I will admit this to you, my readers, that for the past few months my reading has skewed heavily towards the frothy and salacious romance novels. I know, for shame! I can’t even really claim amnesty via research. I’ve been keeping my eyes and mind in these books for one reason and one reason only, to escape. True, I’ve had some of these novels turn into some kind of backhanded research that I’ve applied to my sex life, but mostly, it’s all about the journey into someone else’s relationship to make-up for what I feel I lack in my own or for the non-relationship status I may be in at the time.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for a knight on a white charger, nor am I looking for a “situation” to save me from loneliness or a skimpy bank account. While sometimes these stories may be fun to read about, the whole damsel in distress scenario makes me roll my eyes so much that I’m constantly surprised my eyes haven’t stuck in some crazy position. When I read a romance novel, I look for the following things: a plausible connection between the love interests, a good build-up leading to the romance and sex, and great sex scenes. I’m looking for someone who doesn’t shy away from getting down and dirty. I don’t want flowery and cutesy, I want realistic. I want the awkward moments, I want the hesitation, I want the figuring out of what gets them off, I want the good stuff AND the imperfect. I’m constantly annoyed when reading these novels and it’s usually always perfect and wonderful and the bad parts are always predictable and always about what SOMEONE ELSE has done to them. It’s usually never about the present time or present relationship. Satisfy the cravings I come to you with and make me insatiable for more and make me want to get some piece of it in the real world. Gimme gimme more.