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I started reading romances when A and I decided to take a stab at writing them. (I won't go into the details right now, but, it turns out Harlequin Mills and Boon is quite a tough nut to crack.) Anyway, after reading a fair amount of romances – and with a fair amount I mean roughly three gazillion – I got kind of into it.
You know, the plucky Everywoman, the rugged alpha billionaire, some conflict, a huge dollop of sexual tension, a few steamy sex scenes, a happy ending and Bob's your uncle. If this is done by a talented author, really, what's not to like?
(For the record: read a bad author and the experience closely resembles gargling with thumbtacks and substandard ethanol.)
The only problem was this: after reading all those romances, I began feeling somewhat disgruntled with the state of my love life. Why did my boyfriend never throw me over his shoulder and carry me to the bedroom as if I weighed almost nothing? And why did my heart not grow faint with desire every time his arm accidentally brushed against my breast? And why were we not forever having languorous sex in the warm waters of the Aegean or on the thick velvety carpet of some luxurious penthouse suite?
Fortunately, before I did anything drastic, my writing partner diagnosed me as suffering from that all too common modern malady: Porn Delusion.
You see, the romance novel is pure fantasy. It's porn for women. And in the same way that real porn gives men a somewhat skewed idea of women, romance might misrepresent the not-so-fair sex just a tad.
In males, Porn Delusion generally manifests when they see a pair of real boobs for the first time. "Why are they, like... flopping to the side?" one hapless young man once asked me when I relaxed onto my back, convinced that I was deformed in some way. After all, Jenna Jameson's boobies jutted straight upwards, no matter what position she was in! Another guy once admitted that he was always a little disappointed when his blonde bank manager didn't suck suggestively on her pen before inviting him to close the door.
Oh, how I laughed.
But for women Porn Delusion manifests in an even more insidious way: we expect men to be like Mr. Darcy (although Laurie prefers Mr. Bingley – I know – weird), only to find that most of them are really more like those dudes from Jackass.
You must know the sense of exasperation I'm talking about. Would Aragorn ever spend the weekend drinking beer and playing X-box? I don't think so! And why do all those M&B billionaires have so much energy, while one measly little tough day at work causes my husband to fall asleep during Survivor? It's all so unfair!
What is unfair, I realised once I understood the perils of Porn Delusion, are the ridiculous expectations we burden one another with.
So tonight I'm going home to a real man – one who laughs, cries, argues, gets scared, sulks, cracks jokes and, miraculously, loves me for exactly who I am. If he can handle my boobs going south, I guess I can learn to live with the X-box.
Am I the only victim of this delusion, or can you relate? Share your story in the box below.
