The curse of the historical romance

Ah, yes, the "gypsy embrace."

FAMILY, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU. Read if you must, but I'll deny everything if you ever bring it up.

Let me get right to it:

The historical romance (or any romance) novel is as fantastical as Lord of the Rings or The Wheel of Time. Where any young, underdog man can save the world from powers much fiercer than they, in a romance novel a woman is a fine, orgasmic creature who weds a dashing man with vast wealth and then is forever happy.

Yeah, pretty damn fantastical if you ask me.

Also, the woman is unnervingly beautiful, modest, feisty, and a virgin. If she happens to no longer be a virgin, then her previous sexual experiences were due to either rape or grudging obligation, the end result is in all things not directly hymen-related she is as virginal as a any young woman during her first sexual encounters. Or, otherwise clueless. Her cluelessness, however, does not affect her love for all things hot, hard, and male. She is not put off by bodily fluids or squishing sounds or a 250lb man grunting on her in ways she's never known were even possible. No, in fact, she relishes it and welcomes even more.

And why wouldn't she more? Her man is most likely some kind of rebel, outcast, or pioneer. He's incredibly wealthy, either by birth or happenstance, and he knows how to keep it coming. He loves all things female, including shampooing her hair in a giant copper bathtub, and he never climaxes before her. EVER. In fact, he makes it his manly duty to make sure she orgasms as many times as she's humanly capable.

So, yeah, if men the world wide were like this dude, probably named Sir Thrustalot of the Aisle of Longtime, I'm sure couples would be having sex everywhere you looked: on a horse, behind trees, in abandoned hunting lodges, beside that babbling brook, and of course on the giant master bedroom bed with a fire roaring nearby.

Hmmm.

I picked up my first romance novel, a historical one, when I was about 14. It was probably the biggest mistake - of my own doing - in my sexual development. My mother, to my knowledge, had never read one (and still hasn't) and therefore she had no idea what I was sponging up all those years: the messages, the soft-core porn, the ideology. I would devour these books with half-clad girls on the cover being cradled or towered over by burly semi-dressed men by the dozens. I must have read hundreds by the time I finished high school. I was screwed, so to speak, by the way these girls were getting screwed.

From these books I learned that I was to fight a man, but eventually succumb to my own heightened desires. I was to find pleasure in his desire to seduce me whether I wanted it or not. I learned that a man would always know how to pleasure me, regardless of the level of emotional intimacy. I knew that to be considered truly beautiful I was to stop music mid note, lo, snatch the breath from every man in the room and be envied by every woman. I was to reach orgasm in any way a man attempted it in as little time as possible. My man would innately know my feelings, which automatically precluded any kind of dialogue between us. And lastly, a relationship based on lust and sexual satisfaction always parlayed into deep, intimate, lifelong bonds.

To say this fucked me up pretty bad is an enormous understatement.

I was all over the place with boys (and no where with girls). I thought boys were supposed to know when I liked them, wanted to go further than 1st base, and when I wanted to be "over-powered". I once took 3+ hours to kiss a boy because he wouldn't just grab me and kiss me and so he moved about a hair-a-minute until he was facing my lips and could get a good angle. And the funny thing was that I really wanted to kiss him! But my exclusive romance novel training had taught me that I was to wait and be told what to do.

It literally took me years to deprogram and then reprogram myself from this ideology of horny victim into horny participant. Lots of thinking about it and working to get out of my fantasy head space and into an intelligent, meaningful, participatory role with my partner.

As an adult, I continue to enjoy romance novels, but I now know the reality of sex and relationships and can digest these steamy tales as fantasy and not as how things are supposed to be. I can use them as spice to my life and not as the rule. And quite frankly, my tastes are discerning. I read novels where everyone is consenting, there's lots of discussion about feelings and the relationship, and where each of the characters are somewhat fallible. No one has silky soft pubic hair, either. I skip the dumbed-down romance novels of the ilk I first read. Yes, the ladies are beautiful, but often only to their men. And yeah, the men are ridiculously wealthy and hunky, but whatever: no bills to worry about so why not have some more lovin'!

At least now I have a filter through which to enjoy it all. As a young girl it damaged my outlook on everything sex- and relationship-related. I thought I fell short, that my young suitors fell short, and that the whole thing was somehow my fault.

I can't lay all the blame at the feet of the books I read, obviously I didn't have any real life role models on which to base my development. I don't really know how other girls do it. And I'm not alone in this: I have a close friend who feels the same way about the romance novels she read as a teenager as I do and feels it greatly altered her outlook on men and sex. In fact, I don't really know any women who weren't somehow affected by the expectations (of both men and women) in a romance novel. I mean, how many of you romance novel readers were ever disappointed that your partner didn't know how to make you orgasm five minutes after he met you?? Weren't they all supposed to just know that? Weren't they pulled aside in high school and taught by the friendly, and disease-free, town madame how to work it? Coached, as it were, into becoming unadulterated sex gods??

So, from one woman to any parent of a young girl out there who might be reading those romance novels, I beg you to open a dialogue with her about what's going on in her pages. To share with her that it's fantasy, not even close to reality, and why. That relationships take an open and honest approach, that no one reads minds. Tell her her imperfections are perfect: things sag and jiggle and it's beautiful and ok. Sexual pleasure in the form of climax takes work and often lots of experience and practice. And most importantly, that a to be a woman - a sexual woman - does not include giving up her power or accepting force, but involves instead a connection between her desires and her full consent. And nothing short of that is ok.

[Ed. note: This is a conversation I've had for years now with my friends. Interestingly enough, my male friends have shared that their fantasy books also screwed with their idea of what it was to be male in this world; that they felt somehow less because they haven't done anything miraculous or heroic in their lifetime. It never occurs to them to feel like a failure because they're not like Duncan Larksthrush. Funny how that works.]

[Ed. note 2: I don't even have a proper tag for this... am I really going to start talking about sex so frequently I need to add a sex tag??]

And in other news: I dream about sex

(Let me make this perfectly clear that I am not joking when I give the following warning)
FAMILY, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU. Read if you must, but I'll deny everything if you ever bring it up.

Ok, so here's the thing. I'm a housewife, right?? I've been a housewife/SAHM/homemaker/whatever for almost two years. I don't go out. I rarely see my friends. I rarely want to see my friends. I rarely drink. I rarely get dressed up. I rarely meet new people. I rarely feel beautiful - and I mean, really beautiful like, "Damn, girl. You are so fucking sexy I can't keep my hands off of you"-beautiful. I rarely feel worthy of anyone saying that to me even when they do (well, when he does, not "they" - oh, if only!). I rarely feel interesting to anyone. I rarely feel like a prize.

And when I say "rarely," I really mean "never."

Because, you see, being a housewife/SAHM/homemaker/whatever means that I am home-bound. Not just because my office is my house, but because my priorities have changed. I'm married, I have a son, I have a sense of self and purpose outside of trolling Austin for hot guys and a good buzz (or a hot buzz and good guys). I can't wear stilettos to clean the house or a revealing top to hang with my mom. I can't flirt with the most titillating person at the table because I can't: I'm married. And happily married.

And, yet, I am chafing under this self-imposed isolation of self and soul.

I am becoming restless and antsy. I am becoming THAT housewife. The one who pours over her romance novels like they're more than just smut in paperback, as if they might be real...somewhere. The one who can barely stand the raw hotness between a pale ass, teenaged, vampire and his just as pale assed teenage girl obsession. The one who is living in hot, sexy dreams with men she's known (and not known - hey, Bill, drop me a line) and memories of my hedonistic past like Al Bundy and his high school football days.

I have such ardent dreams I wake up feeling guilty. GUILTY! I probably make Anthony an extra egg or give him my last piece of bacon on those mornings. I mean, does he even know the things I'm doing in my dreams to other men?? Seriously. Anne Rice has got nothing on me - well, ok, she's got a lot on me with her sexy-time books, but you get my drift. My dreams are very adult, very explicit, and very nice.

And I'm wondering if all my recent malaise isn't somehow tied up with this stagnant perfume I'm wearing. What do I expect to have happen if what I do each day is summed up by 1300 square feet, lots of cooking, lots of cleaning, and little, to no interaction with real live adults?? I am utterly fulfilled and beyond happy growing my little person - absolutely not one regret there, truly - but I am regretting this hole I've dug for myself.

In the beginning of all of this I felt safer at home with Hollis and Anthony because I didn't have to worry about getting hurt by people or let down. I didn't have to worry about exerting my social muscles. I hung out here, invited people over, cooked for them, imbibed with them. But even that has trickled to an almost full stop. Most of my very favorite people in the entire world have joined the Austin Diaspora, but I'm still here, alone, and with a husband who's gone from the house for roughly 9-10 hours of a 15 hour wakeful day.

Add to this the fact that Anthony and I don't enjoy doing the same things. He doesn't like spending money out. He doesn't talk to strangers and he really doesn't like to go out on the town. He's a jeans and pub kind of guy. The fellow you're comfortable and easy with and who kisses you sweetly and passionately in the car away from watchful eyes.

I absolutely love this about him; I love our differences, the tension it brings and the compliment, but what am I supposed to do to get that old kick back in my life?? I can't go bar hopping to chat people up and be admired for my desirability (something I used to thrive on). And when I try for it with him our date nights are usually anxiety laden because of money issues and coming home to Hollis at a reasonable hour and reasonably sober. And I'm asleep in my coffee.

Am I supposed to exorcise myself of wanting to be wanted by others? to feel that rush and adrenalin of talking to new people? to use hours' worth of witty banter to woo someone to my side?

How do I reconcile all of this?

Gone, utterly, are the days of passion and fun and force and excitement. My life is predictable. Safe. Lovely. Full of strong, warm hugs. It's butterflies and sunbeams and nicely made beds and zerbert kisses. - And oh, God, I feel so guilty for even feeling this way when I can still feel Hollis' sweet little mouth on the tender skin of my arm, see the twinkle in his eye and sense the love emanating from his warm, pulsing body. It's as if I'm saying he's not enough, even though that's the last thing on earth I'm saying.

I just want to know one thing: How do I possibly add to my beautiful world all that raucous, powerful, cat-scratch, tobacco-laden energy from my past without actually sacrificing the present and future? How??

Am I alone in this??

Please, quick, someone tell me before my head fucking explodes and Anthony has to put me back together again...

Only 5 days, 8 hours, 59 minutes and 12 seconds until I get to see my honey and he can make all of this go away and assure me I'm not fucking bat-shit crazy and that I really and truly am everything I remember.

"MILF," my ass

(WARNING: Prolific use of the "F" word ensues below)Pink "MILF" apron. Words cannot express what I'm thinking about this.
It should come to no surprise to anyone that women are measured based on their levels of sexual attractiveness to men. It's a whole lot of bullshit, but it's true.

Having said that, the term MILF needs to go. I alluded to it in a previous post that I'm less than flattered to be categorized as such because the fact that some male wants to copulate with me isn't flattering.

For those of you who may not know, MILF is really an acronym for "a Mom I'd Like to Fuck." It was first said in Universal Pictures' American Pie movie in 1999. And in that context, it wasn't offensive. The scene consisted of two teen boys at a house party looking at family portraits. The mother of the boy throwing the party had a particularly provocative portrait; not lewd, but definitely a little "come hither." One boy said to the other something to the extent of, "Boy, she's a MILF!" The other boy, confused, asks for clarification from his friend. The friend happily explains that she's "A mom I'd like to fuck!!" It's really hilarious and in this situation, totally appropriate. When we're teens, adults are "moms" and "dads", so of course they're going to turn their panting attention to a good looking "mom" and think about scoring with her.

But the term's taken on a life of its own now. When I Googled "MILF" I got some really interesting results. The porn industry is all over this one, apparently. I see women wearing MILF t-shirts everywhere and I hear men brag that their wife is a MILF. I'm just sorta left speechless.

As a mother, who does have sex occasionally - ha!, I'm confused why this is considered such a compliment. Does motherhood really knock us down from being sexually attractive to men that seemingly "reclaiming" that ability to give them hard-ons is so exciting?? It's infuriating.

Is it a Madonna/Whore thing? Do men like to envision a sweet, nurturing cookie-baker by day and a pole-dancer by night?

As a feminist, I can see MILF as either empowering to women (Hey! Motherhood doesn't put me at the end of the line of getting fucked!) or degrading (Hey! Even though you're a mom I still want to fuck you!!), but I see it more as the latter, obviously.

Everyone is weighing in on a woman's - a mother's - sexualtiy. God forbid a woman ever let her sexual desirability go out with the bath water. Poor girl. No one wants to fuck her!

At what point are we going to stop appropriating women's worth to their desirability to men? Seriously?? It's exhausting. My husband adores me, thinks I'm dead sexy (bless his little heart), but he's supposed to be interested in my sexual attractiveness. He has a vested interest in it.

I feel like my head's going to explode because I know it's more than this. As a species sex is imperative. Everyone on this planet thinks about sex as soon as they know what it is. It's a part of every single person's life and thoughts whether or not they engage in it. Men and woman have been doing this dance for a long, long time. I just have issue with backhanded compliments regarding women and I'm weary of it all. Push, pull, up, down, use it, don't use it. It's exhausting.

Just please, PLEASE, don't call me, or anyone else a fucking MILF, ok?? You don't know what you're saying and you'll just look like an asshole.