what genre discourse really needs is more dicks
I’ve been watching the criticism dujour about popular romance over the decades, and while the standard menu of complaints fluctuates in prominence with the political moment, the through line is eternal: someone always wants to tell Romancelandia what to do, and it’s never in the fun way. These days, town and gown and ghetto sit in unprecedented proximity on the bullet train of social media, rubbing shoulders with interlopers from Capitalist Greedshire, Virtue Signal Burgh, and Political Agenda Heights. The crusades have been going on since Alexander Pope figuratively pissed on Eliza Haywood while appropriating her successful methods. We had a brief reprieve in the 70s and 80s when journalists were too busy mocking romance to look under the glorious clinch covers, but our happy solitude was shattered once word got out there was gold in them there hills. It’s cool to read romance now! (Try explaining that to the poor nonplussed journalists who are still shell-shocked from discovering that hordes of horny young mothers and hornier middle-aged women read Fifty Shades of Gray.)
It wasn’t until the explosion of creative and inclusive sub-genres (plastic surgeons take note: there’s some promising ideas here if you want to pioneer a niche in phallic enhancements) that Romancelandia branched out from being mere anthropological curiosities to stormtroopers of morality; mobilized and deputized to patrol the cultural zeitgeist for dissenters. That was how I got flagged for discussing unapproved romance novels from the Index Librorum Romantica and sentenced to a training course before I could reapply for my license to fantasize. (Oh, the anthem the Beastie Boys could have written for us.) But in my defense, who can keep up with that thing? It seems like every time a woman has an unsafe thought, it gets added to the Index, it would be a full-time job to stay compliant. And it’s confusing; I feel like a good person, but all my favorite tropes have been prohibited. I hope the council will believe me when I say that I don’t want to be on the wrong side of regressive history. I keep trying to be a good girl, but it’s just so very hard.
As it happened, the stormtroopers proved not to be bellwethers of ethical leadership, and infighting got so bad that people were casting vicious accusations against their enemies just to get a leg up on promotion to the head office for The Central Authority of Romance Compliance. (CARC) Chaos reigned, and no one could tell who was thinking correctly anymore. So CARC took over governorship of Romancelandia out of concern for women and girls, and to prevent societal collapse. The one bright spot was getting assigned to Anthony Lane’s office. (I’m sure he regrets doing this favor for his cousin now.) He had agreed to take over the interim job of chief officer of literary and grammatical rehabilitation now that the council has film pretty well locked down. It’s all proscribed character-building violence over there and they’ve snuffed out any hint of eroticism or humor. I had hoped it was a good sign—he didn’t seem like a CARC man, more like a sexy disciplinarian. He’s such an icon, they gave him his own tag line: Anthony Lane: all your clauses are his now.
When I arrived that fateful day, his previous appointment was leaving his office, sobbing behind her grammar book as she passed me in the lobby. That wouldn’t be me. Ever the contrarian, I was oddly thrilled for our session; it was the end of the first two weeks, and he had promised to have me reeducated by now. But I hadn’t broken.
He looked irritable and rigid with tension, but not the kind I wanted to provoke. Well, who was I kidding? But nevertheless, we were two weeks into my rehabilitation program and no progress had been made. He waved an arm directing me to sit, I didn’t hesitate to follow that instruction. I had time to kill before the session started; he usually liked to stare at me for several minutes before speaking. Almost like he hoped I’d get on board before we had to begin, but eventually accepting that conversation was necessary.
“I’m afraid I must escalate your case,” he said, finally. “My current strategy clearly isn’t working, and I don’t want to waste your time or mine.” The ensuing silence swelled with British expectation. I had the feeling he was waiting for a point to sink in, but I didn’t have it. I wasn’t ready to ask what escalation meant, and much as I would have loved to help him out, and I was sure no one in this building wanted to know my thoughts on how to earn a license to fantasize. The silence stretched. He tapped his fingers on my folder, a metronome of disapproval.
I realized something about the case who just left. “Why was she wearing jeans? I thought that was forbidden for women again.”
“I told her to try Leví Struass,” he said tonelessly. “She went home to change.”
It wasn’t clear if his quiet disgust was for the girl or the jeans, it was difficult to picture him in anything but that habitual suit. There wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen anywhere on it. I wondered again if I could provoke a facial expression at least once before this ended. If it ever ends. I still had no idea how not to enjoy pleasure, and I was a poor candidate for rehabilitation – constitutionally unable to appreciate their authorized ladies’ hobbies. Sooner or later, they’d have to forget this dumb plan or kill me. It was obvious Anthony Lane didn’t want me in his office until the end of time either. That was disappointing, but it’s not like a true romance fan could find a fulfilling relationship at CARC headquarters anyway. The silence was making me feel things, so I started catching random thoughts and releasing them. I shifted in my chair, resisting the urge to fidgit.
“Do you roll out of bed already in your suit? Is that why you’re always so…starched? Is it waterproof?” I didn’t expect an answer, so I wasn’t disappointed when he simply moved to open my case file and started perusing it, as if it wasn’t already burned onto his brain.
Without looking up, he murmured, “I’m not going to be here forever, and it’s evident in your case this will take at least that long, so I’m going to offer you a concession. Admit you were wrong about the English Patient, watch it again, and turn in a grammatically pristine report. Then I’ll sign off that you completed the program.”
I legitimately gasped. He must really be at the end of his rope to bring up that unfortunate lapse in his judgement. But wait a minute.
“What? You mean this was an option all along? I didn’t know you had that kind of authority around here. We’ll get back to that in a minute – but unfortunately, I’m going to have to decline because The English Patient is a shitty movie. He’s a traitor!” The film was so insufferable, there was still an ongoing Reddit grievance thread about it. “Also, stupid – any cartographer worth his salt should know leaving her in a cave wouldn’t end well. Everyone in that movie is an asshole, except the poor bomb diffuser guy. I’m with Elaine on this. Maybe if he had stayed to die with her, I’d reconsider, but he didn’t. Pick something else – that’s a deal breaker.”
“I’m sure it’s a hard film to appreciate when your literacy level is polyamorous dragon men and bodice ripping buccaneers, but the effort will be good for you.”
“Watching paint dry is hard to appreciate. That movie is actual torture.” I leaned forward to gaze up at him, my mouth twisted into a pouty moue and voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “Pretty please, offer something else?”
He sobered, his eyes flicking over me for a brief second before returning to my face. “This isn’t really a laughing matter, you know, there’s only so much I can do. The council –”
“Did I ever tell you about how psycho my father was about his car? He was such a pacifist, except if he got in his car and the seat wasn’t in the right place. Then he turned into, like, Raging Bull. I had to sit through a whole ceremony about the proper procedure for returning it before he gave me the keys the first time. Once, I didn’t do it. He didn’t realize it until he sat down and put the key in the ignition. Then he froze and snapped, “Jesus Christ, Pammy, you drive with your snatch.”
Lane’s lips twitched, resisting a full-blown smile before settling into a hard line. “That explains a lot,” he said dryly. “Then it looks like you’re in a pickle, Pammy. That’s the offer.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking down at the floor. An Oxford smirk played on his lips, silently telling me he’s in charge and I’ll have to accept it.
The smugness. It sent a shiver of contradiction down my spine: anticipation, excitement, resentment. It was the latter that gave me courage. He thinks he’s in charge. CARC thinks they’re in charge. We’ll see about that. Realistically, though, if we must be ruled by patriarchy, someone with the unbearable hotness of an arrogant professor, like Anthony (the h is silent) Lane, would be a vast improvement over the current status quo.
I pushed up from the chair, sidling closer. “Counteroffer,” I purred, trailing a finger down his lapel. “You could bend me over your desk and ‘escalate’ the old-fashioned way.”
Lane stared into the horizon over my shoulder, stiffer than normal, if that was possible, except for a little tick in his jaw. My confidence stumbled. I don’t know what I expected him to do, but it wasn’t this. After a couple of beats with his hands still in his pockets, I thought I must have misread him. The thing to do when your cheeks flush with embarrassment is to pretend it’s anger, so I shifted back with a shrug. “Unless you’re afraid to be dragged to Krantzland,” I sneered as I turned back to my seat.
His arms shot out to catch me by the shoulders, spinning me around and bending me over the desk before I could react.
“Have it your way, Pammy.” He growled.
“Stop calling me that.”
“Pick a safeword.”
“Moist.”
He tisked as his hands left my hips where they had been holding me down. “Now we have to start over.”
When he took off his suit jacket, I knew I was in trouble. Finally. “Oh. You’re serious.” I said, feigning breezy indifference. “Then I don’t need a safeword, I trust you.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect.”
This was not fair. He’s got to have a facial expression now and I can’t see it while I’m bent over his desk. Meanwhile, my voice was getting breathy, and I couldn’t make my legs stop shaking. “Anyhow, you must know that ‘romance rehab’ means something different outside of the panopticon…Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re giving me the unauthorized version.”
“You have a perverse idea of self-preservation,” he hissed. “And you shouldn’t trust me.” We really weren’t that well acquainted for trust on either side, but it felt like I could, even if all of this was pointless. My heart raced at the unmistakable sound of his belt sliding out of the loops, the sound of a snap shocking the air. Then…nothing. We were frozen in a tableau at the edge of a line. Was that it? Was all of this just to mock me? It was in that nervous silence while I considered what to do that I noticed how warm his hand was on my skin, and that it was still there.
“What are you gonna do now?” I dared him to end this somehow. “Read to me from the approved list? Did you help choose the riveting content? Maybe something from the patriarchy 2.0 conduct manual? Or the novella about the asexual florist who’s in a non-sexual cohabitation agreement with a non-binary barista.” It was funny how I could feel his mind churning behind me without the benefit of sight or hearing. But he didn’t speak, so I continued. “Their ‘inclusive HEA’ is the barista dying of cancer and the florist finding fulfillment through celibate widowhood. The cover is two faceless cartoon blobs holding a plant! That’s not rom—”