You know those guilty pleasures you have that you're embarassed to be caught dead enjoying?
I have plenty of those.
Cheesy 80s movies, the movie Stuck On You, the songs from those cheesy 80s movies, Soundgarden, an old and corny TV sitcom or two . . . the list is long.
For years now I've turned up my nose at any literature that centers around a relationship between a Herculean-bodied man, and an everyday kind of woman. Not to say that I haven't ended up with books with romance in them in that time, it's just that they are usually more literary fiction-esque than the Harlequin Romance series.
I still don't read the Harlequin Romance series, nor would I want to, but I have found quite the guilty pleasure perfect for a day of sunbathing and fantasizing about a Herculean-bodied man, and well ... me.
To think I could've enjoyed laying in the Caribbean sun reading Diana Gabaldon's first book of the Outlander series, instead of The World According to Garp ... the experience would've been so much more perfect.
I'm nowhere near the Caribbean, but I am taking mental vacations throughout the day by being transported to Scotland's Highlands where kilts are sexier than a tight pair of jeans, and men are muscular and ripped for survival.
Ah, those guilty pleasures. They make life interesting, and hot as the Caribbean sun.