anti-gravity and feelin' good

Every Tuesday and Thursday I take an exercise class on my lunch hour - my company houses a gym in our office facility, so this is quite convenient. The class is called Triple G - Guns, Guts and Glutes. So you can surmise that we do a lot of arm exercises, a lot of ab exercises, and a lot of ass exercises (it was briefly called Triple A, for Arms, Abs and Ass, but the powers that be were worried someone might take offense. Yeah, I don't get it either).

Anyway, every Tuesday and Thursday I’m in the Triple G class sweating my curling, crunching, lunging self half to death. Really, I sweat more during this class then when I go horseback riding - hell, I sweat more than the horse! And in every class I do two things: 1) vow to catch our perky blond instructor in the parking lot unawares and show her just how much stronger this class has made me, and 2) I feel myself up.

I didn't set OUT to molest myself, you understand - it just sort of happened. See, during the crunching porting of class we're supposed to put our fingertips behind our ears, with elbows out, and crunch. Standard crunch position, right? Well, no matter how hard I try not to, I always end up yanking on my neck in that configuration. Which is not good, so rather than grab the back of my head I crunch with my hands down. And since the crunches are rendered less effective if one is reaching while crunching (and if I'm going to put myself through this hell I want the damn effect), I fold my hands across my upper chest to keep them from inadvertently adding momentum.

So there I am one day, hands folded across my chest, crunching away, and I noticed something - my boobs feel really...full. Like, awesomely full. I'm wearing a sports bra, of course, because gravity is wreaking enough havoc on the girls - I don't need to add to it by bouncing around like some kind of hippie. But instead of squishing everything flat, as most sports bras do, this bra seems to squish everything from the side. And this combined with the crunching motion – the muscles in my upper chest and abs tightening as I curl up - is doing something that all my other sports bras have never done; giving me both superior support and superior cleavage.

I just have to tell y'all...that makes me so happy. I hardly even notice the crunching anymore, I’m so busy marveling at how fantastic my boobs feel in this bra. They feel tight and firm and YOUNG and not at all like they feel when I’m lying on my back without this bra on (did I mention gravity is not kind?). And every once in a while I sneak a peek down at them while crunching away, because they look as awesome as they feel.

Yeah, it’s a little weird. But hey, nobody else is appreciating them in this state, so I might as well!

single minded or obsessive?

It has been suggested to me that I might be slightly obsessive. I don't actually come off that way in every day life, but after people hear this story...well, obsessive is the word most often used (personally I like "determined", but whatever). I call it the "God Doesn't Get To Win" story.

A few years back Christine and I were in New York for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. We'd never been and thought it will be really fun, so I'd flown up for a long weekend and we spent two days at Madison Square Garden taking in all the dog show madness, and it was great. One of the great things for me, though, was the food.

Okay, here's a little secret about me: I really love arena food. Nachos, popcorn, cotton candy, ice cream, etc., all the badly made, over salted over sugared stuff you get at any major sporting event is better to me than anything available at a five star restaurant (except maybe champagne). And Madison Square Garden had GREAT arena food - the nachos were just how I like them (no real cheese, just cheese colored sauce drowning really salty chips), and they had AMAZING peanut oil fries. Seriously, just ask Christine, they were the shit.

Anyway, as in any other sporting event you could either go to the concession stand for these delightful treats, or wait for one of the roving waiters to come your way. Mostly I'd go to the concession stand when I got the urge for a snack, but the rovers were peddling one thing I wanted - a Häagen-Dazs bar.

I'd been watching the ice cream peddlers make the rounds for a day and a half, and I'd decided I was going to have an ice cream bar towards the end of the night on day two. I'd been resisting the whole time, saving that creamy vanilla covered in chocolate delight for the grand finale of my two day arena food binge. But when I decided the time was right, suddenly none of the rovers were roving my way.

Time after time I'd watch them get one or two sections away, then go back in the other direction. Then they'd come from the other direction, get one section away....then go back! I was twitching in my seat, practically vibrating with irritation, and every time one of them veered off in another direction...well, let's just say I was getting annoyed.

Christine was fairly amused by all this, and after the fourth or fifth time this happened, she put a consoling hand on my arm and a chiding expression on her face. "Maybe," she said to me in a voice that almost managed to be serious, "God doesn't want you to have an ice cream bar."

Well, fuck that noise.

I sucked in some air, stood up, and through clenched teeth declared, "God doesn't get to win!" Then I chased the Häagen-Dazs lady down three sections over and got my ice cream bar.

It was the best ice cream bar I've ever had.

That never happens!

My boyfriend and I have this little game we play. Well, it’s not really a game, since we don’t keep score and there’s no winner. So maybe it’s more accurate to say my boyfriend and I have a thing we do, and we call it That Never Happens In A Romance Novel.

Here's how it started: a while back we were having sex, and things were hot and sweaty and progressing very nicely, when all of the sudden I got a hip cramp. Like, a big one, and it hurt a lot, so my chant of “ooh yes baby” turned into “ow, shit, get off me!”, and my hands, which had been clinging to his shoulders, suddenly pushed him away. Caught off guard, he went flying backwards – off the bed and into the nightstand.

So the sexy times had to stop for a bit – for me to stretch the cramp out of my hip, and for him to put everything back on the nightstand. And I remarked as I watched him put a new light bulb in the now slightly bent lamp, “You know, stuff like this never happens in a romance novel.”

So that’s how it started, and now it’s like a game – or rather, a thing – where we try to point out the million little things that happen in real life relationships that never or rarely seem to make it into a romance novel. For instance:

• Instead of cuddling up and going right to sleep after sex, having to get up to pee lest you get a UTI – or sometimes because you just have to pee.
  
  
• The need for a towel. Mind you, this is only necessary if condoms aren’t involved, and thankfully most romance novels portray characters practicing safe sex…but still, in real life, there are wet spots, people!
  
  
• When the woman is on top and leans down to kiss her guy, and instead gets a mouth full of her own hair.
  
  
• And speaking of hair, I have two words for you - fuck hair.
  
  
• Lost orgasm – you know what I mean, when you’re on the right path and you think you’re almost there, it’s close enough you can almost reach out and grab it, and then….gone. And you try to, but you just can’t get it back.
  
  
• Being too tired for sex.
  
  
• Forgetting to shave your legs or underarms so you come to bed fuzzy and/or bristly – I swear, every woman has done this at least once.
  
  
• Yeast infections!

And I’m sure there are a million more.

Now, as a writer and a reader, I certainly understand that some things are just a little too real - like farting. I really don't ever want to be reading a sex scene and run across something like this:

Suddenly, a sound rent the air, and Miriam was jolted out of her blissful haze. There was a grimace on Jeff's face, his cheeks growing ruddy with embarrassment, and she realized what had happened.

He avoided her gaze, never pausing in his thrusting, obviously hoping the gaff would go unnoticed. But a moment later, as a fetid stench filled the room, they both realized that would be impossible.

That, boys and girls, just ain't sexy. And while romance novel sex can be a lot of things - funny, sweet, loving, intense, dramatic, silly - it should always be sexy.

But I do like a certain amount of reality in my books – the ones I read and the ones I write. I like to see the characters as real people. I want them to have flaws, and quirks, to bicker and be unreasonable. That's what makes them real to me, and what makes the story interesting. You can have the greatest sex scene ever written, but I'm not interested in the people who are having it, it might as well be a copy of Penthouse Letters - after the scene is over, I'm not going to care much what happens.

So I always try to inject a little reality into the fictional relationships I craft - I think it adds dimension to the characters, and by extension the story. But I don’t think I’ll give any of my characters a yeast infection. That might be a bit too much reality, even for me.

~ Have something to add to the list of things That Never Happen In A Romance Novel? Leave a comment!~

What's In A Name?

What on earth or all the exoplanets made you call your blog about being romance novelists something as ridiculous as Sweet Savage Thighs?

Well, my friends, despite popular opinion there was indeed a method to this madness.

I was raised--and genetically predisposed--to become an avid reader. I started before I entered kindergarten (or maybe even before nursery school) and had made my way through The Lord of the Rings, the Encyclopedia Brown books, the entire Anne of Green Gables series (the original series), and Gone with the Wind by the time I entered fifth grade. Coincidentally, around that time my mother had a semi-serious illness that kept her from being very active for at least a couple of weeks, and one of her considerate friends brought her a bag of books in order to stave off boredom. Since my mom was a much slower (and pickier) reader than I was, I naturally decided to look through the selection in the bag to see if there might be anything that interested me. Pawing through the paperbacks, I came up with 2 volumes of a sort I'd never seen before: romance novels! One was an old Harlequin Presents title by Carole Mortimer, and the other was a historical set in medieval Scotland by an author I can no longer remember. Intrigued, I snagged the two books and began to read.

It was the beginning of the end.

Someday I may relate the entire story of my early days as an addict (Hello, my name is Christine, and I'm a romance-aholic...), but for now, suffice it to say that I have continued to gobble up romance novels from series contemporary to historical to paranormal and regency right up until this very day. Naturally, this involved spending lots and lots of time in bookstores, often with my dear high school friend.

Anyway, one evening after dinner, my friend and I were strolling through the aisle between the sci-fi/fantasy and romance sections of our neighborood big-box bookstore, and I was alternately looking back and forth at the shelves and perusing the books of both enjoyable genres. At the time, the American Western historical romance was a bit more prominent than it is today and several novels of that sub-genre had been faced out on the romance shelves. My eyes drifted over titles and cover art featuring passionate clinches, long and wind-swept hair styles (occasionally with the hero's and heroine's hair somehow swept by winds moving in opposite directions), loincloths, leather, and ruffled skirts. Then, without warning, I burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" my friend demanded.

I blinked, looked at the shelf again, and shook my head. "Nothing, really. I just glanced over from the fantasy shelf, and I saw that book out of the corner of my eye."

I pointed to the novel in question, something with a title intended to help the reader identify it as one involving a young, blonde, innocent heroine who is kidnapped and falls in love with her strong, noble, vigorous, and tender Native American captor.

My friend shrugged. "What about it? It doesn't look funny to me."

"Oh, it's not, but I thought the title was Savage Thighs, and I thought, you know, that was getting right to the point."

So, from that moment on, Savage Thighs became my default fictional romance title of reference. After I told the story of it to Hannah, she agreed that it would make a grand blog title, especially enhanced with the addition of the "Sweet" in front.

This is not to suggest that I (nor Hannah, for that matter) find romance novels ridiculous or cliched or an object of comtempt. I LOVE romances. Heck, I make my living writing them! But one of the few rules in life that I try to never break is to always be able to poke fun at the things I love, including myself. It seems to me that whenever we begin to take a subject too seriously, we take all the joy out of whatever it was that used to make us so happy.

So for pete's sake, LAUGH! It's the second most important thing you can ever do in this world. The first, of course, being to LOVE.