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

I love stories of true romance as much as I love the fictional ones. Enjoy and try not to picture the movie version, because over-production would suck all the joy and beauty out of the simplicity of this story. 

Go forth and find out what your name REALLY means in the Sexy Name Decoder!

Here’s mine:

Ha. Ain’t that the troof. Though how does one adeptly need anything? Can I want something inadeptly?

Courtesy of Lore Sjoberg, the guy behind The Brunching Shuttlecocks, The Book of Ratings, the Cyborg Name Decoder and the Monster Name Decoder--in short, one sexy fucking geek.

p.s. Feel free to copy and paste the code into the comments so we can all see what you got. 

I’m the middle of reading Hot Spell, and a couple of nights ago, while reading Lora Leigh’s contribution ("The Breed Next Door"), I had to put the book down and sigh, just a little. See, I’d gotten to the part wherein the heroine laments that she attracts only computer nerds (she calls ‘em techies), and not real men.

Whoa. Ouch.

Also: does this mean I’m a lesbian? Or, at the very least, bisexual? My family already has a gay son, a daughter who had a kid out of wedlock with a married man and a son who ran off on his wife and two kids to be with a Philippino hairdresser. Maybe this is the niche I can fill in the family: I’ll be the daughter who really, really likes clam dip, if you know what I mean.

I know, I know: STOP THE PRESSES, a romance author has just used a lazy, inaccurate stereotype. Oh, the horror. What’s next? Virgin widows? Secret babies? Millionaire playboys who are mysteriously herpes-free?

A new art exhibit in London entitled Long Live Romance, Part II features the work of six emerging artists exploring the theme of romance. One of them does “huge and obsessively detailed studies of wounded or diseased children.” Yeah. I’m going to pass on that one. Not to be an art snob but I could barely stick a rectal thermometer up my one-week-old son’s bum, so the chances of my looking at detailed obsessive renderings of sick kids? Nil. (No fever here, by the way. Just nervous new mommy!)

Thinking about how emerging artists might approach romance got me wondering - what are the most romantic pieces of art I’ve seen?

Las Meninas by Velazquez is romantic to me, despite what I know about royal marriages.

The Painter’s Honeymoon by Leighton definitely makes my list, too.

What other pieces of artwork are romantic? If we were to create a Smart Bitch Gallery of Romance, what major works would we have to heist?

Candy: Ahh, if only it were George Costanza on that cover: “I would drape myself in velvet if it were socially acceptable.”

Seriously, yo. That’s a lot of purple velvet. And one bored female model with a helluva neck crick.

Sarah: Either she smells so bad that he passed out, or she’s so incredibly boring in the sack that he fell asleep. Either way, that’s not so much a bold conquest as a sleepy one.

Candy: I think this is the first boring clinch cover I’ve ever seen. They’re generally hideous as all hell, but they aren’t boring. I didn’t think anything could rival the lifelessness Poser covers offer, but these models seem to be giving them a good run for the money.

“I’m, um, going to rip your bodice now. ‘Tis no use resisting, etc.”

“Help. Help. Somebody help me. Please, get your filthy *yawwwwwn* hands off me.”

“This circlet is giving me pins and needles in my forearm. Ow. Ow. Ow.”

Sarah: Needed: one romance cover. Must have eyepatch, arm cuff, and man-titty, along with absolutely impressive female cleavage. But models do not necessarily have to be awake.

Sarah: After several months on a ship, hell, several DAYS on a ship, where I assume the water supply for bathing is severely rationed, would ANYONE want to get that close to someone’s neck? Or did the stench make him pass out, too?

Candy: Yes, this looks like an EXCELLENT idea. Dangle from the rigging, grab the ship’s doxy, and sniff her neck ravenously. And you’re on to something about those fainting spells, Sarah. Look at her limp pose. I bet that captain’s sporting some fomunda cheese that’s ripe enough to kill an elephant at 50 paces.

Candy: Another Bertrice Small cover, another model with insane hair blowing in the wind. Except this woman looks, ummm, mannish. Take a look at this cropped image from the large version of this cover--and I swear on my purple My Little Pony Doll that other than lightening the picture and bumping up the contrast, I have done NO OTHER futzing around at all:

That makes that hair the Best Drag Queen Wig, EVER

Sarah:She. Has. A. Nutsack. It’s not just camel toe, y’all. She has testicles.

Candy: “That’s right. I AM irresistible. If I could fuck myself, I would. Man, how can I fuck myself? Wait: does that make me a woman?”

That is one man with a lot of slobbery lip and, er, other prints all over his mirror. Count on it.

And oddly enough, I have no problem resisting him at all. Maybe it’s the jaunty bouffant, maybe it’s his Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, or maybe it’s the SMUG FUCKING EXPRESSION on his face, but really: resistance levels at an all-time high with little to no effort on my part.

Sarah: Oh yeah, I’m a member of this resistance, too. I’m trying desperately to resist laughing my ass off at him. In fact, I bet this guy was the model. Except for the hair.

I don’t see what he’s got to be so smug about. He has no identifiable ass, and his front is all poofy like mine at six days post-partum. That, my friends, is NOT sexy.