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

Back when I was a sharply-nippled pre-teen (what was up with training bras making your budding bazooms look like torpedo tips, anyway?) I had many a beefy poster on my wall from teeny bop magazines that were nothing but pull out posters. But instead of Kirk Cameron, Sean Astin, the Coreys, and more Kirk, I had non-beefcake dorks. I had Michael J. Fox and Chad Allen - yes, I know he’s gay. I had no idea, even though I had a poster of him in a pink polo shirt and a green neck scarf. I had smart-looking teen studs on my walls.

But had I been in possession of some of these here romance covers, oh, my bedroom would have been a much swankier place. I won’t question the decision to just put the hero on the cover, though it seems about as silly as having a letter from the hero on the back cover, but hey, a poster-sized version of these might be good for creating the right atmosphere… in hell.

Sarah: You know, I like this book so much it’s really hard to snark on the cover, especially when it’s one of the few halfway-decent-looking Fabio covers out there. But my gosh. This is the romance between a Quaker and a post-stroke rehabbing lord, and gosh if he doesn’t look a little dazed there. And also, there’s a looootta space between his navel and his, um, inseam. What’s he keeping in there?

Candy: Ahhh, I love these covers. They try to seem as if they’re beckoning the reader into the magical world of perpetually unfastened shirts and massive man-titties, but to me, it just seems like they’re saying “Pull my finger! It’ll smell like Uranus! Uh huhuhuhuhuhuh.” But maybe Maddy wasn’t around to button Jervaulx’s shirt, and he has just suffered from aphasic brain trauma, so I guess I shouldn’t make fun of the handicapped.

Sarah: Ok, so, you’re going out to stand on the windswept cliffs on a rather stormy afternoon, and you’re not going to comb or tie back your hair or anything like that. But you see, sir, here is where I must confess to confusion: why no shirt? You have pants, you have a cape, a cape for God’s sake, but no...shirt? Why? For sheer maximum beefcake factor?

Candy: Poor Ted Danson. Not only has he gotten hair extensions in yet another effort to compensate for his bald spot, he’s clearly lost his freakin’ gourd. Romping around on wind-blown moors without a shirt is just asking for a case of catarrh that won’t quit.

Sarah: The horses are running away, and it’s not because of that compensatingly-placed riding crop in your hand. It’s because you just released the creatures that live in the cliffs under your pectorals, and they are all very, very scared of what might come flying out of there next.

And don’t smack your horses, dude. Makes me mad.

Candy: Ummm. Who is he trying to seduce here with his shirtlessness and his crop and his Regency Stealth Mullet? Ain’t nothing here except some horses, man. The logical conclusion makes me afraid. I guess I should be happy they’re not sheep.

His face is just kind of fucked-up in general. He looks kinda like James Franco:

So he’s, like, James Franco’s uglier older brother who enjoys re-enacting That Certain Scene with the horse from Caligula just a leeeetle too much and is constantly calling the women he courts “My little filly.”

Sarah: Sean is wishing he’d hidden some TP under the cliffs of his pectoral muscles, because he’s forced to dig a hole and use sand to wipe his bum when he’s done. Even that strumpet he’s assaulting in the corner there doesn’t have enough fabric on to use as bum wipe. Poor man. You’d think those crevices could hold a mega roll of Charmin.

Candy: Disturbing as this picture is in general, two things really, really squick me:

1. His titties. From that angle, they almost seem like they’re sagging a little. EW.

2. He looks almost ape-like. So right after he takes the TP-less dump, he’s going to fling some o’ that poo our way. That’s so HOT.

Sarah: Screw TP, Fabio needs a towel, and while he has impressive chestal cliffs, dang. There’s not enough room for a Mr. Thirsty towel let alone a square of tp. However, this dude is clearly related to Mr. Capes-on-the-Cliffs, because why go swimming in some tight leather pants? Why?

Candy: Instead of Aphrodite emerging from the waves, we have Fabio rising from the briny deep. I wonder whose testicles had to be cut off to result in Fabio, though? I mean, I don’t think Uranus was a particularly attractive God, and his balls resulted in a pretty bitchin’ babe. Hate to think what fugliness resulted in the cojones that produced Fabio’s mug.

OK, seriously now. This book features a ninja, and I think the cover is trying to advertise a little-known fact: swimming around in the middle of the fucking night clad in leather pants is an ancient and much-revered ninja attack method. The weight of the pants starts dragging you down and makes you flounder around like a drowning person, alerting villains for miles around. After they drag your waterlogged ass out of the water to see what the hell is going on, you bust out your shuriken and fucking puncture their asses. That is, if you haven’t lost them while paddling around in the ocean.

Sarah: This is the standard by which all bad beefcake covers are judged. I mean, it’s just so freaking horrible. What’s he saying, “C’mere and pull my vikingly finger? And then… pull my other finger?”

I will confess to being jealous of his hair, though.

Candy: Ahhh, the guy who modeled Sean is back with more bad beefcake, and like Fabio, is asking us to pull his finger. He’d do it with his other arm, but that circlet has cut off all circulation and paralyzed it.

See that bright shiny new “FAQ U” button up on the navigation bar? Yeah, the brand spankin’ new FAQ section is up, bitches. Go check it out. Sarah and I are still working on our “About Us” pages, wherein we provide you with glorious amounts of TMI and cute cat pictures. (Or at least, I plan to, mwahahaha.)

Ever since Sarah and I started this site, I’ve been reading more romance novels than I have in a long, long time. In fact, it’s been about five months now since I’ve read a single non-romance title. I’m thinking it’s time for a break. I have a couple of romances to review, but once I’m done with those, I’m going to give myself at least a whole month away from mainstream romance. I have loads of science fiction, literary fiction and non-fiction I’m dying to pick up. If nothing else, I really, really want to finish reading Musashi, which I abandoned back in January when I picked up Sharon Shinn’s Angel-Seeker.

This won’t affect most of the updates for this site; I have loads of articles and fun things planned for it, and of course regular features like Covers Gone Wild and the personal ads game won’t be impacted. The only thing that’ll change is the lack of romance novel reviews from me. My question is: would y’all like me to review the non-romance books I read? If yes, would you like me to review only the genre fiction (SF, fantasy, thrillers, etc.) and therefore still keep to the letter of “Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Novels” or would you be interested in me busting out with the snark on literary fiction as well? I’ll go with whatever the prevailing opinion is.

Colonel Moncrief of the Lowland Scots Fusiliers is in a ticklish situation. One of his captains, Harry Dunnan, refuses to write to his wife, and this has her so worried that she has resorted to writing him to find out if her husband is alive and well. The problem is, Harry Dunnan doesn’t give a rip about his wife (or other men’s wives, or honor, or honesty, or his horse, or other people’s lives—yes, he’s THAT sort of a first husband). In fact, he thrusts her letters into Moncrief’s hands and jokingly tells him to write to her on his behalf.

So Moncrief does. And falls headlong in love with another man’s wife in the process.

Maili correctly guessed the answer to today’s Personal Ad contest, and behold the title we Smart Bitches bestow upon her!

All Hail our new Empress.