Like many women, I admit, I’ve read my share (and then some) of the bodice-ripper books with titles like The Windswept Stranger. And I’ve decided that a good portion of my brain has melted because of it.
I’m not the only one who believes this. Nine out of 10 cowboy/neurologists say the area of the brain most affected by reading romance books is the REALITY lobe. It just doesn’t happen in real life like it happens in those stories.
Case in point: Today, I could’ve lived one of those cheesy fantasies, but reality intruded on what could’ve been an otherwise Days of Our Lives-ish romantic incident—or at least something that would’ve made a good Penthouse Forum story.
However, I’ve considered penning it as a horror short story. The encounter went something like this… A tall, dark, and handsome guy A f*cking waaaay hot new neighbor stopped by with a petition to allow jackhammering of his patio slab. He knocked. The door opened to reveal… Me, a smokingly beautiful, lingerie-clad vixen with flowing hair scented like erotic musk a chubby, make-up-less writer, hair in a sloppy bun, wearing a too-short ratty nightgown and Ugg boots.
The romantic part of the horror story never quite took off because the writer used the door as a shield to hide her aching loins and tell-tale signs of arousal translucent legs, granny panties, and perpetually diamond-tipped braless nipples. However, she was completely unable to figure out a way to drape her hand over her face to hide the volcanic zit on the bridge of her nose while still maintaining an engaging conversation that belied the mental images she conjured of wildly riding him like a Kentucky Derby winner while he lay stunned and mortified supine and smiling on her dining room table, tightly gripping her dimpled heart-shaped ass and calling out to the neighborhood in a throbbing release of utter adoration, “Oh YES! You are a Goddess!”
In reality, she snatched the pen, scribbled her signature on the clipboard, and bade him good luck with the petition because the surrounding neighbors are assholes that she wishes would die fiery and painful deaths in the pits of Hell. Then she closed the door.
The End.
The Break-Up Diet 