Okay. I admit it. I love historical romances, steamy ones with tall alpha males and lusty, capable females, all in great period costumes, breaking with the conventions of their day to indulge their passions. In truth, I credit a rekindled interest in such paperback books with helping to revitalize my sleeping libido last year before I embraced my newfound kinky streak. I had started reading romances in hopes of escaping some of the stress in which I seemed to be mired. My blood pressure was causing me some grief and I wasn't sleeping well, so I turned to paper-based escapism.
I was surprised how much I enjoyed some of them. I quickly realized that some writers were racier than others and began leaning heavily toward the steamier selections. As much as I enjoy erotica, I have a soft spot for swashbuckling stories of buccaneers, aristocratic vampires and glittering soirees in exotic places, so I return again and again to historical romances. My favourite authors are gifted in their use of words and can weave description that sets my mind racing and my body blazing!
Now these are mainstream romances that can be bought at Wal-Mart and will garner no unusual attention. On my daily commute, my incessant reading has occasionally drawn snobbish stares by those who wouldn't be caught dead reading romances. They have no idea what they are missing.
Once in a while, one of the stories I read will have kinky overtones.