Andromeda chained to the rock...waiting for the sea monster.In a fantasy there are no consequences but the ones you want. Guilt shouldn’t enter into it. If it does, take a moment to ask yourself why? Why do you feel guilty about the fantasy with the giant Panda and the three Lithuanian dwarfs?
In the eighties I cut my teeth on bodice rippers. Historical romances where the alpha male overwhelmed the helpless female with his physical strength. She sacrificed her virgin body on the altar of his lust. But of course the hero wasn’t a rapist. She said no. At first. But she didn’t really mean it, did she? Did she?
You tell me. It’s your fantasy.
Since then historicals have turned over a new leaf. The heroes, even the Pirate Lords, are relatively harmless. They might cajole and seduce, but they will always ask a lady’s permission before they tear anything, hymen included. Bodice ripping moved on to find a natural home in the paranormal romance genre. The hero is free to act like an animal mostly because, well, he is an animal.
In Love’s Prisoner by MaryJanice Davidson, two strangers, a werewolf and a damsel are caught in an elevator during a blackout. In a matter of minutes. . .
. . . he deftly swept her legs out from under her and she was falling-but he was coming down with her and cushioned her fall and was on top of her in an instant, his mouth on her throat, his hands busy at her blouse.
She shrieked in anger and dismay, raining blows on his shoulders, his chest, his face, and he took them all without being deterred from his task. She heard a rending tear as he ripped her blouse away, tugged at her bra. . . then felt the shock of it to her toes as his warm mouth closed over her nipple.
After reading this particular scene, I felt the guilt of it to my toes. Rape is not sexy. It’s not romantic. It has absolutely nothing to do with love. So how could I possibly enjoy reading this . . . this. . .titillating? erotic?. . . revolting stuff.
Oh, the horror of it. I actually like reading about rape. I wonder if I should start reading S&M? What kind of person am I?
In a panic I phoned my sister and blurted out the whole story.
“I am so happy," my sister said, "I'd always thought I was the only one!”
Romance novels are about fantasy. In the pages of a romance novel you can safely cut the corset strings, step out of reality and into whatever fantasy world you want. Anything at all. Even rape. If that’s your cup of tea.
But rape’s not my scene. My sister wants you to know that it’s not her scene either.
I’ve been there, done that and I didn’t like it. I really, really didn’t like it. For me the fantasies in the old bodice rippers and the modern paranormals have nothing to do with the violence and degradation of rape. It has everything to do with being a good girl.
In real life my morals, values and the roles I choose to play compel me to conform to the image I have created. Christian. Mother. Wife. Good girl. In real life, sex with a stranger in an elevator won’t happen. Not to me. Not by choice. Never. Not ever. Okay? Maybe if God Himself didn’t know . . .no. In real life it would always, always be a firm no. It’s who I believe I am.
In a bodice ripper fantasy I get to stay in character, a good girl, while my naughty side is projected on to the hero. As long as I’m the heroine in this particular jaunt, I am free from the guilt of choosing to “soil my innocence.” The big, bad hero shoulders all responsibility. I will still be a good girl in the morning.
It’s like being on a diet. You crave, but you can’t have. You dream of finding yourself alone with a huge box of Godiva chocolates or a mountain of (insert food of choice.) Aah, a plate of prawns, dripping garlic butter and glistening in the candlelight.
Suddenly the oh, so bad hero appears, pheromones shimmering like an asphalt road on a midsummer’s day. He is sinfully sexy. Darkly dangerous. His goal? He will make you eat those melt in the mouth pink, garlic smothered critters.
You put the back of your limp wrist against your forehead, one eye firmly fixed on the food, and whisper, “No. Really. I can’t. Stop.”
In a bodice ripper, the hero isn’t doing anything against my will. In fact, if he tries to stop I’ll probably knee him in the ‘nads.
But for you a fantasy like that might very well be about dominance, shame, degradation, martyrdom or whatever lurks in your dreams and nightmares. You might hate it. You might drown in guilt. Or not. That would depend on the world inside your head. On the baggage you carry with you. On the choices you make. On the person you believe you are.
Psych 101 tells us that most rapes are about power. Not about sex. A rapist feeds on his victim’s pain, fear and shame. This gives him power, a power he does not have in life. He needs to act out his fantasy in order to be powerful. To be someone.
A romance novel, which is per definition about love, all kinds of love, will not turn a man into a rapist anymore than Nigella Cooks will turn you obese just by reading it. No story can create a fantasy if the ground is fallow.
But if the seeds are there, and the rapist chooses to water them, he will rape. No matter what everyone else says or writes or doesn’t say or refuse to write. He will find a way. Because that is his choice.
For another take on the subject, go here. For a list of books with this theme, go here.
