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

So Connie Brockway is migrating from historical romances to contemporaries. Am I the only reader who has enjoyed her work in the past (I have three of her books on my keeper shelf) who’s not at all upset about this?

Here’s the thing: while I have enjoyed many of Brockway’s books, and she was an author on my autobuy list for about 5 years, I have always thought her voice was very, very modern. It didn’t bug me at all until the Bridal series was released. I read them both, and the characters and tone struck me as so modern and not-British (the characters seemed like Americans in period drag) that I gave up on Brockway entirely. This is by no means her fault, because I don’t think she has changed; I have. I have her McClairen’s Isle books still TBR, and every time I keep passing them over for something else when the time comes for me to pick something new to read.

Now that she’s writing contemporaries, though, I think I’ll have to check out her new releases again.

Monica Jackson takes on some of the covers for the top 100 romance novels at Barnes and Noble and Amazon. I laughed until I coughed. Sarah and I may be out of a job if she ever decides to turn cover snarking into a regular feature on her site.

(OK, not out of a job. Out of a hobby. A hobby that’s generated an amazing number of visitors.)

Dude with much time on his hands reads a bunch of romance novels and analyzes the contents of the sex scenes within; presents results in hilarious fashion. He even breaks down the frequency of words used to describe breasts, penises and other body parts. Check it out.

MR. PINK: Let me tell ya what “Like a Virgin“‘s about. It’s about some cooze who’s a regular fuck machine. I mean all the time, morning, day, night, afternoon, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick.

MR. BLUE: How many dicks was that?

MR. WHITE: A lot.

MR. PINK: Then one day she meets a John Holmes motherfucker, and it’s like, whoa baby. This mother fucker’s like Charles Bronson in “The Great Escape.” He’s diggin tunnels. Now she’s gettin this serious dick action, she’s feelin something she ain’t felt since forever. Pain. (...) It hurts. It hurts her. It shouldn’t hurt. Her pussy should be Bubble-Yum by now. But when this cat fucks her, it hurts. It hurts like the first time. The pain is reminding a fuck machine what is was like to be a virgin. Hence, “Like a Virgin.”

- Quentin Tarantino, Reservoir Dogs

Among the many physical perfections conferred upon romance novel heroes, one that’s rarely discussed is dick size. And let’s face it: Most romance novel heroes are huge. I guess the impression is magnified when the heroines (especially in historicals) are often virgins, but even if the heroine has had some experience, the hero almost always turns out to have a much bigger schlong than the ex-husband or boyfriend. And sometimes the size becomes downright ludicrous, like Sinclair in MaryJanice Davidson’s Undead series, whose dick is apparently as big around as the bottom of a beerglass. Linda Howard has also written about heroes with massive members. Their dicks are so huge, that even in the relatively rare instances when the heroine isn’t a virgin, the colossal cock still causes the heroine pain. (This may not be true of all her books--I’ve read only ten or so Linda Howard novels and I haven’t picked up any new ones in about five years.) Even geek heroes like Simon of The Real Deal has a wang of monstrous proportions--it’s so big that it’s a source of concern for him, in fact, another aspect of the book that had me rolling my eyes and busily marking the book down yet another point.

Johanna Lindsey, who single-handedly must have kept Fabio in hair serum and diamonds for the first third of his beefy life, is having all of her backlist rereleased with new, tame covers. Oh, the shame. Vintage Lindsey covers are the equivalent of purple prose in visual form: heaving bosoms, long, impossibly well-kept hair, overwrought poses, though sadly, no raging members. We’ve uncovered a Geocities cache of vintage Lindsey, and are reviewing them in sets of three. So hold on to your galloping pulse, delicately dab the moisture from your glistening angel-wing brow, and keep the smelling salts handy. It’s Lindsey Time!

A Heart So Wild

Sarah: First of all, FIRE! FIRE! Y’all need to stop making out and posing like ice dancers and MOVE AWAY from the OPEN FLAMES. Lord have mercy, there is a time and place for everything. Unless by ‘So Wild’ Lindsey also meant brushfires.

And what’s wrong with him, aside from looking incredibly aged? I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the positioning of his little blue bandanna there looks like he’s got a quill in his hand and is about to autograph her shoulder. Or his bizarrely long thumb. My, what a long thumb he has.

Candy: When Vampires Go Cowboy! And Blind! And Gay! And Try to Suck The Non-Existent Blood of Fellow Vampires!

Seriously. The dude looks like he’s about to say “I vant to suck your blood, mwahaha,” only with a Texan accent. Just what we need: a vampire gunslinger.

What’s up with his eyes? They’re so sunken, they almost look like empty sockets. Just looking at them gives me a serious case of the jibblies.

And could the chick be any paler? I mean, seriously. She should’ve listened to her momma and eaten her liver like a good girl. Pernicious anemia is not fun, kids.

Also: Inquiring minds want to know what a “Hearr” is. Is that “Heart” said in a really retarded Scottish accent? Is this guy really a combination of all our worst nightmares, i.e. a Scottish cowboy vampire? Oh, the humanity.

Brave the Wild Wind

Sarah: I can think of a few other things they are braving, most notably the toxic freaking waste in which they are getting busy! Hello, GREEN water is not a good place for attempts to capture that lovin’ feeling.

And aside from overexposure to said green water in one’s orifices, shouldn’t she worry not so much about the wild wind as the wild rapids surrounding what looks to be a small perch of rock? I’ve been down class III rapids in the Youghiogheny River, and, while class III is not hugely scary, they move pretty fast, and hello, that green water coming up behind you looks pretty damn strong. Sheesh. Brave not so much as stupid.

Candy: “Honey, save me! The current is pulling me under!”

“Hang on, let me get nekkid and suck on your shell-like ear first.”

Sarah, you’re so right about the green water. I’m thinking either toxic waste, or serious algae overgrowth. Either way, having plutonium isotopes or a ton of algae washed up my hoohah is not my idea of a good time. Perhaps this is why I’ll never be a cover artist. I have no vision, I tell you, none. Though it’s probably better than Vlad the Gunslinger’s vision up there, since at least my eyeballs haven’t sunk two inches into my skull.

Defy Not the Heart

Sarah: This is one of my favorite Lindsey covers ever. It’s just so freaking bizarre. The only thing they are defying is any credible period-accurate fashion sense. It’s a checklist from What Not To Wear. Purple tights? Check. Puffy-shirt from Seinfeld? Check. Low cut velvet gown in nuclear orange-red? Check. Impossibly long, “ouch you’re on my hair” hair? Check. Finger waves for Fabio? Check. Eyeshadow in Bonne Bell colors? Check.

Perhaps a better title would have been, “When Elvira and Fabio Get It On.”

Candy: I didn’t know they had strippers who gave lapdances in medieval times! And how unfair that even back then, Fabio gets to break the “don’t touch the girls” rule.

Question: What exactly is Fabulous reclining on? It looks like either thin air, or a very flimsy collection of violently lilac-colored brush. His thigh muscles must be SO TONED if he can keep that awkward pose while supporting Bimbetta there. My suggestion for an alternate title would be “Defy Not The Laws of Gravity.” Or “When Medieval Floozies Go Wild.”