I just read an old romance novel, something my friend Gail found in a box in her garage. It was terribly dated, which is another way of saying that it was terrible. But it was also terribly interesting, because of the glimpses it gave into life only a few decades ago.
The hero was mean and rude, and was always complaining. He also had anger-management and control issues. I'm no psychologist, but this guy had some serious, diagnosable problems. I think he was supposed to seem sexy, powerful, masterful, and attractively remote. Yeah, right.
The heroine described herself as "liberated," because she attended college, and had friends who had chosen to sleep with their boyfriends. She had not, of course. Much was made of her innocence. Then she quit college to get married without the slightest hesitation.
In the course of the story, the hero treated the heroine very badly. She reacted by apologizing, and trying to learn to be better at accepting and loving him. Eventually, an improbable set of circumstances led them to get married, despite the fact that neither of them wanted to. And then, on their wedding night, they finally consummated the relationship, in a scene that takes place entirely on a blank line.
I was incredulous. The only sex in the book was implied. The ideals for male and female behavior have clearly changed in three decades. But so, apparently, has the appetite for sex scenes in romance novels. The characters were on the bed. They kissed. Then he parted her robe. Then there was a blank line. And then it was morning. They woke up happy. They kissed a little. Then there was a blank line. Then they ate a late breakfast.
I was so envious. It would be so easy to write a sex scene if the only thing I had to do was press the Enter key twice. It almost made me wish I were back in that decade. Not really.
No comments:
Post a Comment