Why Reading Romance Novels Lit*er*al*ly Should’ve Helped My Sex Life (But Didn’t)

Truth Serum Tell #1

This was originally posted behind a paywall. I’ve decided that TST posts will be made available to the public.

In these questions, a few of my answers touched on books, favorite authors, heroes in fiction, etc., so I thought I might continue the discussion here. I subscribe to The Good Trade newsletter and back in their June 2023 newsletter, they posted a link to this interesting article by writer Stephanie Fallon. At one point, where she stated, “And you better believe reading all of these steamy romances had a positive effect on my sex life. I felt the thrill of uncomplicated arousal,” I couldn’t help but think, “Huh. Wish I’d gotten the same result.”

I discovered adult romance books my freshman year in high school. I’d tried reading YA (young adult) books. I really did. Even though I was writing YA, the books I’d read were, apparently, boring as fuck. At the library one day, while browsing one of those turnstile shelves, a hot white guy on a book cover caught my eye. I turned it over to read the back blurb and thought it was interesting.

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Welcome to Lit*er*al*ly, Ororo, a weekly blog by me, Ororo Munroe. You are reading Truth Serum Tells, posts about deeper life shit. No needles or toxic, mind-bending drugs were used to write these posts. Thanks for reading.

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It was from the Loveswept line, an imprint of Bantam publishing.

This isn’t the cover I was referring to, but something similar.

After that one book (which I wish I could remember the title of), I was hooked.

For. Life. People!

Loveswept, with their 80’s-like covers, dominated my high school years. I barely graduated because I read so much.

I was reading after school, half-heartedly blowing through my homework.

I was reading 2-3 books on the weekends.

When we watched movies in class? I was reading via the old school-book-propped-up-behind-the-romance-book trick.

I was at the library every damn weekend. Those librarians never knew my name, but they sure as fuck knew my face… and the books I was reading.

Needless to say, I really entered my bookdragon-ess phase during high school.

My older sister and I weren’t allowed to date until we were 16.

I was fine with that.

While I read about heaving bosoms and throbbing cocks, I crushed on white guys from afar—famous people and schoolboys alike.

Books Before Bros

That isn’t the motto I intended to live by it just happened.

When you’re a drop of chocolate in a sea of vanilla, crushing from afar is the norm when you’re not sure if the interest is reciprocated. To my knowledge, it never was, so I kept my face between the pages.

In my early 20’s, I went clubbing every weekend with my BFF at the time. I low-key flirted and danced my ass off with guys, but I didn’t want a club hook-up.

That’s so cliche.

I’m not a one-night stand kind of woman; not when you have a perfect example of Couple Goals that are your parents. (they celebrated 58 years of marriage last year in August).

While I was attending community college, I met this cute white guy, we’ll call him Ben, through a friend: Shoulder-length, dirty blond hair parted down the middle, blue eyes, a bit of a hipster, a little religious, Ben was my first interracial relationship. If you could call it that.

We hung out.

I never referred to Ben as my boyfriend and we weren’t even dating because that would imply we actually went out and did “date-like things.” That was kind of hard to do when Ben didn’t have a car: he just rode his bike everywhere.

And he worked at Sbarro’s pizza at the mall.

During our time together, I became real attached to his family. I found myself playing hooky from school to go see him and them (to the point where I would invite them to my wedding years later, but only one of Ben’s younger sisters ended up coming. Of the two girls, she was my favorite, so I’m glad she showed up). Looking back, I wish I could say we fooled around, and it became a “friends with benefits” thing, but that would imply we had sex.

And we never did.

There was a lot of first base-ing going on, but nothing past that.

Because he didn’t arouse me. He didn’t do anything for my Sweet Hole.

I knew what I wanted in a relationship (parents) and in an intimate relationship (romance books), and I wasn’t going to get that from Ben. Over time, I would still go over there to see how his mom was doing and he eventually found someone else, and they had a kid together (ugliest. Kid. Ever. Looked like her).

I honestly don’t remember how old I was when my V-card got punched, but I can tell you it wasn’t an experience worth thrusting my hips and crying out in ecstasy over. It was a guy I’ll call Ethan and he was doing something for the Phoenix Suns. That should’ve impressed me, and I guess it would have if I was into basketball. But I wasn’t. And I never will be.

I knew what I wanted in a relationship (parents) and in an intimate relationship (romance books), and I wasn’t going to get that from Ethan.

Because he didn’t arouse me. He didn’t do anything for my Sweet Hole.

By the time I’d met my now ex-husband, around age 30, I think, I was at the “If he calls, he calls. And if he doesn’t, I ain’t worried about it” stage of dating. I was sliding into “I’m perfectly all right if I end up alone.” I should’ve listened to my instinct because the ex I’ll call Scott didn’t have a chance.

I already had a book boyfriend.

Tall, hot, muscly, growly, alpha guy with a great job? Check.

Tall, hot, muscly, growly alpha guy who’s a bit of a cinnamon roll because he can have the deep, real conversations? Check.

Tall, hot, muscly, growly alpha guy who doesn’t always leave the date plans up to me? Check.

Tall, hot, muscly, growly alpha guy who can shift into a grizzly bear, or a wolf (preferably), or a lion, or a polar bear, or a dragon or a…? Doesn’t exist.

Just wanted to see if you were still paying attention.

Tall, hot, muscly, growly alpha guy who doesn’t overdue the dirty talk, but can still make me drip from the Sweet Hole? Check.

Tall, hot, muscly, growly alpha guy who can give me multiple orgasms in one night? Check.

Tall, hot, muscly, growly alpha guy who can get me off by going down on me and then climb up my body and ring another one out of me with his cock? Checkity, check, check.

Is this too unrealistic?

Am I setting my expectations too high?

Shifters aside (because I was all about Team Jacob when Twilight came out. Edward could fuck off and burst into flames with his skinny, sparkly ass), I wholeheartedly agree with Stephanie when she said:

“These are stories that center women’s pleasure, that present men who have to reckon with their own internalized misogyny to get the girl, and that celebrate friendship and ambition and desire on the character’s terms. I found these stories revelatory. These are stories written by women, for women, and the community is dynamic and committed.”

And I really wish I had been able to do this with Scott when she stated:

“…And I’ve also discovered that if I find myself particularly into something I read but haven’t experienced, I have a way to bring it up to my husband. “Read this scene,” I’ve instructed him many times, and y’all, it is not a hard ask! Not only have some of these scenes sparked our imaginations, but we’ve also had fascinating conversations about the genre itself, about pleasure, about restricting ourselves, and about how to shed some of the habits and societal burdens that limit us.”

Unfortunately, Scott and I didn’t have that level of communication in our marriage. Not for lack of trying on my part. But, after much reflection, I believe it was due to three main factors:

1) My lack of interaction with the male species. Dating sucked. It was hard. And the handful of times I tried, I knew there wasn’t going to be a second date within a few minutes.

2) My lack of sexual experience. I have no problem masturbating. With my fingers. After a toxic shock incident from using Pearl tampons, I didn’t like shoving anything in my hoohah. So, no vibrators were harmed in getting me off. There’s probably an anxietal trigger there, too, which is maybe why I could never climax from penetration with Scott. If you’re wondering if I ever faked my orgasms during our 12-year marriage…no. At least, not during oral.

3) Reader shaming. For some, reading romance is a guilty pleasure. It wasn’t for me, until I was made to feel that way from family, friends, and co-workers. Without even reading a romance book, they’d (mis)judged a billion-dollar industry.

Scott knew that I loved to read, romance novels especially, so it was very easy for him to buy me BN gift cards for special occasions (birthday, Valentine’s Day, Christmas, etc.). But I think he was intimidated by it. He never said it outright, but I’m sure he was thinking that romance books are nothing but porn.

Trashy.

Smut.

It makes sense, I guess, since men were introduced to sex through magazines like Playboy and Penthouse; which is basically porn. I have nothing against porn. I’ve bought videos from Adam & Eve and have gotten myself off from watching them. But it’s intimidating to me because it’s not romantic love and doesn’t reflect a true, meaningful relationship between a man and a woman. It’s two people getting together to fuck, with only the male finding true satisfaction (as seen by all the jizz flying around) while the woman fakes hers.

If I had been able to have honest, open, and deep conversations with Scott, I would’ve scoffed at his ignorant claim and said something like what Stephanie said here:

“It was nothing like what I’d felt when I watch most mainstream sex scenes or even porn, both of which are guilty of presenting the female orgasm as a near-instant and reliable event from a foreplay-free, penis-in-vagina encounter. This is not the kind of sex you experience in a romance novel. Not only has the genre been producing sex positive content for decades, but it’s also fairly easy to find non-heteronormative romances, and a wide spectrum of what sexual encounters can actually entail (spoiler: a fully satisfactory male/female sexual experience doesn’t have to end with ejaculation, and *gasp* doesn’t even have to include ejaculation at all!)”

I mean, what a concept, right? Granted, it’s fiction, but in romance books, there’s always a little bit of fact.

I understand that the majority of the time, physical intimacy between two people in a relationship is a two-way street. I can’t speak for Scott, but here’s what I’ve come to learn about myself:

• My expectations were (are) high and were (are) based on the romance books I read. Not because the MMC (male main character) is hawt as fuck, but how the act of intimacy plays out.

• My lack of sexual experience kept me from expressing my sexual needs. All I really know is that I like oral, I have a ticklish neck (so kisses there result in hysterical giggling), a sensitive back, I can’t climax via penetration (because he never found my G-Spot), and I’m not a fan of blowjobs (unless it’s with the right person?).

• Porn has its place, but not when one (or two) people are feeling insecure about intimacy.

• When you have recurring hoohah health issues, you don’t feel sexy, and you don’t want sex. Like. Ever.

• Chemistry is everything.

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