Contemporary Erotic Romance: Cunning Linguists or Fifty Shades of Feminist Dismay?

Contemporary Erotic Romance: Cunning Linguists or Fifty Shades of Feminist Dismay?

New Birmingham Review: Dissertation Special Edition 2015

Natasha Turner

A dissertation submitted to the Department of English at the University of Birmingham, in partial fulfilment of a Degree in BA (Hons) Philosophy and English

Literature.

Supervised by: Dr Zara Dinnen Word Count: 5, 101

The New Birmingham Review, Vol. 1, No. 2, 2015, pp

Page 2 of 16 Word Count: 5,101

Table of Contents

Introduction ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….…3 Marketable heroines: Successful sales, reader communities, and escapist fantasy ..……….5

Empty heroines: An analysis of characterisation …………………………………………………………....8 Mindless heroines: An analysis of sex scenes …………………………………………………………….….12

Conclusion …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….15



Introduction

The opening lines of most contemporary critical theory on the erotic romance genre are about

as predictable as erotic romance texts themselves. Critics such as Jayne Ann Krentz (1992),

Sarah Wendell and Candy Tan (2009) inform us that the genre is scorned, misunderstood, and

that readers of the genre are made to feel ashamed (Krentz, 1992: 1). However, three years

after the release of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy1, when millions of women now

unashamedly access erotic romance on their Kindles, and popular titles make it into

mainstream bestseller lists, does this over-protective defence of the genre still hold true? With

more fame should come more responsibility; the genre needs to be brought up to date with

its new modern readers rather than continuing to justify its well-worn narratives as being

‘subversive’ and ‘empowering’ for women. Therefore, I return to a literary critique of the

genre, in particular the three texts, In Too Deep (2008) by Portia Da Costa, Seven Years to Sin

(2011[a])2 by Sylvia Day, and a collection of seventeen short stories edited by Kristina Wright

called Best Erotic Romance (2011), to show that for a genre that reflects shifts is social

discourses surrounding feminism and female sexuality (Sonnet, 1999, p.171), contemporary

erotic romance is behind the times when it comes to modern sex-positive feminism and

gender theory.

In Too Deep, Seven Years, and Best Erotic Romance, hold, amongst other honours,

places at the top of the New York Times, Sunday Times and Goodreads’ bestseller lists

respectively. Readers of erotica tend to read within their preferred publishing house (Radway,

1984: 49), but despite emerging from three wildly different publishing houses3, the texts’

appearance on bestseller lists illustrates their broad appeal and mass consumption. It is due

to their popularity that I have selected these primary texts. It should be noted however, that

my sample of texts is limited to white, heterosexual erotic romances. Heterosexual texts are

the most commonly produced within the genre (Wendell & Tan, 2009: 196). This in itself

presents issues with marginalised sexuality, the exploration of which is unfortunately outside

the scope of this essay. Therefore, I will be using a modern sex-positive feminist theory that

applies to heterosexuality, with which to repudiate the contemporary erotic romance genre’s

subversive nature.

The sex-positive feminist theory that I will be using to measure the contemporary

erotic romance genre’s ability to subvert gender inequality emerged after feminism’s ‘sex

wars’ of the 1980s. When Judith Butler posited that gender and sex are social constructs

(Butler, 1990: 7) and that gender is performative (1990: 25), sexual liberation from the 1960s

was incorporated into theories surrounding identity construction. Thus women could not only

have sex, but could also identify as sexual beings, enabling women to reclaim their sexual

identity from that of being a sex object in patriarchal society. The Riot Grrrl movement of the

1990s spearheaded the process of reclamation of women’s bodies with its attempts to

“appropriate and disturb existing meaning of gender” (Attwood, 2007: 238). There now exists

1 Sometimes categorised in the sub-genre fan-fiction erotica rather than erotic romance. 2 Hereafter referred to as ‘Seven Years’. 3 Penguin, a mainstream publisher; Black Lace, a well-established publisher of erotica; and Cleis, a queer publishing house.



the view that identity construction is a more complicated affair than simply assuming

heteronormative gender stereotypes. This paved the way for scholarship in areas such as trans

inclusion and sex work4 - a defining characteristic of sex-positive feminism.

This study will draw upon the definition of genre as a class of texts that share common

properties and have been grouped together due to historical textual discourses in relation to

the societal norm (Todorov, 1990: 16-17). Not only do genres correlate with the society in

which they are written (1990: 19), but also they “actively generate and shape knowledge” of

that society (Frow, 2006: 2). Consequently, the common properties of a genre, coupled with

societal norms, can act as an interpretative guide prior to the reading or writing of a text. The

contemporary erotic romance genre is a sub-genre of romance, characterised by its display

and/or subversion of the generic conventions of: clichéd imagery; stock characters; conflict-

resolution narrative structure; cover art; and simple vocabulary and syntax. The narratives

“share four basic elements: a heroine, a hero, a conflict-ridden love story, and a happily-ever-

after ending” (Barlow, 1992: 47).

Chapter One rejects a common critical approach to the genre, which claims that

successful marketing, combined with the pleasure received by a predominantly female

audience, is enough to substantiate the texts themselves as subversive for women’s identities.

Yet if readership has such a profound influence on narrative meaning, then why are the

characterisations of the heroines so undeveloped? Part One of Chapter Two will look more

closely at characterisation in the two ways in which the heroine is often read – as a reader

identity, and as a reader placeholder. Both methods of interpretation reveal the heroine to be

empty, requiring completion by the hero. Part Two of this chapter will show that completion

requires ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ gender qualities to align rigidly with the sex of the hero

and heroine. This is an out-dated view of ‘wholeness’, incompatible with modern sex-positive

identity theory. Chapter Three illustrates that the sex scenes in the texts exhibit a separation

of the heroine’s sexuality from her personal identity, thus disseminating shame around

women’s sexuality that is inconsistent with recent sex-positive feminist scholarship.

4 For example, prostitution, pornography, escort services.



Marketable heroines: Successful sales, reader communities, and escapist

fantasy

The marketing of the contemporary erotic romance genre targets a distinct women-only

community of consumers. Critics often consider this to be of primary importance in

determining the nature of the narratives themselves. However, as these texts are usually read

by the community as a form of escapism, it becomes clear that this act of reading necessitates

a generic mix of realism and fantasy in the narratives that results in the creation of the

unsatisfactory female protagonists to be explored in Chapter Two of this essay.

Erotic romance literature is a “billion-dollar industry” (Patthey-Chavez, 1996: 83) that

continues to grow, helped not least by the success of the Fifty Shades trilogy, which sold 100m

copies worldwide. Only last year, Patty Marks remarked of the contemporary transformations

of the genre that “while romance has always had a large audience, erotic romance has become

a booming and profitable new genre” (Reid, 2013: 11). Technological advancements and the

growing popularity of e-books, and self-publishing, have also resulted in increased sales

(Publishing Perspectives, 2014). Many have put this down to the growing ease with which

these texts can be read discreetly (Reid, 2013: 11), a trend that can also be seen in the

development of cover art. Seven Years, by having only a necklace on its cover, follows the

‘object’ trend in covers that emerged in the mid-1990s, and was popularised by the grey-scale

man’s tie on the cover of Fifty Shades. These more discreet covers replace the garish clinch

art of previous decades that displayed distressed buxom heroines in the arms of wild-eyed

heroes. There is no doubt that, as popular fiction in a consumer culture, contemporary erotic

romance has succeeded in its aim of making sales. Pairing commercial success with the

branding as a ‘women’s genre’, we can begin to analyse the erotic woman as the consumer –

the reader and writer of the genre – and the influence this has on the erotic woman in the

narrative.

Erotic romance literature is seen almost exclusively as a genre that is “by women, for

women” (motto adorning the Black Lace website). In the nineteen stories that comprise the

three texts that I have chosen to focus on, only one short story is written by a man, and this

addition was most likely only made in order to add a sense of diversity to the collection, rather

than to reflect an accurate ratio of male and female writers. That the texts are indebted to

their readers (“for women”) is reinforced by the fact that authors of erotic romance, both

amateur and professional, are also readers themselves. In the digital age, it is also increasingly

easy for readers and writers to communicate with each other. The blurred lines between

reader and author add to the image that the erotic romance genre is a women-only

community. Janice Radway (1984) remarks that, “romance reading was seen by the women

[that she interviewed] as a way of participating in a large, exclusively female community”

(1984: 11). Combined with the popularity and successful marketing of these texts, it is clear

that how these texts are consumed is an essential part of the meaning and identity of the

genre. The genre’s formulaic nature allows readers to transfer and substitute acquired

knowledge from one story onto another, binding them and the community together. For



example, Jess has a ‘cold but loving’ demeanour in Seven Years, which can be transposed onto

the character of Robin in Day’s short story, What Happened in Vegas. In the latter narrative,

the shorter text length and the fact that it begins from the hero’s point-of-view, means that

Day cannot develop Robin’s character as fully as she has developed Jess’. Likening Robin to

Jess (helpfully they both have “long blonde hair” (Day, 2011[b]: 1)), reassures the reader that

although Robin claims, “I was going to fuck you and walk out” (2011[b]: 12), a behaviour that

would be frowned upon by romance readers (Wendell & Tan, 2009: 36), any notions of

promiscuity are overwritten by Jess’ conventional romance-heroine characteristics. We know

that Jess would not say or do this, and therefore we know that Robin does not mean what she

says.

Women-only spaces have historically been a technique used by feminists to subvert

the social order and challenge women’s oppression (Sonnet, 1999: 173). As an integral part of

the genre’s pop culture identity, the women-only reader/writer community is thought by

critics such as Radway to take precedence over the literary content of the texts. Many critics,

such as Radway (1984), Wendell and Tan (2009), and Krentz (1992), believe it is enough to say

that the satisfaction and pleasure gained by readers itself dictates a subversive component to

the genre. However, this is not enough. The way that the community reads and writes

prescribes textual elements that reinforce oppressive gender stereotypes within the

narratives.

Many readers interviewed by critics expressed the view that reading erotic romance

fiction is a form of escapism (Radway, 1984: 61-62). This view is also put forward on Internet

forums and review sites. Publishers and fans alike use the concept of escapism as an

advertising tool on their websites (Summers, no date). Within the context of erotic romance,

the concept of escapism derives from the generic convention of mixing the realism of the

novel with elements of the immersive fantasy genre. This is usually achieved through a

separation of plot and setting, with these two features being the only varying elements in the

generic formula. For example, on the opening page of In Too Deep, we are introduced to the

realist setting of the library through the fantastical plot device of the voyeur, Nemesis’, letter,

“Every day I observe you in the library” (Da Costa, 2008: 1). The plot is fantastical in this

context because of the amalgamation of a potentially dangerous and criminal stalker with a

loving and tender gentleman. Due to the generic necessity of a happy ending to satisfy the

reader (Radway, 1984, p.66), this amalgamation is inevitable. Relentless use of hyperbolic

language – “the bolt of concern singed more than her heart” (Caperton, 2011: 81) – also

elevates the texts into the fantastical realm (Krentz, 1992: 26). This combination of an

identifiable and relatable setting with a fantastical plot provides an escape for readers who

can place themselves into the story and yet still feel that they have deserted their own lives.

In a genre in which the act of reading itself gives meaning to the text, Radway sees the

act of reading to escape often as an “explicit defiance of others’ opposition” (1984: 14-15).

Similarly, Mairead Owen (1997) notes that the combination of realism and fantasy creates a

fantastical escape for the oppressive realities of women’s actual lives (1997: 538). However,

whilst textual elements may inform an escapist reading, my interest lies in observing how



escapist reading may influence the narrative itself. Evidence of escapism influencing erotic

romance plots supports my conclusion that romance literature reinforces gender stereotypes

that perpetuate women’s oppression. For example, in Guest Services, the protagonist Joanna

has been “promoted to regional manager” (Caperton, 2011: 77) as a result of her hard work

and perseverance. Whilst perhaps displaying the characteristics of an independent and

successful career woman, as a function for escapism, this choice of characterisation could

reflect what Owen describes as the need for a fantastically positive outcome amongst

hardships (1997: 538). This means that economic and social mobility serve as a narrative

function to free the heroine from any responsibilities thus moving her into the realm of the

fantastical and instigating escapism, as opposed to a subversion of women’s actual social and

economic positions in society.

Despite the perceived success of empowering women through the marketing of texts

and the consumption of them, when we consider the effect that these acts have on the

narrative meaning of the texts themselves, then problems with how women are represented

begin to emerge. The following two chapters will more closely analyse the characterisation

and sexual encounters within the narratives. This will show that the influence of aggressive

reader-targeted marketing, however enjoyable for the women readers themselves,

necessarily creates narratives whose portrayals of women are out-dated in the context of

modern sex-positive feminism.



Empty heroines: An analysis of characterisation.

Part One of this chapter looks at two common ways of interpreting the reader’s relationship

to the heroine of erotic romance: by identifying with her (Mann, 1985, p.99), or by using her

as a placeholder (Kinsale, 1992: 32). Both interpretations facilitate a vacuous heroine who

requires ‘filling in’ by the hero. Part Two shows that the generic requirement of the hero to

‘complete’ the heroine has been defended as a subversive act of women appropriating the

‘male’ qualities they feel they have the right to embody (Kinsale, 1992: 37). Rather than

empowering women, this justification reinforces a division between stereotypical ‘male’ and

‘female’ qualities. This is regressive step away from equality for women in contemporary

society.

The empty heroine as reader identity and placeholder

Gwendolynne from In Too Deep, and Jess from Seven Years, present two common heroine

characters in the contemporary erotic romance genre. Gwendolynne is the ‘everywoman’

heroine. She has “ample flesh” (2008: 11) but is irresistibly attractive to every man that she

meets. Another everywoman heroine is Sarah in The Draft who thinks that she is “a little

chubby” (Sorensen, 2011: 122) but is reassured by the hero that she is “built like a woman”

(Sorensen, 2011: 123). Gwendolynne doubts herself, underplays her abilities, and thinks

herself “rather average” (2008: 28). These heroines are ‘nothing special’ and it is exactly this

that makes them so compellingly unique and as a result of this, so devastatingly erotic. Jess is

the ‘beauty who doesn’t know it’ heroine. Although Jess is a “beauty” whose “hair was a

delight of nature” (2011[a]: 7), she is blissfully unaware of this and necessarily – so as not to

outshine the hero (Wendell & Tan, 2009: 30) – contains other physical flaws (Wendell & Tan,

p.52) such as her lack of hearing in one ear (Day, 2011[a]: 8).

First person narration, such as in In Too Deep, is an obvious tool for identifying with

the heroine. Many heroines, such as Gwendolynne in In Too Deep and Angela in Drive Me

Crazy, are divorcees. All heroines are expected to be single. By comparison with Genevieve

Patthey-Chavez, Lindsay Clare, and Madeleine Youmans’ 1996 study, it appears that these

more recent erotic romance texts display a cultural shift away from the virgin protagonist

experiencing her sexual awakening (Patthey-Chavez et. al., 1996: 84), to the older divorced

woman experiencing her sexual re-awakening (2008: 119). No longer a social taboo, the

divorcee is a relatable subject to modern readers.

However, in order to identify with the heroine, she must not be overly characterised

so that she will appeal to a broad range of readers. She is rarely described beyond her

aforementioned physical appearance, and job and marital status. Furthermore, the primary

function of having a divorced protagonist is to free her from responsibilities, and any kind of

background. Da Costa reveals nothing of Gwendolynne’s past, or of her family or friends,

leaving the reader to inject the back-story of her own life, thus making characterisation

subservient to the all-consuming heroine-meets-hero plot. The plot must ultimately culminate

in the completion of the heroine’s empty character by the hero.



To paint empty heroines in a more positive light, modern critics, such as Laura Kinsale

(1992), posit the view that the heroine is a placeholder for the reader. She is not to be

identified with because “most of us know we are not subservient by nature” (Barlow, 1992:

48). The emptiness of the heroine’s character is therefore necessary because it is really the

hero who carries the book and with whom the reader identifies (Kinsale, 1992, pp.31-32). In

the historic erotic romance, Seven Years, Jess is hardly a relatable or affable heroine. She is a

Lady of “Pennington manse” (Day, 2011[a]: 1) with the temperament of an “ice princess”

(2011[a], p.7) has a sister and a family history to boot. However, she is a successful heroine as

a placeholder for the reader to entertain her own fantasies with the “proud”, “dark” and

“devilishly attractive” Byronic hero, Alistair (2011[a]: 3).

The difficulty with the placeholder reading is that the relationship between reader and

heroine becomes worryingly similar to the relationship between the heroine and female foil

character within the narrative. The ‘Other’ woman, or female foil, is another stock character

of the genre. She is set up for failure due to her appearance, and is pitted against the heroine

in an act of slut-shaming5 that perpetuates a society in which women judge each other by the

very objectifying criteria that the ‘everywoman’ image attempts to escape from. The foil in In

Too Deep is “beautiful” and “gorgeous” (2008: 135), and in Seven Years she is “slender” and

“formidable”, “her strength of character... complemented by her physical beauty and

elegance” (Day, 2011[a]: 127). Sonnet calls the rejection of the foil the “internalisation of the

male gaze” (1999: 181); the heroines internalise the objectification of the female body,

commodifying the ‘Other’ woman themselves. Ultimately, this phenomenon is an act of

displacement, where “societal anxieties about sexually available females who aren’t affiliated

with a culturally sanctioned protector or mate” (Wendell & Tan, 2009, p.49) go unchallenged

within the text. The reader treats the placeholder heroine much as the heroine treats the foil,

as ‘Other’, (Kinsale, 1992: 38), displacing sexuality and perpetuating patriarchal societal norms

by allying the texts with the “sexual aggressors” within society (Attwood, 2007: 234).

The empty heroine as completed by the hero.

Admitting the vacuous characterisation of the texts’ heroines, the next step for the defenders

of the genre is to claim that the heroine’s character development is not a result of being ‘filled

in’ by the hero, but instead results from the “fusing of contrasting elements” that make up a

whole (Krentz, 1992: 20). Krentz and many of the writers in her critical collection claim that

the hero is “a split-off portion of the heroine’s own psyche which will be reintegrated at the

end of the book” (Barlow, 1992: 49).

Seven Years and the collection of short stories both present masculine gender

stereotypes within the heroes, and feminine gender stereotypes within the heroines, in a

similar manner. In Too Deep presents elements of masculinity and femininity split into three

identities instead of the usual two. The alpha-male elements of the hero are displayed in the

bodiless online persona, Nemesis, who is an aggressive and commanding “uncontrollable

5 Criticising or condemning a woman for sexual promiscuity.



beast” (Da Costa, 2008: 2). The hero, Daniel Brewster, who is Nemesis, can assume the beta-

male hero role without disappointing readers by his lack of machismo, his “look of someone

who stays inside poring over books” (2008: 15). Gwendolynne confirms this divide when she

says “my mind coalesces Daniel and Nemesis into one totem of dazzling male fantasy” (2008:

38). Displacing the masculine elements is an interesting way of looking at how both the hero

and the heroine appropriate parts of Nemesis’ character. For the first five chapters of the

book, Gwendolynne’s only sexual interaction is with Nemesis, not Daniel. As Nemesis is non-

physical, the implication is hardly subtle; Gwendolynne’s sexual interaction is with herself.

Using Linda Barlow’s theory (1992) that the heroine learns to reconcile the ‘masculine’

characteristics within her throughout the text, Gwendolynne can be said to be adopting the

aggressive and sexual needs already within herself. Perhaps it is this that later causes her to

“lay my fingers across his [Daniel’s] crotch” (2008: 31), a rare case in which the heroine

initiates the first sexual contact between the hero and heroine. The hero must portray both

hero and villain (Krentz, 1992: 108) and in In Too Deep this is made explicit by literally

separating these aspects into two characters, Daniel, and the aptly named Nemesis. The beta-

male hero sits more comfortably with modern feminist critics than the aggressive rapist

heroes of the ‘bodice-ripper’ era of romance fiction. Yet with Nemesis, Da Costa can at the

same time maintain the risk plot that is satisfying and empowering for women readers (Krentz,

1992: 109). Perhaps testament to Da Costa’s success is being able to pacify a wide range of

readers, and thus hit the bestseller lists with this triad of characteristics.

For a contemporary feminist analysis, the disadvantage of amalgamating qualities in

the hero and heroine is that ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ qualities are categorised strictly by the

sex of the character. Radway noted that readers expressed outrage when binary gender

conventions were violated (1984: 63), and despite Radway publishing in the 1980s, it is my

suspicion that had it been Seven Years heroine, Jess, and not the hero, Alistair, who had been

characterised as “undeniably formidable” (Day, 2011[a]: 31) from the outset, contemporary

readers would feel much the same as the readers that Radway interviewed. The evidence for

this is that as recently as 2011, Day’s characters are seen to align sex and gendered qualities

in exactly the same way as any of the texts that Radway would have read in the 1980s. A

preference for heroines that align sex and gender sits badly in a post-Butler society. On page

44 of Seven Years, yet another description of Jess’ physical beauty is followed by an assertion

that this is a result of her womanhood and that this in turn makes her “inherently vulnerable”

(2011[a]). Modern feminism attempts to deconstruct the idea that a quality such as Jess’

vulnerability should be categorised as a gendered quality at all. Becoming complete or ‘whole’

by assuming the ‘masculine’ qualities of the hero is also an out-dated view of how an identity

is appropriately constructed.

Contrary to what the reader community explored in Chapter One of this essay may

suggest, the move from the, not un-problematically termed, second to the third wave of

feminism recognises that women are not a homogenous group, and that individual identities

are an integral focus of the movement. The binary gender stereotypes and assumptions about



what constitutes a ‘whole’ identity in the texts do not reflect the difficulty and ambiguity in

constructing women’s identity – a criterion for sex-positive feminism.



Mindless heroines: An analysis of sex scenes

The moment at which the hero completes the heroine coincides, aptly, with the moment of

sexual completion in the narratives. The sex scenes are riddled with metaphors of animals,

conquered land, watery passion and heated desire (Patthey-Chavez et. al., 1996), as well as

coded sensory imagery and over-zealous adverbs and adjectives. This chapter will examine

one metaphor, the portrayal of sex as mind-altering, in two sex scenes: one from In Too Deep,

and the other from Seven Years. Each scene occurs in the middle of the text, as the sexual

climax also marks the narrative climax. This shows that far from the heroine becoming fully

subversive by uniting masculine and feminine qualities, in other words, uniting “two halves of

a whole” (Day, 2011[a]: 161), the sex scenes are the ultimate separation of the heroine’s

identity from her sexuality (Sonnet, 1992: 180). From a sex-positive perspective, excluding

sexuality from identity inhibits a key component of women’s liberation – the ability to self-

define.

In terms of the physical sex acts described in the two texts and the collection of short

stories, contemporary erotic romances are cutting edge by normalising sexual taboos and

providing a “challenge [to] some of the heteronormative assumptions about romance in

general” (Wendell & Tan, 2009: 161). In Too Deep, First Night, He Tends to Me and Cheating

Time all feature sadomasochism, with the latter two texts also featuring anal sex. Till the Storm

Breaks incorporates a threesome into a loving marriage, and The Curve of Her Belly explores

sex during pregnancy. Almost all of the texts integrate the use of condoms. Sex-positive

theorists often praise ‘unconventional’ practices for their destabilising effect (Glick, 2000: 21).

However, erotic romance authors are quick to stress that the emphasis during sex scenes is

on the sensory descriptions and the emotional responses of the characters (eHow, no date)

rather than the acts themselves. The progressive acceptance of marginalised sex in the texts

and subsequently in society, is undermined by the prioritisation of metaphors that portray the

heroines as out of their minds. This separates the heroine’s sexuality from her identity.

As the scene in Seven Years heats up, Jess begins to feel “slightly intoxicated” (Day,

2011[a]: 150). The metaphor of sexual desire as a mind-altering substance is introduced from

the outset. When Alistair begins to undress her, Jess’ “entire body feel[s] alien to her”

(2011[a]: 152). With this separation of her mind and body established, she is only now allowed

to admit that the sensory description gone before (his “scorching” touch, her “aching flesh”

(2011[a]: 150-151)), has been a bodily sensation of sexual “wanting” and “longing” (2011[a]:

152). In her experience of sex, Jess is a “different woman” (2011[a]: 156), not allowing her

sexuality to become part of her identity. Gwendolynne’s loss of self is subtler in In Too Deep.

By employing the first person narration, the reader is more acutely aware of Gwendolynne’s

inner monologue as she engages in the sex act. Eventually, however, she succumbs to her

bodily departure, “touch[ing] down again” on page 147. Gwendolynne’s sexual encounter

with the hero is preceded by her online encounters with Nemesis, in which she declares, “I

feel as if my personality is splitting into two…and the idea of being both real and a fantasy

figure makes me feel giddy and lightheaded” (Da Costa, 2008: 70). Thus, Gwendolynne has



already constructed a separate sexual and personal identity by the time she encounters the

hero, Daniel.

Typical of the most recent erotic romances (Wendell & Tan, 2009: 153), in Seven Years,

the point of view changes half way through the sex scene to become the hero’s. Alistair also

believes that he will “lose [his] mind” (Day, 2011[a]: 155), but he is “drive[n] to madness”

(2011[a]: 151) by the heroine, justifying his ‘natural animalistic’ lust for her (2011[a]: 159). “He

climaxed with the same unmitigated intensity with which he did everything” (2011[a]: 157).

In the hero’s mindlessness, his loss of control is part of his masculine nature. His addled mind

is a part of his sexualised body. However, when the heroine’s mind is altered, a divide is

created so that her personhood has no control over her sexualised body. Sonnet states that if

the heroines must consistently ‘lose themselves’ in their sexual desires, then sexuality is

placed firmly outside of the true self, rather than being grounded in it (1999: 180). The

separation of sexuality and identity is echoed in erotic romance author’s public profiles. In the

‘About the Authors’ section at the back of Best Erotic Romance, Nikki Magennis reassures her

readers that she isn’t some sex-crazed anomaly, she has hobbies like ‘normal’ people; “she

loves loud music” (Wright, 2011[a], p.214). Kate Pearce justifies her intelligence; she

“graduated from the University College of Wales with an honors degree in history” (2011[a]:

214). A need to distance sexuality from ‘normal life’ means that texts cannot truly be said to

be, as Patty Marks claimed, “a celebration of women’s sexuality” (Reid, 2013: 11).

Therefore, whilst particular sex acts incorporated into heterosexual narratives appear

in line with a sex-positive acceptance of women’s sexuality, by portraying the heroine as out

of her mind in the sex scenes, contemporary erotic romance does not meet the sex-positive

criteria that sex can be a part of a woman’s identity.



Conclusion

As I noted in my introduction, an exploration into texts portraying marginalised sexualities

would develop this study further. This is due to the fact that the belief in having agency over

your own identity is sometimes thought to disregard certain intersectional notions of identity6

and incorporating these notions into analysis could yield interesting results.

Within this study, the contemporary erotic romance genre is a prima facie portrayal of

women’s liberation for the ease of generic narrative and plot development. In the fantasy

world of the narratives, the heroines have social and economic freedom in order to allow for

the central plot focus to be solely on the relationship development of the heroine and hero.

Fantasy is not obliged to reflect society accurately, but this essay has shown that the

fantastical genre actually facilitates empty heroines separated from their sexual identity. The

myth created by successful marketing, that this genre provides its readers with liberated

heroine subjects, has been debunked.

Empty heroines ‘completed’ by heroes ensure that the heroine’s agency and identity

remain within the confines of patriarchal society. She is limited by what gender roles she may

possess at the beginning of the narratives, and what she must therefore acquire from the male

character for completion. She is then restricted from identifying with her sexuality, which

Butler thought an essential emancipatory tool for liberation within an established patriarchal

society. The narratives have not been brought up to date with contemporary sex-positive

feminist thinking.

6 Identifying by the intersections and restrictions of race, class, sexuality, rather than being completely free to construct your own identity.



References Primary texts

Caperton, A. (2011) ‘Guest Services’ in Wright, K. (ed.), Best Erotic Romance, California: Cleis Press, Inc., pp.77-87.

Da Costa, P. (2008) In Too Deep. UK: Black Lace.

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Devlin, D. (2011) ‘Drive Me Crazy’ in Wright, K. (ed.), Best Erotic Romance, California: Cleis Press, Inc., pp.39-51.

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Hardy, S. (2001) ‘More Black Lace: Women, Eroticism and Subjecthood.’Sexualities, 4: 435-453.

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http://publishingperspectives.com/2014/01/yes-yes-yesssss-erotic-romance-sales-still-sizzle/

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http://sultrysummers.com/SultrysLife.html

Contemporary Erotic Romance: Cunning Linguists or Fifty Shades of Feminist Dismay?

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