Of heaving breasts and manly chests

Sheridan felt his hand tighten on hers and sensed instinctively that strange expression of tenderness on his handsome face. Stephen bent his head and kissed her lips, and tried to tell her again what he felt, to explain that he never knew there were feelings like this, but the emotions were still too raw. All he could manage to say was, "Until you."

We call them romance novels.

Bodice-rippers. They’re the books with women pictured on the covers, with their triple-D cup breasts nearly popping out of their A-cup corsets while they languish in the arms of devastatingly handsome, muscle-bound men.

You wonder, out of all the books written, printed, and sold every day, millions of seemingly self-sufficient women choose to waste P356.29 on novels with titles ranging from Golden Barbarian to Captive Bride. They read about Ramon’s "soul-stirring kisses" and Meredith’s "heaving breasts," Jeffrey’s "manly stare" and Victoria’s "fearless allure."

It’s a clichéd formula, a tired old recipe designed to take women in. Gorgeous Heroine + Stunning Hero = Happily Ever After.

First there’s the "silver-haired heiress with eyes like amethysts." Enter Lancelot, with his "piercing emerald eyes" and "ruthless stare." Her "golden loveliness drives him mad with desire," drowns him in "the fierce, hot hunger of insatiable yearning," while his "scorching kisses ignite her very soul." Oh yeah – burn baby burn.

In three-fourths of the book they yearn and long and crave and lust and thirst and ache for each other. Somehow – God knows how – in the middle of all this lusting and yearning and thirsting and craving, he becomes conscious that there’s more to her than her "lush breasts and silky curves." She, on the other hand, realizes that "she has lost her heart to the man she never thought she’d love."

The conclusion: "In wordless surrender, they cast aside the shackles of doubt and distrust to unite forever in the searing promise of all-consuming love."

In simpler terms: "I love you,

Eve/Elizabeth/Roseleen/Cassandra/Juliette," Lance/Jared/Travis/Blade/Jonathan say, "with all my heart and soul. I love you more than gold/family/life itself."

It doesn’t matter how much women deny it. They can hide them under pillows or behind brown wrappers; they can scan them in secret or call them modern literature. Women will always read romance novels, men will always wonder why. They laugh and call the habit sappy and ridiculously sentimental.

Well boys, listen up.

In a world where most guys are gay, taken, or deluded dreamers who believe they should be taken, there’s little left for a girl to do but dream.

* * *

E-mail me at triciaevangelista@fastmail.fm