Today we have a guest blogger. I read an article on Miz Love Loves Books http://mizlovelovesbooks.com and it just cracked me up. So I contacted Miz Love and asked if her reviewing sidekick, Miz Management, would like to expand a bit on the article and share with everyone at Four Strong Women. Wasn't long before I received a note from Miz Management saying she'd be delighted to tell everyone just what happens when you read really good erotica. So sit back, get ready to laugh. This is a real HOOT! And if you haven't visited the Miz Love Loves Books site, you should. It's a different kind of review site. Check it out!
Take it away, Miz Management...
I’m going to give you an honest-to-God answer to a question some people might well have asked. Why do people read erotica? Well, for me it’s because I’m scared. Yeah, scared of doing anything other than my usual bedroom acrobatics, which doesn’t amount to anything more than vanilla sex with a little smack to my azz every now and then.
Hey, I don’t knock the spanking when I can get it, but it isn’t that often. I mean, you need a partner for it, and smacking yourself just makes you look plain damn weird. Plus, it doesn’t feel the same. So, yeah, you just realised I admitted that I’ve smacked myself. Haven’t you? When you’re…you know…?
Ok, maybe that’s just me then.
So I read erotic romance because that way I get to experience all the naughty stuff without having to do it. I mean, I know I’m not really experiencing it, but in a way I am because I’m living through the characters. Yeah, that’s a bit sad, right? But when you’ve been as dry as the desert down there for as long as you can remember—dry as a desert when a man’s involved anyway—reading all about it kinda helps, you know? I don’t, um, fiddle with myself when reading or anything like that—not that there’s anything wrong with it if that’s your thang—I just squirm a lot, get hot cheeks (on my face, because I don’t smack myself while reading, goddamnit!) and wonder where the hell I was when romps and fun were dished out when I was in line to be born. For the record, I was also absent for the distribution of slender hips, a nice rack, and an oval-shaped face. I turned up and tagged on the end of the queue just in time for collecting a…wait for it…beauty spot. Someone up there was taking the piss.
I’ve never tried BDSM, although if I had the courage and knew the guy wasn’t going to go around telling everyone at our local pub about it, I would. I’ve never been tied up properly—I don’t think a loose necktie around my wrist counts, do you? Not when I could pull my wrists apart without much effort. And I’ve never had a burglar break in through my back door, if you dig what I’m saying. I’ve always said my azz was for the sole purpose of being a hole where my body waste comes out of, ya know?
So I’m probably considered boring, but with erotic romance, I get all the know-how about these things without having to do a damn thing but read. And get this, if I do get a guy interested and I do get the courage to tell him I want to try this or that, he’ll think he’s won the bloody lotto. I’d look cool and knowledgeable, asking for all this stuff to be done to me, not to mention the horniest chick he’s ever met in his ever-lovin’ life, and…then I’d have to pretend I knew wtf I’d been talking about by actually doing it, when deep inside I’d be shitting bricks.
A sad state of affairs, right?
I read a book on the train the other day. Ginger Snap by Shoshanna Evers. The review for it is on www.mizlovelovesbooks.com And, man, that book shocked me. I thought I’d read about it all. Boy, was I wrong! It involves some sexy shenanigans with a ginger root put in places other than your cookie mixing bowl, know what I mean? And let me tell you, it got me all in a quandary. Now, not only do I want to try the stuff in all the other erotic books I’ve read, now I want to use a finger of ginger on my damn self and see if it burns as much as it says in the book. What the hell’s that all about, huh? Why all of a sudden do I want to try all these things out? Is it because the books give me ideas, let me know what I’m missing? Is that it?
I have no idea, but I think I’m going to make a good effort in finding myself a burglar. Yeah, I want my house broken into and all my belongings stolen. I want to be tied up and smacked on my azz until I can’t stand it anymore. And I want to try nipple clamps.
(Where the hell did that idea come from? Wtf is happening to me?)
I’m drowning in a sea of naughtiness as a reviewer, guys ‘n’ gals. I’m thrust—see, even that word has got into my article here, Jeez!—into book after book where everyone is having sex in ways I never thought possible, while I’m stuck with Quivering Quentin, my trusty plastic, dick-shaped friend, and no hope of ever trying this stuff out. And I’m shocked that I even want to because I thought I was vanilla. Clearly, I’m vanilla, with white sauce, nuts, and a whole heap of cherries that need popping—cherries being the first time I try all the things I wanna try.
I’m just glad the other books I read don’t make me want to do what’s in them too. Like Good Housekeeping—who wants to bloody clean, huh? Gardener’s Green Fingers—hey, don’t knock green fingers; I read an erotic book about an alien once, and green fingers or not, he was HOT! Maybe I ought to ask my next boyfriend to wear green latex gloves and pretend…
Well, maybe one day I’ll come back here and tell you if I ever do any of the things in those books. Maybe…if I find the courage to do any of them. Now, I’m off to the supermarket. I need some ginger…