The dark side of love
Posted: 2012/01/26 Filed under: Faith, Politics | Tags: brenda joyce, eloisa james, feminism, gender, julia quinn, karen hawkins, love, sabrina jeffries, sex 2 Comments »
Evocative covers anyone?
It isn’t a coincidence that most romance heroes are dark-haired. It isn’t a coincidence that there aren’t all that many blonde heroines either. It isn’t a coincidence that romance heroes are sexually experienced. It isn’t a coincidence that the hero and heroine have to fight, sometimes hate each other at some point in a romance novel. It isn’t a coincidence that romance has been known to stage cases of forceful love-making or seduction. All these traits of modern romance can be explained by one single idea: romance represents or emphasizes the “dark side” of love. Love as temptation, love as sin, love as carnal desire, love as physical pleasure–think of it, it’s everywhere in romance.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that romance actually endorses a Satanic view of love. There are many romance writers who are Christian (which is a different thing from authors who write “Christian/inspirational romance”), and why shouldn’t there be? What I’m trying to say can be better articulated in two distinct, yet complementary hypotheses: 1) Romance challenges some historically dominant interpretations of Christian love or “good” love, either by abandoning religious validation altogether (non-Christian writers), or by suggesting new criteria for religious validation/shifting the religious paradigm (Christian writers).
2) Romance is literature, fiction, and art; beyond delivering a message, its purpose is to play with popular representations and symbolism. Since Western societies are embedded in Christian symbolism, so we find it at work in Western productions. It is here crucial to note that the romance hero must always end up on the side of good, and the relationship eventually be saved (there is no “moral indecision” in a romance novel); but the devilish, demonic hero, as well as love as redemption, are extremely powerful and common images in romance. The commonplace misconception that the romance genre presents a mawkish, corny, fluffy depiction of love is therefore entirely unfounded: on the contrary, its sensational, popular roots explain its traditional preference for the subversive, dark side of love.
This is basically what occurred to me while I was reading A Duke of Her Own. The novel features a textbook example of what I mean by “the hero as devilish” and “love as sinful”–although the story obviously does a job of turning it around. Some novels will do that by using revelations or a Big Misunderstanding plot device: in reality the hero isn’t as bad as his reputation claims, and the love we thought was forbidden becomes actually possible and honorable. Other books, like Eloisa James’s, don’t attempt to make amends for the hero’s past mistakes (six bastard children! five duels!) or the characters’ behaviour (having sex three times while each is betrothed to someone else?). These books glory in their characters’ faults, in an attitude that is half “so what?” (rejection of assumed good and evil), half “and still they found love” (love as redemption).
“Do you know what I keep thinking?” A wildly mischievous smile spread across her face.
“Please don’t feel that you have to share it with me.”
“Oh, Lucifer, angel of the morning, how art thou fallen,” she said. And then whisked herself off, grinning.
Two could play at that game.
- A Duke of Her Own, Eloisa James (Avon, 2009)
Lucifer proti Pánovi, by Mihály Zichy
This excerpt isn’t just one among many examples of a romance hero being likened to the Devil, Lucifer, Satan, a demon, or a monster. (The recent rise of dangerous fantasy creatures as romantic heroes makes, in this light, perfect sense.) Besides the use of an imagery that can quickly get old and meaningless, it shows a verbal sparring between the heroes that belies all conceptions of love as fluttery hearts, sickly adoration and dreamy feelings. It is such a cliche in romance that the hero and heroine must fight and irritate each other, that sometimes the reader doesn’t even know why, and gets annoyed at the characters for being so ill-tempered, stubborn or blind (always in the sense of not seeing the other’s goodness, though, ie the opposite of the saying that “love is blind”).
But what better way to underline the romance heroes’ imperfections and the rockiness of their relationship, than by contrasting them with “perfect” supporting characters and smoothly boring human interactions? That’s another strongly recurring pattern in romance. In A Duke of Her Own, the hero considers marriage with Lisette, a blonde, childish, joyful creature, because she seems more conform to society’s standards for women. Conversely, Eleanor is originally enamored of Gideon, who represents everything upstanding, honorable, and good (and blonde)–quite the opposite of the amoral (and black-haired) Duke of Villiers.
He didn’t mind showing some skin to Eleanor. But Lisette was a gently bred lady, with a kind of innocence that made her eyes shine with a deep-down purity.
Eleanor was leaning over the balustrade now, bantering with Tobias. Her bottom was very round under her thick robe. She was the antithesis of innocent.
- A Duke of Her Own, Eloisa James (Avon, 2009)
One could also mention An Affair To Remember, by Karen Hawkins, in which the hero is engaged to a very blonde, very shy, very proper and very young lady, while the heroine is a tall, fiery redhead who lost her place in the Ton through her eccentric grandfather’s wild investments (his latest idea is to make “French sheaths” available to the lower classes). Or On the Way to the Wedding, by Julia Quinn, in which the hero imagines himself in love with the heroine’s perfect and blonde friend, before realizing he likes the oddball better. Or In the Prince’s Bed, by Sabrina Jeffries, in which the heroine pines for her blonde poet, before falling for the hero’s wicked kisses and fondling. The list goes on…
Of course blonde heroes and heroines exist. Romance doesn’t depend on a single plot device, either. But when it comes to heroes especially, their fair colouring is hardly used as a symbol, rather as evidence that “appearances are deceiving”. He may look like an angel, but he’s really wicked, tempting and lustful like the devil. However, equally often (especially in a series) blonde heroes are portrayed as less virile, less dominant than dark ones. Just look at Brenda Joyce’s Deadly series: (golden-haired) Bragg, the first love interest, can only be legitimately dethroned in Francesca’s heart by an even “maler” male, if I may say so. It will be Hart, the dark-haired half-brother with the scandalous ways, who is even more of an orphan (both parents vs only Bragg’s mother), and has chosen a darker professional path (building a financial empire vs serving in the police force).
Double standards? Clearly most of the dark, subversive burden lies on the hero’s shoulders, while romance heroines often continue being virginal, well-bred, and blonde. Well, yes, and no. The diagnosis may be correct for the romance genre as a whole; but it isn’t intelligible as such. You must consider that the genre is ever-evolving, that different authors occupy different niches, and express different belief systems through different styles, settings, plots and characters. I don’t think anybody who reads romance ever reads a statistically representative sample of the genre as a whole. Readers have favourites, as suits their personal understanding of love and the sexes.
Even so, I would like to offer an argument in favour of very male males and the imbalance between the hero and heroine. This is a genre written mainly by women, for women, yet it cannot abstract itself from the patriarchal environment in which not just the authors, but the readers are socialized. The heroine can be said to do her part in recognizing the hero for who he is–the hero–as opposed to condemning his wickedness or immorality and keeping away from him–and acceding to the fulfillment of her own desires. But there is comfort in thinking that the initiative and responsibility for this scandalous type of love rests primarily on the man. Men do, after all, have a distinct cultural advantage when it comes to doing as one pleases and the rest be damned. Thus romance seeks to speak to women as they are, not as they should be. As for men, well, romance may portray them a little more as they should be… Who’s going to complain, right?
How do you feel about the lack of political correctness in romance? Do you agree with my assessment of modern romance as outrageous rather than sentimental? Do you prefer romance heroes to be very wicked, or more like ordinary men? How do you envision the evolution of het romance regarding gender equality? Is it in urban fantasy (and its sexually hyperactive heroines)?
A Duke of Her Own, by Eloisa James (review)
Posted: 2012/01/25 Filed under: Literature | Tags: a duke of her own, desperate duchesses, eloisa james, georgian, historical, review, sex 7 Comments »This wasn’t initially supposed to be a review or reader’s blog. You may have noticed that I never rate books in my so-called reviews, and that I regularly give up on being exhaustive or comprehensive, preferring to address a specific issue–either something I really liked, or really disliked about the book, which doesn’t necessarily represent my overall sentiment. I opened this blog with the intention of exploring and promoting the romance genre, and my reviews are only one of the ways I’ve allowed myself to do it.
Since reviewing and rating books is becoming addictive, but I don’t wish to clutter this blog with my reader’s track record, I have decided 1) to use my Goodreads account to track and rate everything I read; 2) to squeeze books of a same series together into one review post. Obviously the latter isn’t working very well with Eloisa James… Ahem. (In my defence, some series are longer than others.)
So I picked book 6 of the Desperate Duchesses before book 5. Because A Duke of Her Own was on sale… so I just up and bought it. Yeah, I know, I’m way too predictable. And then I read it, never mind that there must be 50+ books in my TBR pile, or that I was disappointed with James’s books 2, 3 and 4 of the series. There’s just something about the Georgian period… You want to lose yourself in it. Even if the story itself isn’t amazingly good. So if the story turns out to be amazingly good… You’re just in for this crazy, exhilarating experience that will leave you happy and giddy for the next several days.
A Duke of Her Own is the book we’ve been expecting since Desperate Duchesses, in which the Duke of Villiers becomes briefly engaged to the heroine, before being injured in a duel against the hero. Follows a long and scary illness that brings him to the threshold of death. Poor Villiers, he’s been through a lot. And through it all he’s never lost his cynicism, talent for chess, and taste for fashionable, flamboyant clothes (he never wears a wig or powder, though). Finally recovered, he is almost a new man, or at least, a new father: he has indeed decided to take responsibility for his six–yes, six!–bastard children, and therefore needs a wife. Meaning, a mother for his children.
His requirement: she must be the daughter of a Duke, so she can use her credit and good breeding to make his illegitimate children more acceptable to society. Two women fit the bill: Eleanor, who also won’t marry lower than a Duke (actually a trick to never be anyone’s but her ducal ex-lover), and Lisette, supposedly mad, who lives retired in the country. A party gathers at Lisette’s estate to allow Villiers to retrieve missing twins of his, as well as to make his choice between the two ladies.
The first few chapters of the book are so-so, but once they’re in the country… The rest of the novel is an absolute treat. I just couldn’t put it down, and more than that, I enjoyed myself immensely. I happened to be alone at home, and… I started to talk to the book. And no, that’s not something I usually do. This book made me do it. By “talking” I actually mean shouting things like, “I KNOW, RIGHT?” “Awwwright!” “You go, girl!” “Hey, f*** you!!” “Er… thank you?” or “Hell yeah!” It was just that entertaining, that hilarious, that spot-on. I kept wanting to interfere in those dialogues and shout at the characters for being alternately stupid, stubborn, incredible, or awesome.
I once wrote a post in which I briefly discussed realism in historical romance (it’s at the end of the entry), arguing that historical romance shouldn’t sacrifice romantic and progressive ideals to realism. Reading A Duke of Her Own gave me an additional insight into the debate. It isn’t merely about having to choose a side when historical reality conflicts with modern ideas. Historical romance is also about, well, having fun. There is an element of comic relief in Eloisa James’s work which cannot be denied. It isn’t straight-out farce that relies on deliberate anachronism; it has, however, often occurred to me that some passages you had to read with today’s mindset to fully appreciate.
All the considerations that should have made her run shrieking into the woods seemed inconsequential, when she could instead watch Leopold’s beautiful haunch as he leaned over and pulled a French letter from the pocket of his breeches, throwing them toward the riverbank.
“Do you carry those with you at all times?” she asked.
- A Duke of Her Own, Eloisa James (Avon, 2009)
I assume you know what a French letter is… Speaking of which, something I positively loved about this novel was how much they talked about sex (how could they not, when the hero fathered six children out of wedlock for starters?). Not all romances do, mind you. Sometimes the only sex in a novel is the one that actually happens. Which seems to convey the idea that sex is either only physical (aroused genitalia need release) or only emotional (two beings in love take it to the next level). A Duke of Her Own does a wonderful job showing that it is neither: it’s only a pillar of any successful relationship. If you can talk and joke about it outside the bedroom, then you’ve virtually got it covered.
He leaned back against the balustrade again and deliberately crossed his arms, because it made his muscles look even larger and he had the feeling that Eleanor liked muscles. Thank God, there was no way that Tobias could see the tent in his towel from below.
He moved his legs apart a bit, just in case she wanted to take another look. Obviously nothing would shock the woman.
“Am I to understand that you think I couldn’t be ready in less time than you?” he demanded.
- A Duke of Her Own, Eloisa James (Avon, 2009)
from E James's website
The amount of banter and sarcasm that is exchanged between those two is simply delicious. Unlike with many other books I’ve read, it never feels forced, incomprehensible, or immature. It actually feels fun. And just having that much fun with someone probably means you should marry them. But of course, Villiers doesn’t realise that until it’s too late. I found it contradictory that when it came to choosing his children’s mother, he favoured the woman who admittedly has no concern for propriety–didn’t he want a Duke’s daughter for her to compensate his bastards’ objective lack of propriety?
In spite of this minor plot weakness, the author develops a deeply satisfying reflection on motherhood, and how it’s got nothing to do with being proper, pure, and innocent (quite the contrary). Eleanor isn’t a virgin, by the way. But I’ll write another post this week specifically on this subject (not just virginity and sex, but good and evil and where romance stands). A Duke of Her Own certainly has opened many avenues for thought…
So, which is your favourite Desperate Duchesses novel? Do you ever talk to your books? Have I gone completely crazy? Don’t you love it when sex isn’t just performed, but discussed, hinted at, implied, and made fun of?
Full Moon Rising, by Keri Arthur (review)
Posted: 2011/08/17 Filed under: Literature | Tags: full moon rising, genre, keri arthur, paranormal, review, riley jenson guardian, sex, urban fantasy Leave a comment »In a world where nonhuman races are socially controlled, if not always fully accepted, secretive dhampire Riley Jenson finds herself involved in a series of violent events that might all be linked to a potential worldwide danger… Add in the nearing of the full moon that has the werewolf in her in a state of rising sexual need, arousal and appeal, and things could become really complicated.
I don’t often read urban fantasy/paranormal romance. It is meaningful because that specific romance subgenre has its own codes, which can be as far from standard romance ones as to make it feel more like regular urban fantasy than romance. In other words, this type of literature effectively straddles two genres, and it’s not always clear which one is dominant. Full Moon Rising struck me as having in common with romance only its steamy sex scenes, and even in that regard it was different, since most romance is not that steamy, especially when it doesn’t involve the hero.
Here is a basic list of what makes urban fantasy/paranormal stand aside from modern romance:
- 1st person narrator (the heroine) vs 3rd person (with a balance between the heroine and the hero’s POV)
- We follow the same heroine throughout a series, vs one couple per book
- The heroine has several sexual partners over time, vs exclusive couples
- No HEA to allow the series to continue, vs HEA
To soften the apparent contradiction between fantasy romance and standard romance, I should point out that at the end of the series, the paranormal heroine must find her happy ever after with the man whom we suspected was The One from the start. And the world must be saved for good. If you’re reading the first novel of an urban fantasy romance series, though, just be sure not to expect it because it won’t happen. It doesn’t in Full Moon Rising. And yet, the book ended better than it started.
As opposed to romance novels, in which the subplot supports the main romantic plot, in paranormal the romantic element often only accompanies the disaster scenario. The heroine must (help) save the world first and foremost, and good on her if she can find love at the same time (in modern romance, it would be rather like: in order to follow her heart and make love triumph, the heroine will incidentally find herself saving the world). Because of its prominence, as well as its necessity to span a whole series, the plot should therefore be pretty complex. Well, Keri Arthur’s book is evidence that introducing a complex plot from scratch isn’t easy.
By the first third of the book, I was only half-convinced. The action was both too intense and too slow: the fact that everything was coincidentally happening at once in Riley’s life, yet each thing tidily after the other, felt neither realistic nor consistent. Among the weaker points of the book, I would mention the repetitive character of fight and sex scenes. Don’t get me wrong, I like both kinds of scenes. And I understand that Riley is a vampire-werewolf, which implies an extraordinary sex drive and healing power. Still, at the end of the book all these orgasms and tearing of flesh left me tired.
It’s only when the plot thickens by the middle of the book, and the “hero” finally becomes more present, that I really began enjoying the story. By then, most fantasy elements were in place: the little team of miscellaneous experts, the outline of what they’re fighting against, the hints as to who the bad, bad guys are, and a general impression of the universe we’re into. It isn’t the most original or unpexected story, but I closed the book with a good feeling, and a distinct curiosity for its sequel.
A note on Riley’s sexuality: she’s a wolf, therefore she wants to fuck all the time. I mean especially during the week before the full moon, which is when the whole first book takes place. For me, it was a little frustrating to see her have so much fun with other guys than the hero, and relegate the latter to the role of potential third partner (the more, the merrier!). I mean, he’s the hero, godammit! The reader gets an I-want-him-if-she-doesn’t kind of feeling. But then, I have to say, the woman in me also went: phew… At last a book in which it’s the hero rambling on about fidelity and genuine feelings, while the heroine is allowed to have some fun!
“Hey, I fuck millionaires, so I already know all about luxury. Danger and discomfort can be just as thrilling, believe me.”
He shook his head. “I’m going to have to teach you better.”
I grinned. “Or maybe you just need some of that stuffiness shaken out of you.”
- Full Moon Rising, Keri Arthur (Dell Spectra, 2006)
Truth be told, the way she goes from one partner to the other might not be romantic, at least it was realistic. In real life, you can’t tell when you’re going to meet the one guy who’s going to touch your soul. Chances are, you’re already fucking someone else, just because there’s no more reason to wait for sex than to wait to eat good food or take a good hot shower. So, all in all, in spite of the ever-presence of sex in Ms. Arthur’s book, I liked the way it was portrayed, how she used it symbolically to define werewolves and the way they’re perceived in society. In the end, I grew fond of the heroine’s independence and strength, of her determination not to accept love at any price.
The freedom and excitement of these moon dances were part of my nature, and I’d be damned if I dropped them just because it offended his human sensibilities. I wasn’t human, and he shouldn’t judge me by those standards. And asking me to give up the moon dance would be like asking him to stop drinking blood. I wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right.
- Full Moon Rising, Keri Arthur (Dell Spectra, 2006)
Do you read paranormal romance? Does crossing genres sound like it can increase your audience, or narrow it? How does Keri Arthur rate as an author of that genre, if you’ve read some of her books?
Double Standards, by Judith McNaught (review)
Posted: 2011/07/05 Filed under: Literature, Politics | Tags: contemporary, double standards, feminism, judith mcnaught, review, sex, virginity Leave a comment »I officially love Judith McNaught (at least her contemporary romance). Which will not deter me from criticizing her. As a matter of fact, I suspect that I love her writing even more because I know I love it in spite of everything that riles me about it. McNaught doesn’t rub me the right way. And yet, I still get caught up in her stories and feel for her characters and know exactly what she’s talking about. At the same time as she defends opinions which I strongly disagree with, she manages to write the love stories that are closest to my heart and my experience, to tell me all over again how I fell in love. Hell, gimme more.
Self-made multimillionaire playboy CEO Nick Sinclair falls in love with small-town, virginal secretary Lauren Danner. Welcome to Ms. McNaught’s world! I don’t even know why I like it. And in a way, I don’t. I’d like to convince you that this isn’t what the novel is about, that the jet set gatherings, designer clothes, jewelry and charity balls are only there for show, for fun, kind of like reading about the gowns the princess wears in a fairytale… But that’s not even what irked me. What did are the infamous “double standards” the title tells of. You’d expect in a romance novel written by a woman, such a title announces the questioning, ridiculing and final destruction of said double standards. You’d expect the author to be in earnest when she puts the words in her hero’s mouth:
We don’t want or expect a woman to be inexperienced. We’re liberated too, you know. You have the same physical desires I do, Lauren, and you have the right to satisfy them with whomever you wish.
- Double Standards, Judith McNaught (Pocket Books, 1984)
Sadly, double standards are here reduced to an accessory device for the love story. We soon find out that the hero’s liberated view on female desire only betrays the fact that he has never loved a woman, and that the double standards he eventually pulls on Lauren are the sure sign of his true love for her. Because a man who loves you only wants you for himself. And a woman who’s worthy of love talks like this:
I can’t handle casual, indiscriminate sex, and what’s more, I don’t like people who can―people like you! [...]
I can’t detach my emotions from my body, hop into bed and have a wonderful time, and then forget about it. I’d want you to care, and I’d care.
- Double Standards, Judith McNaught (Pocket Books, 1984)
from the Delhi (India) Slutwalk
Now let’s get this straight: I’m all for exclusive relationships, fidelity, and emotional involvement. Not even because I think it’s right, but because that’s the way I happen to be and feel; pretty much like Lauren Danner, you could say. That’s what makes me even more furious. How people like Judith McNaught can (seem to) separate and oppose, virginity/fidelity/emotions/love on the one hand, and experience/promiscuity/sex drive/indifference on the other! What if a person has been committed and faithful to every single person they’ve been with, except they’ve been with several over time? It happens to women just as much as to men.
But much more importantly, casual or uncommitted sex never has to mean it’s indiscriminate or emotionless. You can care a lot, and adore a person for who they are, (and both be single and horny,) without wanting to settle down and start a family with them―which for me is the only reason why you would ever commit. Just because you’re going to have more lovers than husbands doesn’t imply you’re ready to welcome the whole world in your bed! The suggestion of which is so stupid, so absurd, so insulting, so degrading and misogynistic it should never cross any sensible person’s mind. Just because I can handle uncommitted sex doesn’t mean that I’m an easy lay, or that I don’t have feelings!
And don’t you dare tell me that I brought it upon myself. When I hear people say, “Men will respect you more if you don’t have sex too easily,” I think of two things: 1) Such men have serious respect issues and I want nothing whatsoever to do with those woman-hating jerks; 2) Who defines what “easily” is? Do you calculate it in terms of days you’ve known the guy, proofs of love he’s given you, or intensity of your own feelings? If you think I have sex “easily”, you can go talk to all the guys I’ve turned down and ask them how “easy” they think I am… I’m going to be a little nasty, but: before you go about congratulating yourself on how hard you are to get, think of how many men/women have actually made a sincere effort to “get” you. It’s easy to be a virgin when there’s nobody (good enough) to give your virginity to.
[/rant] And yet I loved Double Standards. Well, yes, because if you forget about the sly and, after all, incidental implications of Lauren and Nick’s quarrel over how to handle sex, then I fully and delightfully believe in McNaught’s contemporary love stories. They are the irrefutable argument against all the trash talk that wants to portray romance fiction as an unrealistic, distorted take on love promoting dissatisfaction in real life*. Case in point: there are so many uncanny common points between my own story and Nick and Lauren’s, starting with the main plot itself…
Woman looking for a serious relationship and a family meets womanizing man who won’t promise her more than a casual affair. Woman falls for man and contrives to make man fall for her. She succeeds, happy ever after, the end. Reading McNaught for me is like reading about us, and I never get tired of it. On top of that, I must give her credit for objectively mastering the art of twisting, wrenching and cajoling a reader’s heart. Although her stories are quite predictable, especially once you’ve read a few, somehow it doesn’t stop me from discovering each new one with the enthusiasm and anxiety of the first time. Another evidence that experience and knowledge do not “spoil” anything that’s truly worthwhile…
Since I’m on that again, I’d like to clarify one last thing regarding my stance towards sex. I’ve just expressed my support for a feminist friend’s opinion against prostitution on her Facebook wall. Just because I defend women’s sexual freedom and the equality of women’s sexual desires with men’s, doesn’t make me unaware of the pernicious, unwanted effects a certain kind of sexual liberation has on women. “Is women’s sexual liberation meant to actually free women, or to free men of guilt?” I said. Sexual liberation hardly helps us if it only consists in turning old taboos into new trends, instead of analysing what these taboos meant and implied, and going from there to build a whole new set of values for women and men‘s sexuality.
“[...] You said there was nothing promiscuous about a woman satisfying her biological―”
“I know what I said, dammit!”
“Then why do you look so angry? You didn’t lie to me, did you?”
“I didn’t lie,” he said, slamming the bottle onto the bar and reaching for a glass from the cabinet. “I believed it at the time.”
“Why?” she goaded.
“Because it was convenient to believe it,” he bit out.
- Double Standards, Judith McNaught (Pocket Books, 1984)
This is where, perhaps, Ms. McNaught almost redeems herself. It was convenient for Nick to believe that women were naturally as eager for sex as he was, because it spared him the trouble to wonder what they actually wanted, and made it possible for him to do whatever he liked without feeling responsible or guilty. If women’s liberation means that men can go on wanting what they’ve always wanted, except women now have to want it too, then it’s no liberation at all. Women’s true liberation―and in that way perhaps Double Standards can still claim to a slight tinge of feminism―means that it’s now up to women to set the rules, and to men to respect them.
How do you feel about Judith McNaught’s books? Is modern romance’s treatment of sex satisfying for women? Are you as happy as a McNaught heroine?
* Thanks to the Modern Princesses for the link: Romance novels can be as addictive as pornography (Caution! BS inside)
Sex on the first date
Posted: 2011/06/01 Filed under: Bio, Faith | Tags: judith mcnaught, love, sex, tip Leave a comment »The truth was that she wanted him. And he wanted her. They both knew it.
- Perfect, Judith McNaught (Pocket Books, 1993)
Though virginity remains a key concept in much modern romance, you’ll often find the paradoxical cliche of a life-changing sex encounter. In other words, falling in love, as much where the heroine as the hero is concerned, often comes after making love. From a purely logical viewpoint, it is hard to reconcile with the idea of saving oneself for the right one, and if I have to choose, I’d pick the second proposition any day. In the real world of actual experience, the feeling of “the right one” does usually dawn on you after sex―not before.
First of all, slight digression: I don’t have a problem with casual sex, one-night stands and fuck friends type relationships. In truth, it kind of bugs me when people see sex as the simple consequence of lust, and therefore judge all “uncommitted” sex as the plain unwillingness or inability to reign in one’s lusts. Not only do I claim that there are many other, more spiritual reasons to have sex than lust, but I also must point out that there is a huge gap between consenting to sex and having one’s lust out of control. It’s not like we immediately have to jump anyone who stirs in us the faintest trace of desire… Even people who go for casual sex know the place and time, and are capable of being faithful. Abstinence to me is pretty much like fasting: I certainly don’t think it’s wrong or ridiculous, but I’m not sure what sense it makes as a permanent lifestyle.
However, digression over, this post will focus on serious relationships and commitments. When you’re debating within yourself whether to consider a relationship as serious, and whether to commit, you need to know the other person well, and to know yourself well too: what you like, what you want, how you respond to who the other person is. I don’t think anyone will argue with that. So, in my opinion, there is just one way to know someone, and test your own reactions. You thought I was going to say sex? I was only going to say any extreme or intimate situation. But since most of such situations won’t happen except rarely, you’d either have to wait a very long time, or… sex. Sex is the simplest, most immediate, quickest and safest way to get to know someone behind the facade.
The title of this blog takes me back to the matter of dates, which I feel, perhaps wrongly, are a very cultural thing. A North American thing, to be specific. Not that I have never gone on dates while I lived in Europe, but I don’t think I have ever had sex with anyone who’s asked me on a date. In my experience, dates happen when nothing else is happening, namely no conversation, no spark, no mutual interest. The second reason why I distrust dates is that they show you everything but the real person. Someone who’s asking you on a date is probably making an effort, and whatever they will try in order to enchant you that night won’t reflect what they are like in everyday life. The reasons why people are so hard to read in social or well-defined contexts can be traced to three types of behaviour:
Avril Lavigne in her Don't Tell Me vid
1) The consummate, manipulative charmer who only wants to get in your pants. They aren’t always that easy to spot, especially if you are inexperienced and have low self-esteem issues. They will normally leave you alone when they see they can’t have you, but that might come as a nasty surprise if you’ve had enough time to fantasize about your new admirer… (Avril Lavigne might think of Don’t Tell Me as an empowering song, but she still sounds pretty pissed off, and rightly so.) Give him what he wants the first night and he’ll tell you everything before you can work up any silly dream in your romantic head. Before you can get hurt.
2) The guy for whom gallantry has become second nature. He’s not as hypocritical and goal-driven as the first type, so it can last reaaally long before either of you finds out what the other one actually is like and wants. Having preconceived ideas about what a woman needs and wishes for tells little about what respect he feels for you as an individual, though. Get it over with and see what he’s truly ready to give, before he captures enough of your heart to break it.
Romeo + Juliet movie, 1996
3) The creepy weirdo who’s learnt enough social conventions and manners to present a neutral appearance in public. Everybody actually has quirks and bad habits, and we’re all hiding them behind what is considered the socially acceptable norm. Win an entry to his bed and to hide he will be able no more, before you fancy yourself in love with a person who doesn’t exist.
Notes: these are ideal types, and people won’t always be so bad as what I described, or they’ll be a mix of the three. But really transparent types seldom exist, and it’s probably better that way, for social order’s sake. More importantly, these scenarios only apply to people you feel attracted to; so when I say, “give him what he wants”, it also translates as, “get what you want from him”. If you’re not attracted to someone, we’re not even having this discussion: forget it entirely. You can develop a lot of things for someone, including friendly or sisterly love, but sexual attraction? Just don’t count on it.
Sex tells you everything you need to know about a person, and I don’t mean whether he gives good or bad sex―that is completely irrelevant. Being literally, physically naked makes it that much harder for a person to pretend. And seeing another person naked forces you to deal with them in ways otherwise honest, too. Love is not a feeling for gala days. Love is a feeling for better and for worse, for the stark naked, imperfect truth. The way someone makes love to you will tell you more about who they are than months, perhaps years of going out and talking will do. Which is why I’m just saying: if you don’t want to fall in love with the wrong person and have your heart broken to pieces, have sex with them first.
© Andrzej Tylkowski
I’ve put this blog under the “Faith” category because all in all, the subject matter is mainly spiritual and metaphysical. 
My vision of sex explains why I think it’s difficult to keep ex-boyfriends as regular friends: you know them a little too well, and not in a good way (since it didn’t work out). It also explains why I believe that no matter how old, deep, long-lasting and open a friendship is, it never quite matches carnal knowledge. I guess I write romance for this reason: sexual love is the supreme relationship, far exceeding biology and contract alike.
Do you think that people would be luckier in love if they cared more about the sexual part of it? Does your experience validate or invalidate my theory? Is there any theoretical downside to safe, consensual sex that you can think of? (Because I can’t.)
Writing sex scenes
Posted: 2011/04/29 Filed under: My writing | Tags: feelings, intimacy, julia quinn, sex, writing tip 6 Comments »It took me a couple of books to get used to romance sex scenes. It took me about the same amount of stories to begin to write them… which means over a year.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I do regard sex as an intimate act, especially when depicted at length and in detail. However, I refuse to buy into the widespread, though ridiculous mythology which places sex as the supreme degree of intimacy. There are a lot of things in my life which are at least as intimate to me, and it hurts me when people ask me about it or insist on knowing them. In real life especially, I’d much, much sooner answer a question like: “What is your favourite sex position?” or “How old were you when you gave your first blow-job?” than one such as: “What do you want to do when you finish your master’s?” or “What did you eat today?” These two last things happen to be extra super personal, and none of your goddamn business.
Signet's Lover Enshrined cover
Whereas sex… well, sex is just sex. At least the technical side of it is, and I’ve no problem talking about it. Where it becomes rather intimate is when you drift from facts to feelings, and this is where I usually draw the line. For me, the hard part about writing sex scenes isn’t describing what one person does to the other; it’s how this other reacts, responds, feels. And yet, you may say, we write about characters’ feelings all the time. We show them sad, excited, angered, humiliated, triumphant, blissful, jealous, scared, hopeful. So how does it differ from sex scenes?
My take is that it doesn’t really, except in our heads. Yes, I used to feel uncomfortable about revealing my characters’ experience of sex, but then, I used to feel uncomfortable about revealing their experience of most anything that I considered less than legitimate, acceptable and “normal”. For years I’ve written stories that I dared not show anyone, and it certainly wasn’t for the (lack of) sex in them. It was for the autobiographical elements, for the wishful thinking, for the fantasies, for anything I feared showed too much of myself, anything I could, yet didn’t wish to be judged for.
I think being an author is being slightly exhibitionist, but most of all it’s being a professional bluffer. And when I mean professional, I imply that this isn’t just about writing things you’ve never known or experienced yourself. Perhaps more often, it will consist in using the blessed cover of fiction to write things you’ve actually been through. Give it a different name, set it in a different context, include it in a different plot: who could recognize reality in such a disguise? And I know that by saying that, I expose myself to having my writings scrutinized for hints at what I’ve really done. I don’t mind. Maybe I’m bluffing again. People may speculate all they want; the solid and indisputable fact that nobody shall ever know for sure is all the armor both my privacy and intimacy need.
But seriously, who needs therapy when you can control your own little world? When I wrote Brighter Than the Sun, I was going through a difficult time in my life, and I think this manifested itself in the manuscript in two ways. First, the book is an out-and-out romp. I had enough serious stuff going on in my own life; I didn’t want to have to deal with it in my book. Second, the hero and heroine seemed to injure themselves a lot. We had broken ribs, sprained ankles, burned hands, even a gunshot wound. What a healthy way for me to get out my aggression!
- Julia Quinn, bestselling romance author
The famous turning point in my writing history also came with the realization, once more apparently paradoxical, that as a fiction writer you cannot afford to write about yourself, yet that all the answers you need are already within yourself. It’s a humbling and introspective work at the same time. It’s a long journey, but it’s really worth the ride!
Signet's Lover Awakened cover
Do you enjoy writing sex scenes? If yes, how did you get over your initial reservations, fears or doubts?
Explicit Content – Parental Advisory
Posted: 2011/04/27 Filed under: Literature, Politics | Tags: love, modern romance, sex Leave a comment »In my honest opinion as an eclectic reader, the only thing about modern romance which makes it substantially different from other genres, and might take some getting used to, is the treatment of explicit sex. And I insist on the treatment. Before I started reading romance, I had read several non-romance books which contained graphic sex scenes; to name a couple off the top of my head: Annabelle, by Marie Laberge and Les jolies choses, by Virginie Despentes.
These two books are quite different, yet I feel that their use of sexual content represents a similar tendency, one which unfortunately dominates all non-romance literature. Talking sex sounds raw, realistic, dirty, rock’n'roll. Quite the convenient device when you’re very afraid of becoming cheesy, fluffy, corny and God knows what other horrors love and attraction between people have in store. While I do not at all mind raw, dirty or rock’n'roll, I often get tired of what seems to be a generalized fear of the happy, healthy sexual relationship. No wonder people now think of sex as being necessarily and merely a sensationalist tool.
Thank God, there’s modern romance! (Thinking of copyrighting this sentence. ) In modern romance, as opposed to all literature classics considered as romance or love stories, there is always at least one explicit sex scene. But unlike any other book’s sex, romance sex is always depicted in a positive light, like something beyond wonderful, with benefits only to be dreamt of. And before you go all har har (ie an unlikely mix of crudeness and embarrassment, like if I was showing you a sex tape) and imagine I’m only referring to the physical pleasure side of things, this includes emotions, self-image, self-confidence, all these things that have both all and nothing to do with sex.
Here is not the place, nor is today the time to explain why sex is insanely important and should never be relegated to second place in a relationship (wait for this entry, though). All I’m going to say is that modern romance is perhaps the only literary genre which consistently, fundamentally recognizes sex as something more than physical, would I dare say… more than sexual? Despite what some people may like to believe, and despite even certain authors possibly considering it this way, sex scenes in romance are not gratuitous extras meant to increase the appeal of a novel.* They’re an integral part of the story.
For me, modern romance is the official, too-long-awaited acknowledgement that there cannot be love without physical relations. This, I would argue, is even true for friendship, albeit in a different way. There cannot be love without physical acceptance, without physical commitment, without physical expression. Love is anything but a pure, spiritual thing. It’s a practical experience. Love is only one of these extreme occasions when you get to glance at a person’s inner truth. By all means: don’t avoid or miss it. Both in real life and on paper.
Bonus question: Guess which books the illustrations come from! 
* Though if it can actually make more people curious to open a romance book, I’m all for it! Frankly, I’d much rather my future children learn about sex through modern romance than through low-quality, commercial porn.
Recent Comments