the eroticism of pop feminism
This Week in Reading
a variety of extremely horny romance novels
I’ve recently started reading romance novels— the latest iteration in my ongoing effort to self-soothe. I used to listen to YA audiobooks to blow off steam, but plots about prep school chat rooms and twitter spats weren’t scratching the itch anymore. I needed a stronger hit, and for that I needed to go straight to the source.
After reading so much heavy non-fiction and prestige literature, it has been refreshing to read a genre that has been fully liberated from the constraints of originality. Romance writing exists within a different economic ecosystem than traditional novels— whereas a prolific novelist may release a new book every year or two, a romance novelist might publish 3 or 7 in a single year. Romance novels do not shy away from being derivative, they pull from the same pool of tropes and character archetypes repeatedly. One of the books I read was essentially a beat for beat retelling of How To Lose A Guy in Ten Days. Free of the burden of reinventing the wheel, romance novelists can instead rework the greatest hits of the genre again and again. The novels serve up the time tested narrative structures that have satiated audiences since the beginning of time: the swell of conflict followed by the cool release of resolution, longing and misunderstanding that culminates in the consummation of desire. These simple, predictable plot lines are comforting in their familiarity, providing the reliable hit of dopamine at each climactic moment of the story.
Romance novels are about indulgence. Indulging in fantasy, in female pleasure, in hope, in joy. They offer a chance to yearn, and promise to fulfill that yearning-- each story concluding with a happy ending, vows of eternal devotion, and an orgasm. Is there not something noble in a piece of writing that so reliably keeps its promises to its reader?
I don’t know what I expected—the Casanova style epics available at the library book sales of my childhood, perhaps— but I found a surprisingly progressive undercurrent in my sampling. There are interracial couples and biracial identity struggles, gerrymandering and restorative justice programs, critiques of mansplaining and gaslighting. This is not radical literature—Angela Davis did not write these stories. Rather it is the type of pop feminism that Refinery29 might have covered in 2014: a kind of radicalism that is a decade out from being challenging, ideas that have drifted from conversational fringes to the soft palatable center of mainstream discourse. These are romance novels for 2020, and in 2020 there is nothing hotter than a ripped white man quietly absorbing an extremely rudimentary explanation about racial justice. If romance novels are about indulging in fantasy, contemporary romance readers need their sexual fantasies to be compatible with their political ones. These odes to pop feminism within the romance genre are not meant to radicalize their readers, but rather, are a wink and a nod to the audience, a reassurance that they can indulge of the fantasy of being railed by an African prince without succumbing to the toxic trappings that often come with heteronormative romance.
There is still a good deal of stigma surrounding the romance world, no doubt tied to the highbrow/lowbrow divide of trade paperbacks, the female audience that has always been the center of the genre, and a deeply entrenched sense of shame surrounding female pleasure. For my part, I tore through these novels in mere days, but exclusively read library copies on my Kindle— I would rather be caught dead than to be seen toting around a paperback copy of The Duke and I on my lunch break at my entirely male workplace. This latest generation of romance readers need to be coaxed to genre, overcome not only the socialized shame of reading a novel whose primary goal is to turn them on, but also the fear that this arousal is anti-feminist— the guilt that their body still quickens for the same heteronormative tropes that have been getting women off since the genre was invented.
The pop feminism is part of the foreplay— in the 21st century, female readers are looking not just for a strong, powerful male protagonist, but one that is also respectful, thoughtful and woke. The female leads are feisty and outspoken women with high-powered careers. They are fiery in ways that may not be entirely historically realistic: outspoken maidens that punch aggressive aristocrats in the face. They are wooed despite their fierce independence; a soft romantic core unlocked by the gentle seduction of a supportive, sexy man. Conservative critics despair that feminism has created a generation of independent career women that have shunned marriage and the traditional family structure. As usual, they have missed the point. Women don’t need marriage and partnership, but what is tragic is not our independence, but the way our safeguarding of that independence from naysayers can, at times, make those who still want those things feel weak. As if to crave devotion, sentimentality, a hand that brushes a lock of hair behind your ear, is to abdicate the power generations of activists fought for us to inherit. As if to long for someone to run a finger down your neck is to dishonor all the women who fought for you to be able to open your own bank account. For the record, it’s okay to want things. It’s okay to read romance novels.
Romance novels peddle in fantasy. They are an opportunity to learn what other people desire and try on their fantasies for size, see what makes us blush, what settings and descriptions inspire a flush of pleasure within our own bodies. For contemporary female audiences, the fantasy is, yes, a broad shouldered hunk with a nine-inch dick fucking the protagonist senselessly until dawn, but the real fantasy is the way these same men communicate clearly and generously. Conflicts arise and are resolved by the men taking responsibility for their behavior, acknowledging how they hurt the protagonist without any defensiveness, and promising to do better moving forward.
These are primarily heterosexual stories, and yet I will argue— they are almost exclusively written by female authors to titillate a female audience— which seems pretty gay to me. Though there is almost always a tall, hot, male protagonist at the center of each book, in reality the genre seems to exist outside of the male gaze— the only men present are entirely fictional.
Further Reading:
For those looking for the deets, Red White and Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston was my gateway—reads like fluffy YA until it takes a sharp turn into extreme horniness. A love story between the president’s son and the Prince of England—they fuck in the White House and Buckingham Palace, what more could you ask for?
Not The Girl You Marry by Andie Christopher—the aforementioned How To Lose a Guy in 10 Days reboot, but waaaaaaay hornier. The main dude’s insistence of using “Duchess” as a petname in bed kind of killed my vibe but whatever.
The Wedding Date by Jasmine Guillory—a fake wedding date that turns into something more… classic stuff! Fun, some light exploration of interracial dating, mildly tamer than the previously mentioned books.
The Duke and I by Julia Quinn—honestly, absolutely delightful, a historical romance about a family in England getting married off, I WILL be reading more in this series. (Also Julia Quinn dropped out of Yale Medical School to write romance novels fulltime, a legend)
I was halfway through Better of Red by Rebekah Weatherspoon (….aggressively horny book about a lesbian vampire sorority… “plot” is a term I would use….loosely here), and A Princess in Theory (an orphaned African Princess who doesn’t know about her royal past that is being pursued by the Prince she was betrothed to at birth! She keeps ignoring his emails because she thinks he is a phishing scam! Very fun premise!) when they were both unceremoniously returned to the library. I’ve put them both back on hold.
If reading an actual romance novel is not your thing, I guarantee you will still love to read about all the drama happening in the world of romance publishing. A paranormal romance writer that accused her husband of poisoning her!! A lawsuit between feuding werewolf-kink authors!!
If you are already deep in this world, reply to this email with your favorite romance novel, I would love to read it.
P.S.
Thank you so much, as always, for reading and replying to this. I am frequently very bad at responding to replies but am deeply touched by every single one of your messages.
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