You know, when erotica is available as a mass market paperback,
displayed on the shelves of my neighborhood grocer, we've
reached some sort of watershed in this country.
Whether it's a continuing slide into a nadir of literary standards
or an opening of tolerance of expression, I can't say.
Years ago, I always felt a bit embarrassed when I
entered a local used book store. One entire wall was covered
by romance novels with pale pink spines. Since women generally
prefer to visualize their erotica rather than actually see it, those
books were/are the woman's equivalent of
men's pornographic videos.
However, one man I knew read the books for amusement
(he said). Secretly, though, he imagined himself in the role
of rescuing hero, the prince whose "sword of
hardened steel" left his lady in a dazed swoon,
grateful for his attentions.
I wonder how many of those books are actually written by men?