Couples bang the babysitter 2 scene 31/31/2024 ![]() ![]() We’re not reinventing the sexual wheel here. Most of the books I have read have featured heterosexual romance – I did read one male-on-male romance that I liked, but didn’t love (I am here for titillation, after all, otherwise I’d be reading through all of the worthy tomes I have on my bookshelves) – and the vast majority of them have focused on monogamous, pretty vanilla intercourse. There is a beginning: couple meets, they have incredible sexual chemistry, they do the deed, they fall in love (sometimes with both parties being entirely in denial about this simple fact), there is always – always – a reason they cannot be together, and then, miraculously, they manage to figure it all out and be together anyway. There are grumpy mountain men aplenty, 20-something virgins everywhere you look, washboard abs to beat the band, and frustrated men whose jeans are, quite frankly, too tight to accommodate their enormous penises. I rate them in terms of how much I enjoyed them how late I stayed up to read them (the record for last year, by the way, is held by Emily Henry’s Happy Place, which kept me up past 3am, something I will never forgive her for) how satisfied I was by the ending and also, erm, the endings throughout, if you get my drift how quickly I rushed to download the next in the series, or to continue reading through that particular author’s back catalogue.Īnd listen: smutty romance books are tropey as fuck. So, when I read these books, I don’t rate them by the same metric as I would rate, say, Prophet Song or The Color Purple or even Fourth Wing, although I suspect the venn diagram of smut fans and Fourth Wing fans is almost a perfect circle. ![]() (When I say “bestselling”, by the way, I mean incredibly, majorly, top-of-her-game style bestselling the first of her Knockemout series, Things We Never Got Over, has 168,000 ratings on Amazon.) That is to say, the 60-something Bob Dylan fan who’s been working at that once-indie music magazine is not exactly Taylor Swift’s target demographic (not to bring her into it again), much as the highly esteemed literary critic of, say, the Financial Times is not exactly who Lucy Score has in mind when she writes her bestselling books. I’ve long thought that books, films, music, theatre, musical theatre… (the list goes on) should be reviewed only by their target audiences. (It feels a bit like, in 2023 – and 2024, too, so far, anyway – all roads lead back to Taylor, whether those roads are paved with footballs or with smutty small-town romances.) I read about feuding mafia families small-town romances grumpy men who live in the mountains (they always live in the mountains, those grumpy, bearded men who have never seen the inside of a gym but are pure muscle anyway) sexy, horny ice hockey players (why? I do not know) BDSM almost-incest (they’re just step siblings so it doesn’t count) and fake dating… and finished, unbelievably, but also inevitably with an incredibly steamy Taylor Swift fan fiction in which each chapter was titled after one of her songs. ![]()
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