Beyond Heaving Bosoms

by Sarah Wendell

  Paranormal romances have a different spin on the virginity angle. Not only is there a chance for an otherwordly protagonist and an innocent human becoming mixed up in each other’s worlds, but there’s always the question of whether he will change or turn her into whatever creature he is. Lilith Saintcrow theorizes that the “changing” or “turning” motif of paranormal romances is the new virginity, and we Bitches think she’s on to something. How many conflicts in paranormal romances are created because he bites her and turns her into a vampire or were-[insert sexy mammalian predator here]? Rarely is there a cure. Instead, the happy ending hinges on the communion and then a new community—the heroine becomes like the hero after he initiates her into his world.

  Saintcrow traces the modern origins of the virginity/paranormal change parallel to Anne Rice and the first several books of Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series. Rice’s “florid descriptions of teeth puncturing the skin in her vampire series are downright erotic, code-talk for sex.” As Saintcrow tells it, among a generation of women who had grown up in a time when unprecedented developments in birth control finally allowed women largely to avoid the risk of pregnancy, and record numbers of women were graduating from college, in swaggered Anita Blake, a gun-toting vampire hunter who was not only strong and competent, but “morally and ethically ambiguous,” in a way mostly allowed in male characters at the time. The mix of unwilling penetration and transformation with strong female characters led to a transgressive space in which a woman is allowed to own her own body and sexuality, but lingering cultural anxieties about ownership over the wandering vagina meant the “metaphor of ‘contamination’ by werewolf, vampire, etc., takes the place of the defloration.”

  Saintcrow also points out that the language between the heroine’s unwilling loss of virginity and the unwilling change is startlingly similar. As she wrote in an interview with us:

  The heated descriptions of breaking the hymen can, with very little trouble, be transferred over to the male vampire/werewolf biting the female human to transform her. Through this agency of contamination the female human is initiated into the world of sex or “darkness” and discovers sexual autonomy/Phenom Cosmic Power. It’s simply not workable to have a believable female virgin over thirty anymore. Not because it’s socially impossible anymore, but because the women shelling out the dough to buy the romances won’t buy it the way they would in the seventies….

  And really, that’s the basic plot of any virginity loss: he initiates her into his experience, and includes her in his world. The variations of that paranormal sexual transformation range from biting fangs and scratching claws to, in the case of Kresley Cole’s Immortals After Dark series, lightning: the Valkyrie are created when Woden and Freya send lightning down, and in one case, through a maiden warrior who cries out for strength and courage in battle. Stir that box cake mix of sexual empowerment metaphors with your nearest wooden cock, I mean, spoon, for a while, and see what pastry of leavened sexual mores you get out of the oven. And save us a slice. We won’t lie: we love cake.

  OTHER FORMS OF LOSING YOUR FLOWER, AND YOUR CHERRY

  There’s more than one way to lose your virginity—and we’re not necessarily talking about the myriad of organs, limbs, and orifices made available by paranormal erotica. Sexual defloration is the most obvious way for a hero to claim the heroine for his own, and so is the transformation of the heroine into something supernatural. But there’s another way heroines are rendered extraordinary. Presenting: the Color Wheel of the Heroine.

  Heroines—especially Old Skool heroines—are colorful, colorful creatures. Hair of titian, flax, honey, deepest auburn…no heroine ever has plain old brown hair. Or plain old blond. Or black. Heroines can have raven tresses, or shiny mahogany. Nothing is ever plain about a heroine.

  Most heroines fall into three distinct physical types, which are different from the personality types we discussed earlier.

  The Swan: This sort of heroine was de rigueur in Old Skool romances. They had it all: winged eyebrows, tumbling tresses, heart-shaped faces, creamy skin, full mouths, glorious alabaster mounds, impossibly tiny waists, and large sparkling orbs worthy of any anime character (take your pick between sapphire, emerald, amethyst, morning mist, or chocolate). Her beauty was usually obvious to everybody except herself. The hero certainly noticed, and so did the villains, because Lord knows the urge to pluck her flower ran strong in all and sundry. The villainesses (both the rivals and captors) couldn’t help but see her blazing beauty and feel jealous. The few heroines who were allowed to be aware of her effect on men were usually presented as self-centered and vain—something that the hero would eventually fix, of course.

  Romance novels with a more modern sensibility still feature the raving beauty, but she’s no longer quite as young or quite as clueless, and when they do, the authors sometimes have fun with the archetype. Judith Ivory’s Beast, for example, is in many ways a de-construction of a vain Swan and pits her against a hero who is, in his way, every bit as narcissistic as she is.

  The Ugly Duckling: This is the heroine who was, at one point in time, less than the epitome of fashionable beauty, usually in some superficial, fixable way. She’s tomboyish and awkward, for example, or she’s overweight and pimply. Her coming of age, however, reveals the Swan who was underneath all along. The hero may or may not notice her beauty prior to her transformation. In Jude Deveraux’s Wishes, for example, the hero finds the overweight heroine delicious and desirable, a regular peach, even before she loses weight due to (we shit you not) a Cosmo-reading fairy godmother, and becomes a more conventional beauty. The fairy godmother, a modern selfish woman doing penance in the afterlife by fixing the heroine’s multiple miseries, assumed that being thin would solve all the heroine’s problems. The hero liked her no matter what she looked like, and her relative size had nothing to do with her happiness. The heroine, Nellie, like many romance heroines, may become beautiful, but the moral journey and improvement are just as important. Suddenly becoming hot isn’t the express route to a happy ending.

  Other heroes, such as Jordan from Judith McNaught’s Something Wonderful, catch a small glimpse of the heroine’s quirky charm pre-transformation, but it takes a long separation and a transformation from gamine to gorgeous to really knock them on their asses.

  The Plain Jane: These heroines truly came into their own in the mid-to-late 1990s, and many of the most beloved heroines of this era are plain Janes. They’re nothing remarkable to look at—sometimes even dumpy—or they don’t conform to the standards of beauty of the times, but something about her grabs the hero and doesn’t let go. Sara from Dreaming of You by Lisa Kleypas, Olympia from Seize the Fire by Laura Kinsale, Min from Bet Me by Jennifer Crusie (or just about any Crusie heroine): all of them are presented as distinctly ordinary-looking, and the hero is often the only one who can discern their true beauty, who notices the sexy quirk everybody else has overlooked.

  The Ugly Duckling and the Plain Jane are now probably the more prevalent type of heroine, and this has provided many opportunities for the hero yet again to be first at the gate. One of the more interesting—and frequently appearing—secret beauty surprises of heroines that rise up and smack the reader in the ass is the “other color” that lurks in the heroine’s hair. Somehow, the hero will see her backlit by some powerful ray of sunlight, or a stray glimmer of candlelight will caress her noble, virginal head, and the hero will see the auburn that lurks within her brown hair, the gold within her blond that only waited for his attention to show itself. If the back-cover copy hadn’t alerted you to the identity of the heroine already, the sunlight-produced color effects and the fragments of that color that are noticed only by the hero are a sure sign that she is The One.

  Only the hero can truly identify and appreciate her and rectify the torment of being denied acknowledgment for the special, unique, and oh-so-colorful snowflake she really is. Just as her hymen may be intact as she waited for his special attention, her beauty is unmined like a fat,
conflict-free diamond, and only the hero has the tool needed to unearth her true potential.

  Yeah, that’s a little sexist. Okay, a lot sexist. But the truth is, for every heroine who wallows in the maudlin confines of mediocrity until Sir Hero storms the castle of her love and decorates the whole place with the banners of her beauty and accomplishments (wow, did that metaphor ever collapse under its own weight), there are plenty of heroines who are just fine at the start of the story, but who become something more—more themselves, more special, more admirable—with the addition of that special person. It’s almost a second virginity, if you will, that only the hero can see, nurture, and appreciate. Thus yet again the female is captured in the male gaze, and he is the owner of the special love-tinted glasses that see her true form, and in effect the hero can “own” her in yet another way. That traffic of ownership and experience, be it piercing the hymen or seeing her highlights or slurping on her neck, is a constant undercurrent to the creation of any heroine, and the hero who defines her, deflowers her, or devours her.

  Some heroines are beautiful but dismissed as shallow or stupid in the beginning of the story. Some are plain and brilliant: but the plainness is part and parcel with the intelligence and cannot be separated. Some are marvelous in their own right. However, the hero always brings that “something more” that dips the heroine in the color palette of love and renders her breathtaking, not just to the hero but often to the entire known world in the context of the novel. Screw light curves and color histograms. Love: it is the powerful addition to your Photoshop toolbox, and a powerful addition to your everyday romance heroine.

  THE NEW ALPHA HEROINE

  So if the heroine of the current mode of historical novel and of some contemporary novels is a middle-of-the-road testament to perfection, what about the alpha heroine? As we’ve noted in the heroine breakdown, she’s a relatively recent creation, and we Bitches theorize she is the product of all the heroine archetypes who came before her (literally). Is she a popular romance heroine? Sort of. As usual, readers are picky—most alpha females are not beloved by other females. That’s part of what makes them alpha. Think about it: Margaret Thatcher? Anna Wintour? No one would accuse either of being cuddly. Not unless you like snuggling with barracudas. In Novelist’s Boot Camp, writer Todd A. Stone outlines the top six characteristics required for an alpha female:

  1. An iron will that demands action (up with no shit will she put).

  2. A true understanding of right and wrong (aka a moral compass. One that works. This is in contrast with many heroes in the same mold).

  3. A connection to her feelings, her family, and her community (aka not a sociopath. Again, this is in contrast with many heroes in the same mold).

  4. A clear and usually accurate ability to assess and evaluate people.

  5. Grace under fire, courage under pressure (she’ll say no, and follow it up with a punch to the groin if necessary).

  6. A sex drive (she’ll say yes, and mean it).

  A sex drive? Yes, it’s true: only when embracing the moral and character strengths of heroes can a woman embrace her sex drive as well. The alpha female—who you can identify by the cover of the book, because usually she’s pictured with a weapon, a gigantic schlonglike weapon—is a character infused with power, sexuality, confidence, and ass-kicking prowess, which might explain why she’s so popular in fantasy, science fiction, urban fantasy, paranormal, contemporary, and historical romance. Regency women banding together as spies on the home front? Yup: Jenna Petersen’s Lady M series. Investigating forensic accountants blowing the whistle on corporate malfeasance and outright crime? Yup: Stephanie Feagan’s Pink Pearl series. Sword-wielding, ass-kicking heroines battling evil? Christ on a cracker, take your pick. The alpha female is abundant when the plot calls for battling evil.

  The alpha female essentially takes the lioness aspect of the female personality and wraps her entire character within it. It’s acceptable for a woman, socially, to be outspoken and rude when defending her children—everyone knows not to get between a mother bear and her cub. But what about when defending the innocent people trapped inside the gas station as the vampire has a hissy fit out front? Or when the corporate giant bankrupts the employee pension fund to fuel their next manager’s executive retreat? There are plenty of occasions when a kick-ass female is needed, and the alpha heroine is a fascinating method through which to explore the courage of women, both in combat and in everyday spine-filled behavior.

  So what does she need the hero for? Instead of Old Skool romance’s conquering of the heroine’s will or forcing her adoption of his worldview, the alpha heroine goes head-to-head with the hero, and in battle of one form or another, be it verbal, literal, or sexual, they come to a compromise that ultimately elevates them both. With the alpha heroine, love doesn’t just conquer all. Love kicks ass.

  IDENTIFICATION: I’M THE HEROINE, THAT’s WHY

  Romance readers, probably more than the readers of any other fiction genre, are the subject of all sorts of speculation about how and why we read what we read. The default assumptions tend to be un-charitable: we’re reading because we’re love-starved. We’re reading because we are weak-minded ninnies who require undemanding, simplistic fiction that reinforces our unrealistic worldview. Romance novels, say the critics, offer false comfort in a cold, complicated world with few easy answers.

  Underlying these assumptions is the certainty that readers universally identify with the heroine, and that we’re desperate to find the perfect man in fiction that we’re unable to find in real life. The heroines in a romance novel are wish-fulfillment placeholders, reinforcing the idea that we women want nothing more than to be swept off our feet by the fine, fine lovin’ and limitless financial resources of the nearest Viscount Tycoon Billionaire Pirate Lord Rake Navy SEAL P.I. Cowboy.

  Fantasy wish fulfillment? Not entirely, at least, not where we are concerned. The condescending attitude is always enjoyable to savor for its overdone assault on the senses, like when you’ve added too much sweetener to your coffee, but we tire of the accusation that we are too dim, too dippy, we women, to differentiate between reality and fiction, and that we read romance only to indulge our innermost (virginal) fantasies.

  But putting aside the insult of wish fulfillment, the question of identification with the heroine is a curious one, and setting further aside the condescending assumptions as to what we want to read about when we strum our own lutes and who we want to be in our fantasies, whether the heroine is a placeholder in the imagination of the reader is a matter of some debate.

  Lisa Kleypas, for example, firmly believes, based on her own experience, that the heroine is indeed a placeholder for the reader:

  I believe the heroine is the placeholder—I once read a really fascinating article by Laura Kinsale arguing that the HERO is the placeholder for the reader, but even though I admired the idea, I wasn’t convinced. It’s the heroine.

  I’ve gotten so many comments throughout my career from readers who complain about the heroine’s actions in terms of “I wouldn’t have made the choice she did…she didn’t react like I think she should have…why didn’t she just…” and all of these comments are evidence to me that the reader generally experiences the story from the heroine’s POV even when the hero’s POV is strongly represented.

  And it’s the trickiest part as an author to create a heroine that most readers will like, and it’s not always possible. As you know, readers seem to allow a MUCH broader spectrum of behavior for the hero than for the heroine. A hero can be a complete jerk as long as he grovels proportionately at the end. But a heroine cannot be a bitch and be afforded the same forgiveness. I still haven’t decided why—it’s possible that most readers like the heroine to be an idealized version of themselves? I really don’t know why heroines seem to be held to a higher standard of behavior.

  Kleypas’s experience leads her to believe that readers engage in a symbiotic role-play with the heroine to the point where decisions made by th
e heroine that the reader disagrees with take on a very personal tone; the rigid code of conduct enforced on heroines hints at the level to which readers put themselves in the heroine’s place, whether or not they actually identify with that particular heroine herself. When the heroine behaves in ways that the reader approves of, she is able to immerse herself as the heroine, and the world of the story is smooth. When the heroine behaves in a way the reader finds unacceptable, however, that particular heroine suddenly stops being strictly a placeholder, and instead becomes a rival for the hero’s affections.

  It’s a strong argument for placeholder status of the heroine, and the level to which readers identify with the heroine that there is such a rigid code of conduct enforced on heroines. Women are, of course, their own worst critics, and enforce upon each other the cultural and stylistic requirements of the time, whether it’s 1811 or 2009. Do you think men notice hemlines, inseam length, zipper length, or the type of sleeve a woman wears? Not a damn chance in hell.