This won't hurt a bit...

I recently read a piece discussing the thing(s) in your possession that you fear might be uncovered and exposed in the event of your sudden and unexpected passing/abduction or unanticipated abscond-ment from general life. In any case, I didn't have to search my mental inventory for all that long to identify the item(s) that make me red in the face when the thought of their discovery crossed my mind.

Years ago a good friend of mine told me of "the box" in her.. well, hidden at her place.. it would be wrong of me to divulge its location.. that needed to be disposed of in case she made a hasty departure from her mortal coil. Specifically -- disposed of in a timely manner between the moment of her death and the arrival of her mellow dramatically grieving mother. Her best friend had been tapped as the primary remover in that case. In the event, however, that the primary were to be extinguished in the same proverbial POOF! or maybe was, I don't know, unavailable, I was to be the runner-up disposer. Maybe that meant I would be crossing crime tape or rummaging through the smoldering ashes, but I accepted the assignment and swore to hold off on my tears of grief until I had properly protected her mother from the secret contents of that shoebox.

I trust all of you dear readers not only imagine the contents of that box but likely have a similar. Don't we all. Mine, hers and yours all duly concealed at your individual locales and revealed to special someones and disposers. I'm all set, really. I sleep well at night knowing my secrets are safely out of sight and in the fact that my mother's prospective grief stricken state will significantly impair her ability to puzzle out the best spots for all that secret stuff.

No, no, what reddens my face is what I keep out in plain sight hoping that passers-by fail to notice it/them in the humdrum that are other home furnishings. So far, so good.

You see, back in the college days I had a girlfriend who I discovered on more than one occasion in the sultry company of a romance novel. Smut. Trash. I made the requisite remarks, asked if she was at that part of the book yet and generally made my best attempts to shame her for being on the cusp on adulthood with her head embedded in something either too young for her not yet a lonely housewife or too old for someone who had likely been past the teen aged mystery of 3rd base. And then she challenged me. She challenged me knowing that I can rarely resist a dare or a challenge (which has gotten me into more trouble than I can detail here.). She offered me the book and advised that rather than knock it, I ought to read one and then make all the jokes I wanted.

With eyes properly rolled, I accepted the book and later embedded myself in chapter 1. Then 2. Then 10. And then before I knew it, teary eyed, I turned the last page.

I read romance novels. And I like them. No, I love them.

In the few years after college, it was my prime reading material (which in hindsight is sad to say.. but yes). I found a small used book store in my old hometown that became my crack house of romance novels. I would slip into the parking lot praying to go unnoticed and with large sunglasses on, make my way into the store. There I could trade my castoffs for credits towards new, cheesy, completely unrealistic sex filled stories. The romance novel section was in a dark back room of the store and filled ceiling to romance-loving floor with the yellowed pages of used books. There I would spend hours nurturing my high by judging books by their Fabio-encrusted covers -- never, never making eye contact with anyone else there to slake their own romance novel thirsts. Then as quickly as I had skulked in, with my brown paper sack bulging appropriately with my newest fixes, I'd sneak back to my car and get home as quickly as I could to enjoy them in the privacy of my one bedroom apartment.

Now, before you go casting me into that stereotypical category of women who read romance novels, I need to tell you a few things. I was pretty selective, if that counts towards my now waning reputation in your eyes. Historical novels only, completely false or somewhat rooted in historical fact were my specialty. Anything with a pirate, clearly. Towards the end of my run I found the westerns intriguing. Modern romances did nothing for me -- while I could scoff at the lack of time it deftly, and it was always "deftly", took some roguish knight to locate a naked woman under her layers of period dresses, I found the jet setters and corporate millionaires far more unbelievable. Lets say I preferred my heroes to be aboard pirate ships or gallant steeds rather than convertibles.

And another thing. Though you may not believe me, I didn't ever read them as a typeset equivalent to the Playboy. Though the plot lines were skimpy, the settings were vivid, the characters defined and the story enveloping. And somehow, every time, I'd find myself having to put the book down so that I could heave a big girly sigh at that last paragraph. It is mindless reading and I could easily cover 100 pages in an hour. Beach reading, waiting at the dentist reading, cookies in the oven and waiting reading, something other than television reading.

In the last few years, I haven't touched a romance novel. Just before my big move to Northern Virginia, I visited my crack house one last time where I turned over close to 80% of my collection. I used the credits to buy real books. In the front of their store. Just before I left, I could hardly help myself -- and I threw a longing look and a whispered goodbye to that back room -- using all of my personal strength to not go in. Not at all unlike the strength of the heroines in the first few chapters of my books before they are breathless with need and cannot resist him, in like, chapter 5. I kept a few -- my most favorites. And they now sit, all together, by author, on my bookshelf.

No one noticed, and if they did, they said nothing. Said nothing like the characters of my books say nothing of their heart bending love for each other that causes all the ruckus of the plot line, until, like, the last chapter when they are both relieved that they've been hitting it but really, hitting it all along with love. *insert a big heaved girl sigh*

I've spent the last few years with my nose in books of every fashioning. After nursing school when my books didn't have to have bold face terms and glossaries anymore, I have covered a very wide variety of topics. Influenza epidemic of 1918, an array of Civil War topics, good solid well respected American literature, you know, the usual.

And then, one day last week as I perused my bookshelf for my newest read, I saw them staring at me. The back bindings of the books with the lusty covers. They looked sad and particularly dusty. I ran my finger along them amusingly trying to remember the general plot line for each.
Then I took one out. And I read the back. And before I knew it, I was sprawled on the couch flicking the lighter under the proverbial crack pipe of my romance novels.

It has been less than 7 days I am already through over 800 pages and countless intimacies. I'm on book #3, and I can't promise I'll be able to stop myself. I find myself planning a trip back to my old stomping grounds so that I could see, just see, if that old used bookstore is still open. You know, if they got anything new. I mean, I could just look, right?

So now you all know. I've cleared my heaving bosom of the shame. I feel better now that I've gotten it off my silky chest. This way, when I turn up missing or when the mourners stream through the house to pay their respects no one will be cattily whispering about my torrid romance novels and how they never knew.

And when you all are streaming through the house to pay your respects, don't even think about it. That box will already be gone.