Beyond Heaving Bosoms

by Sarah Wendell

  RAPE OF THE PAST; RAPE OF THE FUTURE

  Romance-novel rape mostly disappeared from historical and contemporary novels around the late 1980s; perhaps not coincidentally, this came shortly after the prevalence of date rape was recognized and legal standards switched the focus from the victim’s behavior and sexual history (Did she somehow sexually tempt the man? Was she sexually promiscuous?) to the perpetrator’s failure to secure consent. Romance-novel rape, however, still exists and can be found in paranormal and erotic romance; the shift to these subgenres suggests the rape elements are even more explicitly presented as fantasy.

  However, the direct descendant of the romance-novel rape may not merely have changed genre, but changed form. The involuntary change, in which the heroine is transformed into a vampire or superpowered being or three-toed weresloth, usually with copious amounts of blood, trauma, and sex, uses much of the same language and framework as rape in Old Skool romances. There is often unwillingness and pain, followed rapidly by confusion and shame over her changed status. Resignation, then acceptance set in, but always, the heroine blossoms into her new role and finds that her new powers open completely new avenues to her.

  That seizing of new power and the acquisition of self-reliance and autonomy are much more prevalent themes in romance literature, particularly as pertains to sex. Sex in romance is not all bad. In fact, in a number of very special, sparkly ways, sex is good.

  Chapter Love Grotto

  GOOD SEX, PLEASE!

  When, oh, when does the good sexxoring start? It starts right here, baby. Let it never be said that we view romance as a set of paint-by-numbers elements meant to be strung repeatedly into a redundant order, or that writing romance is as easy as finding the necessary pieces and snapping them into place, substituting Lord Bonerhead for Angst the Vampire or Kurt Schlong-Hardass, P.I. But there are some elements that are consistent features of most, if not all, romance novels. Obviously, the protagonist pair have to meet, there’s some attraction, and they ultimately acknowledge or act on that attraction. Then, maybe there’s some sweet sexual action.

  If you flipped through this book looking for the naughty parts, pick any page. If you’re looking for the nookie in a romance, where do you look? Good question. Many Old Skool romances follow a very particular formula: sex will occur relatively early in the book, usually within the first sixty or so pages—but it will be horrible. We once picked up five famous Old Skool romances at random—strictly for research purposes, of course—published between 1972 and 1982, and that was the schedule for Every. Damn. Book. The heroine is raped before chapter 5. The hero ejaculates prematurely. There’s crying and weeping and bleeding and sometimes cream. And then the rest of the sex scenes focus on the heroine eventually allowing herself to be pleasured by the hero. Notice that there’s no question of the hero learning to pleasure the heroine, because of course he can—he has the Heroic Wang, and that thing couldn’t hold back the pleasure if it tried. But there’s only so much the Heroic Wang can do when the Magic Hoo Hoo won’t cooperate; it’s only when the heroine finally gives herself up to the carekeeping of the hero, whether or not she consciously admits to it, that she experiences true pleasure.

  In the less rapey romances from the late 1970s and through the ’80s, particularly historicals, the sex shows up just after halfway point. It was a dependable location—if you wanted to find the sex scene, start flipping pages somewhere after the midpoint of the book. These were thoughtfully marked by Zebra and Dorchester Back in the Day, as the midpoint of the book had a cardboard insert with a postage-paid card inviting you to subscribe to their book clubs. Just after, before, or straddling the cardboard there was some nookie action. You could count on it.

  That was the sequence of the storylines then: just after the midway point of the narrative, it was Time for Nookie. You can dig through the older offerings to test this out, but according to our impeccable research, there was an introduction, much conflict and drama, much attraction, much denial of and resistance to the attraction, and finally the protagonists (or maybe just the hero) succumb to the power of that attraction and look-out-virgin alert, it’s business time.

  In contrast, newer releases of romance in all subgenres locate the nookie in the larger context of the storyline, and really, the sex moves around quite a bit.* It either comes† as part of the emotional climax or it exists separately from the emotional climax and commitment. The sex might be in the beginning or the middle or the end, or all three—it’s kind of like the Jewish High Holidays, which always move around and are never, if you ask any Jewish folks, on time.

  If the sex comes in early in the story, there’re usually postsex ramifications that become part of that story. She might feel guilty or self-flagellate that she gave it up too easily, or she might find herself unaccountably attracted to the hero and not sure how to address that. He might feel equally conflicted, but for other reasons.

  EARLY Sex IN THE PLOT

  More than a few romances feature the sex right from the first few pages. If you’re really impatient, or if you want to see how the story holds up when the nookie opens the narrative, here are a notable few:

  Midsummer Moon, Laura Kinsale. It’s a rather tame scene by any standard, but it sets up the conflict between hero and heroine beautifully. Beware of the salt, is all we’re saying.

  Strange Attractions, Emma Holly. Actually, most Emma Holly novels feature mucho rumpy-pumpiness right off the bat, and it’s a testament to her skills that she makes them such a seamless part of the story. And unlike the scene by Kinsale, these will probably leave burn marks on your fingertips.

  Passion, Lisa Valdez. You open the book, and bam: sex. In public. Well, behind a palm, if you want to be technical. At the Crystal Palace, with a stranger, and from behind.

  And never miss the opportunity to check out the opening pages of Virginia Henley’s Dream Lover, or The Pirate and the Pagan. You know, if you like cocks and wet salty heads.

  I GOTTA BANG THAT GIRL RIGHT OUTTA MY HEAD

  So often in a story in which the sex is not part of an emotional climax of admission and commitment between the protagonists, and in which the sex comes before that emotional climax, the hero follows the “get it out of my system” thought process. He’s met the heroine, and she gets under his skin for one reason or another. He’s obsessed with her and wants to boink her like madness, but figures if he does so and, you guessed it, “gets it out of his system,” he’ll be able to move on and forget her, no longer plagued by thoughts of this infuriating woman.

  Enter Her Magic Hoo Hoo. Magic Hoo Hoos are like Pringles: once he’s popped, he can’t stop. She may be an itch he has to scratch before they engage in coitus most awesomeus, but afterward, he has that itch for the rest of his life. Even if he has done the horizontal tango with every woman in town, he’ll never successfully “get her out of his system” because their sex, and their relationship, was Meant to Be and cannot be resisted. He’s spoiled for every other woman and is hers and hers alone—oh, the power of that Magic Hoo Hoo.

  Sometimes the sex is late in the sequence of the overall narrative. Sometimes there’s so much sexus interrupts you wonder why none of the secondary characters holler at the two dueling fools to get on with it already. The protagonists might come close dozens of times, but they never actually do the deed—and therefore sustain a great deal of sexual tension for a few pages more.

  Usually, in this circumstance, their sexual climax is also the climax of their emotional admission of feelings for each other: I love you! I want you! We are finally alone! Commence nookie action! Pairing sexual climax with emotional climax is a very heady combination.* One or both protagonists cannot help themselves and must obey their insistent instincts, and the conflation of sexual intimacy and emotional intimacy is explosive.

  When the first sexual encounter between the protagonists is separate from the emotional climax, it can be less satisfying, unless the emotional climax is equal to the sexual climaxes that lead up to it
.

  If we take stock of the books we’ve read, we find that the books we enjoy more feature the combined element of sexual and emotional consummation—when the booty call has a subtext that makes it meaningful for both characters, even if neither of them is willing to admit the depth of that significance. Intimacy (sex) begetting intimacy (emotional or personal connection) is a tried-and-true method, but regardless of how the author wields the emotional thunder rod, we tend to find a sexual scene memorable when going down the love canal means going down the love canal, and thus she’s not just any old port in his storm.

  WHO TELLS OF THE GREAT SEXING: SEXUAL POV

  Any fiction-writing instruction book worth its $12.95 (more in Canada) will tell you that point of view, or POV, is a most important consideration. It’s particularly crucial when describing the view of his pointed man-spear as it heads toward the valley, also known as the Sex Scene. In the early days of Old Skool romance the scenes were mostly written from the female point of view, but nowadays, unless it’s a first-person narrator, odds are you’ll get a mix of both male and female perspectives as the protagonists indulge in a little of the old in-out, in-out.

  In Sarah’s reading experience, 90 percent of the sex scenes in romances are from the female POV, told in and through the female’s experience, with the notable exception of erotic romance, wherein the reader can reside in the hero’s head(s) for quite a while. Candy’s reading experience is different: the 90 percent figure is true for Old Skool romances, but in romances of all genres in which both points of view receive equal time, sex scenes were described from either perspective in about equal proportion, except for the Great Defloration. Why is that? Theories abound! And of course, they are irresponsibly researched theories.

  In Old Skool romances, you only rarely experience the sweet, sweet love through the hero, but that’s largely because the Old Skool romances were mostly told from the heroine’s perspective in the first place. In novels in which both POVs are given equal weight, most authors dedicate roughly equal real estate to both sexes for the POV of the nookenatin’.

  The male point of view is present in most recently published romances not only because the hero’s journey now has close to equal weight with the heroine’s, but because the added POV adds greater dramatic impact—at least, it does right now, simply because, like seeing a live penis on a major network at 8:00 p.m., it’s more unexpected. Hell, penises in general are unexpected. So it is with the male perspective during sex.

  The thrust of the dramatic impact is usually in the emotional revelation smack dab in the middle of coitus, to wit: “Oh, shit, this sex is meaningful and I can’t control my—AAGGHHHHHHHH!” The rake is undone and bound to one woman, the lothario is shackled for good, the gay hero is cured of that pesky preference for men (just kidding)—the Power of her Magic Hoo Hoo is almost as great as that of the Heroic Wang of Mighty Lovin’—the She-Ra to his He-Man, if you will. (Except without the implied incest, what with She-Ra being He-Man’s twin and all.)

  In a nutshell, the male point of view is used to reveal that it’s not just another boning in the mist. The male’s coital or postcoital thought process can follow any number of patterns, but at its essence, the male has a great “Oh shit!” moment at the same time he has an “Oh, God!” moment, which communicates to his head and his loins that this is not his father’s Oldsmobile. To coin a bad pirate joke, male sex point of view can be summed up in eight magic words: “Ahoy, there! Mating? This sex is meaningful! ARRRRGH!”

  The realization can take any number of forms, from “Sex was never this good before—what is it about this woman?” to “This was supposed to be rote and meaningless, an experience to cleanse her from my system, and now I cannot get enough. I must have more!” But at the root of the rumination: her Golden Passage is the path to monogamy, redemption, and really, really hot boot-knockin’ forever and ever, amen. Marriage and monogamy are never a bad choice when the sex is that good, and of course the hero must choose the heroine, and her Miraculous Magical Mystery Tour Bus Tunnel, forever and ever. Nobody says no to perfect sex.

  Sexual explorations aside, romance capitalizes on the idea that both men and women need emotional connections to truly enjoy sex, and thus it’s extra-more-better if the male realizes as well that in the math of scrumpin’, sex + feeeeeelings woo woo feeeeeeelings = Really Good Sex!

  HER VIRGINITY, HER POV

  The heroine’s great deflowering is told almost exclusively from the heroine’s perspective. One notable exception: Anne Stuart’s Shadow Dance features two concurrent love stories, and the mighty rending of the hymen for one of them is told from the perspective of the male. Why? While we’d love to say it’s because that particular hero had spent the vast majority of the book in skirts (cross-dressing romances are such a guilty pleasure), really, it’s because that portion of the love story focused mostly on the hero and his struggles over his love for the heroine since as far she knows, he’s a freakin’ woman, so it made sense to view the first sex scene from his POV. And that, right there, is a good rule of thumb for determining which POV we’ll see the inaugural rumpy-pumpy: Where goeth the angst over the loss of virginity? There goeth the POV it’s told from.

  Perspective is everything, and at those most intimate and possibly acrobatic moments of coital wonderment, whose head is describing the action of that other head can make for a great scene in the hands of a skilled writer. But damn near every time, the first sex scene will be in the point of view of the woman, the prose can easily delve into the purple, and both parties will have orgasms of rainbow brilliance—but not the gay kind of rainbow, unless it’s a gay romance, of course.

  Create Your Own Deflowering Scene!

  Someone losing her virginity? Hooray and excellent! Let us help you with the vocabulary. Rearrange the following words and craft your own homage to deflowering your favorite virgin heroine. Or play along at home and see if you own a book wherein any of the following appear. (Hint: It’s an easy game. Just close your eyes. Point at your keeper shelf. Open your eyes. You win!)

  SO WHAT’S WITH ALL THE CONQUERING IMAGERY IN ROMANCE SEX?

  Well, that conquering works both ways. While the heroine and her pesky virginity (if she has one) can be conquered through all sorts of political machinations or accidental trip-and-fall situations, the hero, he’s conquered as well. It’s not a “tie him down with apron strings and spank him till he cries” type of emasculating conquering. Heroines are not usually after the hero’s balls, unless they want to play with them in a friendly kind of way—with the exception of BDSM play, which comes with a whole other set of rules and turns the idea of conquering upside down on its ball gag.

  If you think about sexual intercourse as an intimate combination of consummation, connection, and commitment, both parties in the actual nookie dance have to participate in all levels for the three elements to work cohesively. If one of them is a virgin, then not only is there virginity to overcome but then sexual education to enjoy. If both are sexually experienced, there’s the joy of learning what turns the other on, and what secret crannies in the body are express lanes to the nonstop nookie. But despite the number of rape-and-conquer scenes that littered Old Skool romance like discarded petticoats on the floor of the nearest pirate ship, current romance creates not so much a conquering through sex as it does a cohesion, with both sides equal players in the sexual, emotional, and physical boom-shaka-laka.

  SEXUAL EDUCATION, ROMANCE STYLE

  Laura Vivanco, one of the Professors Brilliant who write at Teach Me Tonight, examined the role of romance novels in sexual education of the reader in an entry from August 2006. Her analysis, that romance novels are one of the few genres that focus not only on women’s sexuality but on instruction of women’s sexuality and sexual enjoyment, reveals romance as a source of both the sexual teaching and the sexual healing.* Romance novels, she says, “play a role in educating people about their bodies” and, more important, are responsible for “shaping attitudes towards s
exuality”:

  In general, romances may give some basic information about the mechanics of reproduction, and though the incidence of contraceptive failure seems extremely high if one looks at romances as a group, as do the numbers of secret babies produced as a result, the depiction of the use of contraceptives during sex scenes, particularly of condoms, suggests to readers that condom-use is not incompatible with passion and enjoyment….

  For many of the Smart Bitches readers, romance novels were their first introduction to sex. Long before they had any actual sex, they read about it in various configurations and in various historical time periods. Candy, for example, learned about oral sex from Anne Stuart.*

  Being an enterprising and bright little girl, she had reasoned out, by the time she was nine or ten years old, that if people kissed each other on all sorts of places other than the mouth, then conceivably they would want to kiss each other down there. She immediately discounted that idea as disgusting and hilarious.

  And then, one glorious day in 1992, she read Special Gifts by Anne Stuart. And lo, she saw that it was good. Seriously: horizons were opened forever, and naughty bits were suddenly made sexy in whole new ways.

  Sex education, beyond the mere mechanics, within a romance also embraces the idea of sexual appetite for women, and embraces that idea with both arms and both legs. Jennifer Crusie, in one of her essays for the Romance Writers of America’s Romance Writers Report, examines why that multilimbed embrace of sexuality and sexual education is revolutionary:

  Women shouldn’t experience a lot of sexual encounters, conventional wisdom ran, because that would soil them, and it’s not in their nature anyway. Men who had a lot of sex and enjoyed it were studs; women who did the same were unnatural sluts. In truth, it was rarely the sex patriarchy objected to—men have usually been intrigued not threatened by lesbianism—it was the sexual knowledge gained from other men: God forbid a woman should know more about sex than a man. Romance fiction not only says women want that knowledge and have a right to it, it often gives it to them explicitly on the page, telling them it’s not wrong to want a full sexual life and showing them how to get one.