I’ve never been what you would call demure. My poor mother tried so hard to raise an innocent little lady, but instead she got a daughter who once smuggled mini bottles of alcohol into a U2 concert in her bra. (I knew that extra padding would come in handy someday!) Yes, the wild side has always had a certain appeal to me. But I do have standards. You’ll be happy to know they’ve elevated somewhat since the sloshing push-up incident.
Take bodice-rippers for instance. While I enjoy a good, full-bodied romance as much as the next twenty-nine-year-old mom (maybe even a little more), I simply can’t tolerate a book with a plot existing solely to move the hero and heroine from one clinch to the next. Frankly, I find that boring. Give me some hidden desire, an undercurrent of passion, intense longing, but please, keep the heaving body parts to a minimum. I have an imagination.
That’s why I fell in love with Stephenie Meyer's Twilight Saga. Don’t get me wrong, these books are hot. I wouldn’t let my thirteen-year-old daughter read them—if I had a thirteen year old daughter. (Of course, if I did, she’d probably be like me, and I’d be in a world of hurt even without books about sexy vampires.) But I found the Twilight books refreshing because they were incredibly sensual even while arguing for old fashioned ideas like reserving sex for marriage (be that a living or undead commitment) and even respect for human life. I know, shocking, isn’t it?
I’m not saying the books are above reproach, but I enjoyed the plots, characters, and fantastic writing as much as I enjoyed the sizzling romance. I read all four books in about a week, which meant several late nights. I’d force myself to go to bed around 1:30 where I would find my cutie-pie hubby dead to the world. I’d snuggle up next to him, feeling a little more affectionate than I usually do after midnight, and he would reward me by lifting his head a quarter inch off the pillow and mumbling something sexy like, “fnurg,” which means, “I am not awake, but my body told me to react in case a psychopath has joined me in bed and is contemplating testing my reflexes with something sharp." Ah, your classic wrong place, wrong time scenario.
More than once, I’ve found myself embarrassed over my more va va voom tendencies. When we go out with our friends, I’m the one laughing with the guys over that marriage joke that crossed the line a little bit, while my sweet girlfriends are blushing appropriately. Oh well, I figure, God likes spicy enchiladas as much as He likes cheese quesadillas. Pass the hot sauce, baby!