I hesitate at the end of the aisle, checking to make sure no one I know is around. The covers stare back at me—shirtless men with impossible abs, women in various states of undress, titles that make my face heat even though I’m alone.
Mom used to read these. That one summer, she couldn’t put them down; she’d laugh when I made fun of her. “Don’t knock it ’til you try it, honey. These authors know what they’re doing. If you ever need pointers...” She’d winked. “There’s education in here.”
At the time, I’d rolled my eyes.
Now? Now I’m pulling books off the shelf like they contain the secrets to the universe.
I flip open the first one. Skip to a scene that makes my pulse spike. The detail is... extensive. Specific. The author doesn’t just describe what’s happening—she describes exactly how, exactly where, exactly what the woman responds to.
I grab three more books, find a secluded corner behind the reference section, and start reading with the focus I usually reserve for AP exams.
Two hours later, I’ve taken mental notes on:
The importance of pacing (apparently you don’t just... go)
Key anatomy details (I screenshot diagrams from a medical text when the romance novels aren’t specificenough)
What women reportedly like most (the list is longer and more complicated than I expected)
I’ve read 47 pages in the first book. 63 in the second. 52 in the third. 38 in the fourth.
200 pages total in 2 hours and 14 minutes.
I’m reading like I’m cramming for finals. Because in a way, I am.
I’ve highlighted passages in my mind:
Page 47: “Start slow, build gradually.”
Page 63: “Watch her reactions, adjust accordingly.”
Page 52: “The clitoris has 8,000 nerve endings.”