Dirty books
When I was little, maybe 9 or 10, I would raid my parents’ bedroom while they were out, looking for contraband, or anything adult and mysterious. I found cufflinks, shoe horns, work papers, aspirin, maxi pads, dangly earrings, high-heeled shoes, novelty camo condoms, a diaphragm, sparkly dresses.
But the real finds, the discoveries that stick with me still, are my father’s Playboys and my mother’s romance novels.
The Playboys were glossy, gleaming testaments to the power of female sex and beauty. I read ever word, looking for secret knowledge, entree into that seemingly sophisticated and sultry world. I remember crouching in one of my mother’s walk-in closets in her changing room, her suits swaying at the level of my nose, riffling through those pages and trying to understand what the hell “Holistic Harry” was talking about.
Today, I read and collect erotica, I enjoy some porn, and I’m a big fan of the adult toy industry. That glossy, airbrushed veneer still tempts me.
Even more powerful were my mother’s romance novels. Between those pages lived strong, handsome, virile, take-charge men and irresistable, tempting, headstrong, and wild women. Though often stereotypical, they fascinated me. The new words — hymen, strain, bosom, turgid, heave, gauntlet, steed, tabor, seraglio — they whirled in my head. It wasn’t just the sex, though that was certainly powerful for me. It was the history. She read only historical romances. These books described beautiful and terrible places and times filled with exotic and unusual and often painful experiences. I was riveted. I still am.
To this day I’m a sucker for a good bodice-ripper. Pirates, warriors, exiled princes, bastards-made-good (but not too good), violated virgins, strong and opinionated viragos, timid bluestockings, they still tantalize me. Since I began reading these books, my secret aspiration has been to be a romance novelist. I don’t have the dedication or the pure ambition (or, likely, the talent) to pull it off, but I still dream. Beyond that, and more importantly, I became utterly fascinated with history, enough so that I got my undergraduate degree in history.
So, here’s a silent thank you to my parents, for unknowingly providing the impetus for a life-long (I hope!) fascination with love, sex, relationships, and history. All because of smut. 
Hi from Michele’s…Great post! And hey, why not give that romance writing a shot? HOW do you know, unless you try…and besides, it might be a lot of fun, not to mention all the “experience” you’ve racked up thanks to your parents reading materials.Terrihttp://www.islandwriter.net
Oh man, I wish I was brave enough to write this post! I’m not, so I’ll just tell you…
When I was about that age I found my dad’s Playboys too and I was SCANDALIZED. I thought he was cheating on my mother. But then I started reading them and was hooked. I started reading trashy romance novels in my early teens. I don’t read them anymore, but I clearly remember sneaking them into my room and reading them at night.Thank you so much for stopping by my blog and for having a totally entertaining post today!
I’m thinking you could write romance, I think it’s in the blood. Just put your dreams to paper. There’s never been a reason to sneak around my house to find such things, I wonder if we destroyed the mysticism of it for the boys by being open about such matters?
Have you given romance writing a try, G? Perhaps you would be good at it with a little practice. Of course you’re the best judge of whether you should or not.Michele sent me to peek at your life! LOL
Such an interesting post! And go for the writing – you can’t be good at it unless you actually try it!Here from Michele’s
OMG, this post made me LAUGH so loud. I used to clean house for a deacon in my church, and his wife, during high school. I was 17, and he had a stack of playboys in his bathroom (they had his and hers) that was as high as my waist. I zoomed through the cleaning and easily spent a half hour to an hour in his bathroom every week, looking at those nekkid women and titillating myself.And his wife was just as naughty, she had a HUGE collection of the really really dirty bodice rippers. I used to sneak them out, read them at home in the dark, and return them. ;0