Category Archives: Whoops, this is your romance

Real by Katy Evans

Once again I’m left wondering if I somehow managed to read an entirely different book than everyone else. I don’t get it. I mean, what the fuck is this book? Is it for real? It can’t be for real. Is it Beautiful Disaster fan fiction? It sure reads like it: poorly written story about an underground fighter who is god’s gift to women, quickly becomes unhealthily obsessed with speshul snowflake heroine and throws a fit or twelve. Except this time Bipolar Disorder serves to excuse the distasteful Alpha behavior and up the stakes. And remember how everyone wondered how Travis could stay so in shape when he never worked out? Well, THIS GUY works out for NINE HOURS AT A TIME. So he earned that EIGHT PACK, okay?!

Oh, Brother.

I’m trying to think of a single thing that I didn’t completely loathe about this book and am coming up short. There is nothing remotely good, nothing remotely sexy, nothing remotely REAL about Real. Reality has no place in that world. Like the so-called sexual tension that everyone is raving about? Off the charts stupid. Who even acts like that? From the moment Brooke and Remington meet, they’re just doing THE MOST. This is what happens, basically:

Brooke: I can’t believe you dragged me to this underground fight to see some guy you want to bone, Melanie.
Melanie: I’m such a whore!
Brooke: Everyone is a whore except me.
Melanie: I know! You’re so classy in your frilly collared shirt and perfectly presentable high-waisted pants! I’m nothing compared to you!
Brooke: Cool. That’s what I was going for.
Melanie: Look, there he is!
Brooke’s vagina: Oh, CLENCH!
Remington Remy Riptide RIP Tate: *looks*
Brooke: Yep. ME.
Brooke’s vagina: Sloppy wet clenchity CLENCH!
Remington’s Eyes: Glimmering amusement. Warm, unbearably intimate things.
Remington’s Eyes: Lust. Want. Need. Claim Mate.
Melanie: Good thing your OCD makes you much too classy to hit that.
Brooke: You’re a slut, Melanie! I’m leaving!
Remington: Psh, TOTAL K.O. Gotta go see about a girl.
Brooke: Who’s sniffing me?
Remington: *growls* NAME.
Brooke’s vagina: SPLOOGE. CLENCH. SPASM.
Melanie: Her name is Brooke Dumbass Dumas! Here is her phone number! I’m really invested!
Remington: *marks her while panting and growling and sniffing* You Brooke. Me Remington. Bye.

This is the entire BOOK. They hardly ever spend any time apart and so it’s scene after scene of him speaking in this husky, thick, hoarse, rough, guttural voice (lust!) and wearing low-slung sweatpants while she rubs his anterior deltoid or whatever, girl parts clenching (71 mentions of clenching in this book! SEVENTY ONE!). Or they’d be telling each other secrets with their eyes while they play each other songs that have Deep Lyrics that are Hella Trite (songs like Iris and Anyway You Want It? What? First of all, STOP. Second, who are these 24 year olds? They never listen to anything from the past decade!). Remington pants and salivates in her presence, and is always smelling her and his friends tell her how wild she makes him, prostitutes tell her how they’re really bad at their jobs because they can’t even get him hard because his dick only responds to HER now, he saved her from an egging and carried her off to loving nurse her “wounds”, he gets his fans to buy her red roses (GAH), and STILL she whines about how he doesn’t like her afterwards and how maybe she’s fat. GTFO. WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED?

Brooke: “Am I pretty?”
Everyone: YES!!

All of the secondary characters serve as foils for Brooke and Remington. The women are constantly re-affirming how classy and beautiful and smart Brooke is by giving her approving looks and constant compliments. They’re all described as sluts or whores except for one or two. No man is as big and muscular and hot and desirable as Remington. None of the fighters he goes up against, and certainly not any of his friends. Like Pete, Remy’s soul brother personal assistant.

“Do you have any brothers, Pedro?”
My eyes widen and I can’t believe this little guy is going to surprise me again. “He’s your actual brother?”
“Not blood brother, hell, we don’t look anything alike! I’m like a book and Rem’s a bull! I don’t have blood brothers … my soul brother is Rem.”

MY eyes widened when I read the words “little guy”. Seriously? Why was that even necessary? I could’ve sworn he was described as tall initially. But OF COURSE Remington dwarfs him. And then, because everyone has to bow down, Pete has to chime in and talk down about himself? What?! He’s a…book? I don’t even understand what that means, to tell you the truth.

I’m so tired of these books that are nothing more than ruminating on how HAWT SAUCE the hero is. And it’s like every book tries to one-up the one before it. Oh, that guy was sexually abused? Well, if you think that’s sexy and tragic, wait until you see THIS guy! He’s BIPOLAR! Just line after line and page after page of descriptions of how mind-blowing his eye color, physique, penis, facial hair, cheekbones, etc, are. The guy can’t just be hot. He has to be SCORCHING. Every woman must melt at the sight of him, their panties sliding to the floor. None of these men have personalities, by the way. Everything is so centered on how good-looking they are and how fucking virile they are. Men want to be them, women want to be with them. Not a moment goes by that their magnificence isn’t remarked upon, it’s so draining. SO DRAINING.

So Remington’s a bull, eh? Well, now he’s a LION:

The man eats for three fully grown, hungry lions.

He has a blast up on the ring, and makes it appear like he’s a lion, and his opponent a mouse, and he’s just playing with it.

He scents the back of my ear. Then I feel his hand, scraping down my hair, softly petting me. His tongue follows, lightly lapping the place on my neck he bit in the shower. He drags it along the curve of my shoulders, my ear, awakening every inch of my skin. I feel like he’s a lazy lion, bathing me with his tongue, licking and nuzzling me.

Lions ain’t shit. Guy eats for THREE OF ‘EM. Take that! Seriously, why is this dude constantly smelling and licking her and saying things like, “You’re my mate and I claim you.” WHAT IS HAPPENING?! Not cute. I’m sorry, did I not notice that I was reading a paranormal romance? Is Remington Tate a fucking werelion? It sure would explain his constantly changing eye color which is supposedly because he’s Bipolar? Nope. You’re dumb. The way that mental illness was fetishized in this book was so disturbing. Absolutely shameful.

I’m not even going to get into the dwama with her baby sister and Remington’s foe, Scorpion (check my updates).
Or how horribly parents are depicted in this book.
Or the incredibly dumb ending that involves Remington in a hospital bed and Brooke writing him a sappy letter, telling him that she’ll alway think of him when she hears the song Iris.
And WHO edited this thing?

I’m gonna stop typing now because there’s just too much. Too much to talk about.

I’ll just leave you with this song:


Every guy here’d love to be you, Riptide
Even when taking your lumps
There’s no man in town as admired as you
You’re everyone’s favorite guy
Everyone’s awed and inspired by you
And it’s not very hard to see why

No one’s slick as Riptide
No one’s quick as Riptide
No one’s neck’s as incredibly thick as Riptide’s
For there’s no man in town half as manly
Perfect, a pure paragon!
You can ask any Pete, Coach or Riley
And they’ll tell you whose team they prefer to be on

No one fights like Riptide
Douses lights like Riptide
In a boxing match nobody bites like Riptide!
For there’s no one as burly and brawny
As you see he’s got biceps to spare
Not a bit of him’s scraggly or scrawny
That’s right! And every last inch of his face is full of hair!

-2409840938204320943423409832048320480932840932840932840932009228304928320943209840932840932840932093284320984098320932840932 stars

P.S. SRSLY, THIS IS THE WORST BOOK I HAVE EVER READ. It’s so offensive! I judge everyone who likes this, not even going to lie. SORRY I’M NOT SORRY.

Whoops, that’s your romance: Motorcycle Man

I recently purchased a train wreck of a book that I’ve been hearing rave reviews about all over our great internets. That book is called Motorcycle Man. A lot of readers compared the book to crack or Pringles, a guilty pleasure that is highly addictive. It was $2.99 so I figured, what the hell?

I want my three dollars back.

Motorcycle Man is a Sons of Anarchy fanfic  a story about Tack and Tyra, two boneheads who fall in love. Tyra’s all: “OMG UR GOATEE IS SO KICKASS THA BOMB DIGGITY.” And Tack is all, “IMA CALL U RED CUZ YOUR HAIR IS RED NOT LIKE SUN OR DARK.”

Clearly they’re a match made in heaven.

Dear Tack: Calling blondes “sun” is real dumb, son. Knock it off.

Tack was christened Tack because he is supposedly “sharp as a” but bitch, please. Dumb as a Rock, more like. Dude is always trying to lay all of this knowledge on Tyra, and it’s just a stream of dropped g’s and f bombs and a whole bunch of zzzz’s. I’m like: is this guy seriously talking just to hear himself talk? What the hell is he even talking ABOUT? I’m pretty sure he’s brain damaged. And I look over at Tyra and she’s just FLOORED by his garbled monologue. And THE REPETITION! Tack’s goatee will growl, whisper, and growl again the same question “WHAT WERE YOU FUCKING THINKING?” and Tyra will shriek, whisper, and shriek again her non-answer, something like: “MY FOOT IS ASLEEP!” and shit goes on for AGES. And there’s some muttering and growling about drugs and the Russian Mob (who kidnap Tyra twice)? Do I have to mention that everything in this book is told and not shown? Nope. Shouldn’t have to. It’s all very: Then stuff happened, randomly.

Don’t even get me started on him talking about Tyra’s “soft spot” and “greedy pussy”.  Ew. Ew Ew Ew EW!

But oh! These two are in luuuurve because suddenly Tyra can see colors now. Literally. It turns out oranges are orange! Cool! Dear Tyra: when people say that they lived in black and white until something/someone came into their lives, honeybabydarlin, that’s just called A FIGURE OF SPEECH. If you truly cannot see color you should go see an eye doctor.

And “You colored my world!”  is just one example of the many, many trite, cliché, HELLA CORNY expressions that run rampant in this book.  Most are of the rapist, abusive manipulator variety.

This happened, basically:

“Baby, I like wrapping my hands around your throat so that I can feel your sweet pulse and know you’re alive.”

“But it makes me uncomfortable.”

“I get that, since I’ve been known to choke a bitch. But you’re my woman MINE and I do what I want with my women. If you don’t want me to hold you by your throat when we’re casually talkin’ you’ll have to get used to talkin’ this way ‘cuz I’ll still do it ‘cuz you gotta understand Chaos and our way of life ‘cuz I do what I wanna do ‘cuz I’m the man and you’re the woman. I’ll give you whatever you want except whens I don’t want what you want and this time I don’t want what you want. You gotta understand who the man is in the relationship and it’s me ‘cuz I have a cock and you suck it. ”

Oh God. Did he just say that? He did just say that! He. Is. Awesome!

“Okay.” I whispered.

This is a very, very badly written book in which every single character is an ignorant moron who is violently melodramatic. I can’t.

And people are RECOMMENDING this garbage. Whoops!

Tagged ,

I’ll be in my bunk

You know what makes a good romance for me? Pain, and lots of it.

I’m all about the Power of Love bringing people to their knees. When it hurts so good? I AM A HAPPY CAMPER.
Okay, I think that was enough clichés to last a lifetime.
But I’m mostly serious.

I’m not so much a fan of literal pain, although Laura Kinsale’s Shadowheart rocked my socks off.

“Tell me what you wish.” he murmured.

A deep thrill of excitement sank down through her. “You know what I wish. Do you know it?” It was half a question, half a cry.

His lips parted. She saw his chest rise and fall. “Tell me.”

“To give you hurt again!” she exclaimed, with a tinge of panic. “God save me.”

He made a sound like a muted growl. “Hurt me, then.”

She was panting. She turned away, in recoil from her own self. “Nay,” she breathed.

“I want it,” he whispered. “I have lived in dream of it for days.”

“Allegretto,” she said, closing her eyes.

The water swirled as he moved. “It is so sweet to hear you say my name.”

Oh, sex scenes. I love them. LOVE them. I’ve always been surprised when I read about people skipping them because the hell? Bring it ON. Bring on the licking and the nipping and the laving and the sucking and the …well, the fucking.

That’s what it’s all been leading up to, right?

Lately though, I feel like I’ve been reading the same scene over and over again. It’s like all of the heroes and heroines in Romancelandia are following the same script.

Her: HOLY CRAP will it fit?

Him: You’re so tight.

Her: You’re so big!!

Him: You’re so wet.

Her: Please!

Him: Please what?

Her: Please!

Him: Please what?

Her: *eyes narrowed* Please.

Him: *hammers into her* Come for me.

Her: *immediate orgasm*


I will not be in my bunk.

Lately I’ve been reading Kristan Higgins’ entire backlist, and have been THOROUGHLY enjoying them. This is kind of crazy because there are zero sex scenes in her books. ZERO. Zilch. At first I couldn’t wrap my head around the whole “She took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. The next morning…”

Me: “Wait a second. Hol’ up. Don’t leave me hanging like this!”

But they’re extremely satisfying. I like not knowing what the hero’s penis looks like or if the heroine has been doing her kegels like a good girl. I like seeing the two leads actually, ya know, get to know each other and witness the first falling in love moments. The heroes aren’t constantly strutting around like roosters and the women are actually nice people who I’d possibly like to hang out with! And there’s a good amount of WE CAN’T BE TOGETHER WAAAAAH pain too – *fist pump*. But what’s even more awesome is that the heroine is resolved to make a go at it alone in the end WITHOUT THE HERO IF NECESSARY.

Now that’s love.



P.S. I still love sex scenes.