes you glad you just took a breath, and are getting ready to take another. It doesn’t have to be anything big. A smile someone gave you; your cat on your shoulder; the way the light angles through your window and casts rainbows on your floor. All it has to be is something genuine, something real, something that matters to you.

Because we all need joy in our lives, and need to take the time — from time to time — to recognize it. And sometimes, we need to pass it on. Even if we’re a big pain in the ass when we do.

Holy fucking crap, those instructions, they are loooooong. Also kinda silly and sappy with the “find joy in your lives!” imperative. Hey, what’s wrong with misanthropic choler?

Anyway, couldn’t find joy per se, though there were over 200 entries with the word “enjoy” in this here blog--often in the context of “I should’ve/would’ve enjoyed this more if...” So I searched for “glee” instead, and bingo! Found a few entries, of which two were pretty entertaining:

• One is me blathering about Mr. Impossible because I’m such a Loretta Chase fangirl. Her books do indeed fill me with glee. However much that woman is making, it’s not enough.
• And then here’s another entry with me talking about ballsacs and codpieces. On re-reading it, it’s pretty lame, but I remember laughing so goddamn hard when I found out what “codpiece” really meant.

So: romance novels, and Harry and the Danglers. They make me gleeful. Like you didn’t know this already about me?

I’m not going to tag anyone specific for this one. How about… the first five people who read this and feel like doing the meme? Sound good?

Some minor link sluttage:

An excellent overview of race and racism in romance is in the most recent edition of At The Back Fence at All About Romance.

I don’t have much to add to the dialogue, except my puzzlement at the whole “African American Literature” section in certain bookstores. It didn’t even occur to me to look for black romances there, for example, until somebody pointed out that certain stores, like Borders, sometimes shelve their black romances there. You don’t generally see, say, Asian American lit, or Hispanic American lit, etc. etc. pushed into their respective little niches in stores. That, more than anything else, says volumes about how very much black people are viewed as the Other.

Oh! And Monica and LLB have finally kissed and made up. Or at least e-mailed and made up. Champagne all around! Summon the dancing girls! Free elephant rides for everyone!

Candy: Bitch, please. This is the cleanest-cut rebel I’ve ever seen. What’s rebellious about him? His unnatural love of Brylcreem? His choice to use steroid cream AND shoot it up? His decision to use SPF15 instead of SPF40 sunscreen? His weirdly offset nipples?

Sarah: Whoo. What a rebel. To throw off the expectations of society, and insist, visit after visit to the hair salon, on sporting a mullet. The mullet alone is worth the 300-page effort of taming him.

Candy: YIKES! This book should’ve been titled To Tame a Texan-Sized Dong. I gotta respect a wang so massive that it merits its own drop shadow effect.

Sarah: Things are bigger in Texas, from the man titty shadows to the, um, crotch bulge. You think they use him as a sundial out on the range?

“Hey, Chase or Clay or Austin, whatever your name is, face north and drop your pants. I don’t know what time it is!”

Candy: BWAAAAHAHAHAHAH! Genies come from bottles, and apparently white boys dressed in Indian drag come from brass gongs. What do you have to rub to summon him? Or does he appear when you look into the mirror and say “Savage man titty” three times in a row?

Dude looks psycho--just look into those cold, dead eyes. He looks like he’s ready to cut choo, mang.

Sarah: When I posted these covers last night for our mutual enjoyment, I said to Candy, “One of them doesn’t fit the whole “To Tame...” theme, but it was too great to pass up.”

It’s Gong Show Indian! And here’s your host, Insolent Bored Savage.

Hope he doesn’t chip that mighty tomahawk when he sounds his gong.

I think someone gave me a baby onesie in the same pattern as his wrist band, too. Nice!

Candy: Are they referring to the man, or the woman? Both of them look pretty damn domesticated to me. Unless he’s wearing a leather bustier and frilly satin panties underneath his suit? And then, like, any second, he’s going to rip his suit off, prance around to remixed Madonna songs and Vogue like it’s 1995. And then when the woman can’t take it any more she’s going to be all “RAAAH, take this, bitch!” and whip out her 10-inch cock because she’s a man, baby. And that’s when the dude busts out his miniature cat-o’-nine-tails and yodels “DOWN, SIMBA!” while playfully whipping at her enormous and surprisingly hairy balls. THAT, my friends, would be hard to tame indeed.

Sorry, really boring covers with really stupid titles make me come up with really inappropriate stories.

Sarah: It would so not be hard to tame her. She’s so realistically rendered, after all. Just break her over your knee. She’s so thin she’ll splinter.

Candy: Why do all these Texans need to be tamed? This dude doesn’t even have a donkey schlong to scare us with. Frankly, the only thing that needs to be tamed on his guy is his mousse usage--look, man-bangs are not meant to stick out four inches from the forehead, mmmkay?

Sarah: Yet again, another Texan to tame, and yet again, the fashion choices of these men need taming more than the men themselves. From a manly mullet to wearing your vest without a shirt. The time has come to tame these men into fine metrosexuals who have age-appropriate non-professional-hockey-player hairstyles and the smarts to think, “Hm, if I’m going to be roping steers perhaps I ought to protect my pebbular nipples with a shirt.”

Candy: And this guy? He needs to tame his usage of sunless tanning products.

I love the look on his face, too. Is he constipated, pissed off that it’s an anemic chick laying her hand on his bountiful bosom and not Diego, his hot Puerto Rican personal trainer, or just trying to restrain his roid rage in general?

Oh man, it would be SO AWESOME if somebody wrote To Tame the Roid-Raging Gym Monkey. Any takers? Anyone? Anyone?

Sarah:: Speaking of nipples… is he missing one? Is she looking for it? Did it get rubbed off by that strap of leather across his chest? Is that what inspired this pose?

And is he wearing leather pants? Is this Mick Jagger, Highland Warrior?!

Candy: This is a classic. Almost as classic as that “Pull My Finger” Viking. There’s really not much I can say that can beat teh funney of this cover. I do wonder if he’s wearing several other people’s scalps on top of his own hair, because that do he’s sporting? Looks poofy and creepy and unnatural.

Sarah: Kenny Loggins, sporting unfortunate facial hair, grabs a red kitchen towel and some low-slung chaps to pose for romance novel covers. Although, to be fair to Mr. Loggins, I don’t think his man titties cast a drop shadow effect as great as this guy’s. Must be some digital editing.

The low-slung chaps are curious. Aren’t the chaps there to prevent chafing between one’s legs? Wouldn’t a large portion of inner thigh be in need of some Blue Star Ointment ("Jock itch! Ring worm! Psoriasis! Teter!") after one quick trip down to the mini mart on horseback? (Shut up, the reservation does TOO have a mini mart!)