Recently, a national magazine did a spotlight story on the phenomena and consequences of women reading romance novels. In it, a psychologist claimed that women who read romance might have unrealistic expectations about real-life love and relationships. She surmised that the novels (about strutting, six-pack-ab men who will pound a woman’s enemies—neighbor, co-worker, ex-boyfriend—into the ground for causing her stress before bringing her to a mind-blowing orgasm) have a negative impact on women’s attitudes about romantic relationships.
I would argue instead that romance novels nurture and sustain a woman’s sex life over the course of her life, improving the quality and duration of her romantic relationships.
I came of age during the progressive women’s movement of the late 70s and early 80s, when being a feminist meant a woman could “bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, ever let [him] forget [he’s the] man.“ The idea that I could be feminine and sexy and smart and professionally successful—simultaneously—were promised to me by television and magazines, the dominant media of the day. Women like feminist writer Gloria Steinem and actor Jane Fonda were intelligent, educated, beautiful. Sexy. I wanted to be just like them.
The 70s and 80s also mark the debut and rise of the bodice-ripping, sexploitation books we call the romance novel. Coincidence? I think not.
My own mother, part of Steinem’s and Fonda’s generation, perpetuated the media myth in my day-to-day life. She modeled many aspects of female empowerment, albeit more quietly and gracefully. She climbed the proverbial ladder at work, bore and raised five children (we sat down nightly to a family dinner of nutritious, delicious home-cooked meals, had clean clothes for school, individual homework help, pets, a first car—even if it was a rusted, second-hand junker—and most important of all, college tuition: our ticket to the world), and, remarkably, she stayed with my father long after other exhausted women’s bankrupt marriages ground into divorce.
Sure. She found a way to balance professional achievement with motherhood, primarily by sacrificing any and all personal luxuries, including time, probably the greatest luxury of all. As politically-informed as my mother was, she never burned a single bra. (She never burned a roast or any bridges either.) She simply couldn’t afford it. Though I was the oldest child, I was slow to recognize the extent of my mother’s martyred state because she never complained. Ever. (For that reason, she will forever be a saint, superior to all the other women I ever meet, in my opinion.)
Of course, I was not my mother, nor Gloria Steinem, who didn’t marry until late in life and never had children, nor Jane Fonda who worked sporadically in a career where money and personal assistants were de rigueur. I was a girl born of their generation, of their vision for women. A vision in which women were equal to men, yes, but more than that—a vision in which women could have it all. My mother, Steinem and Fonda were the starter generation. They were the prototypes who would work out all the kinks for their daughters.
Or not.
We often find, as we mature, that what is promised and what is possible proves to be as deep, wide and divided as freshly prepared pâté and store-bought liverwurst. Women with superstar careers turned out to have less than rewarding marriages. Women with demanding family lives rarely invest the time required to climb past middle management at work. And a satisfying sex life? That luxury is often the last item on a long to-do list for those overworked, overtasked, overwhelmed women, if it makes the list at all. (Why doesn’t anyone want to talk about that elephant in the room?)
My mother was, without question, a supermom. She always put her children first. And she was an exemplary employee, who when she wanted to retire early, was told no because it would take two people to replace her. My mother did bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t have the energy to cater to my father’s endless needs and “make him feel like the man” on a regular basis (his grumbling and complaining about not getting her attention being background music in the house as I grew up). In that modern woman’s Holy Trinity of money, family and romantic love, my mother achieved extraordinary success in two out of three categories, and cursory, half-assed success in the last (five children affirming that my father eventually found satisfaction, anyway).
So I’ve decided that phenomenal success in two out of three is about the best one can do, given we only have about 70-80 years to live. A modest working career takes up a third of our time. Family another third. Since they dominate the first two-thirds of our 24-hour days, they don’t leave much energy, time or desire for the third part of life: romantic love. After all, most people fall into exhausted sleep by the last third of the day.
Like my mother, I have made sacrifices in my goal to be a superwoman. I cook beautiful, nutritious meals, but my house remains home to hundreds of dust bunnies. I had to dump a first husband (who was a little too dark, too tortured and, most of all, too needy) for a second (who came along too late to make children with me, even if he’d wanted to). I have a successful career, but I’ve decided not to pursue a top leadership position like my mother did. About the only thing I did as well as my mother was get educated and become a life-long reader.
And reading is where I’ve been headed in this convoluted blog. The promise of reading romance novels to achieve excellence in the third sphere of our Holy Feminist Trinity.
I read romance novels and erotica to sustain my interest and desire for a romantic relationship with my partner. After reading a sexy historical novel by Elizabeth Hoyt, or a steamy, risqué BDSM novel by Cherise Sinclair, I’ve got lovin’ on the brain. Spending the day wrestling with overrun budgets and evenings washing clothes or cooking dinner simply do not prepare a woman for romance in the bedroom (unless one happens to have a domestic fetish, which I definitely do not). But an hour or two (of luxurious alone time) reading a story in which a hero risks life and limb to save his precious heroine does rouse a woman’s romantic inklings (and libido) just in time for bed.
Today, women are expected to be superwomen. And frankly, it’s difficult, if not impossible. We need a little motivation, a little inspiration. At work, we’d like recognition (some, any!). At home, we’d like a night out at a good restaurant with no clean-up required. In the bedroom, we want a little—sometimes major—fantasy.
Wait, you say. Romantic love is about more than achieving orgasm. I agree, yes. It is. But it’s mostly about achieving orgasm. The trust and intimacy achieved during the act of sex is different (Freud would say it’s a necessary drive) than the love we experience in other kinds of relationships like that between parent and child and in platonic friendships. Its intimacy feeds both our physical needs and our emotional needs. Good sex convinces us that we are somehow special and essential to someone else.
And on that note, romance novels deliver amazing fantasies. The luxurious alone time helps too.
Now if you’ll excuse me, the sun is setting, my husband will be waiting for me and…I must prepare.