This week’s theme here at the Ball is guilty pleasures (Not to be confused with last week’s theme of heat, which did happen to involve some guilty pleasures from Deb Linda—can you imagine the eye candy she’ll spring for THIS week??)
We all have guilty pleasures. Some of us love reality TV and won’t admit it. Some of us blast Motley Crue when it comes on the radio. Some of us empty whole cans of aerosol cheese straight into our mouths. (These are just random examples of things I’ve heard people do. I can’t be certain they’re true. And what’s more, I will deny every one if pressed.)
But when it comes to books—no way! Surely books are exempt from such a trend, right?
Oh, I remember a time when I knew nothing of literary guilty pleasures. Sure, I knew there were books you were assigned in English class and those were considered “literature” and as such they were high up on the literary food chain, but no matter what you were reading, it had to be good because you were, you know, reading, right?
And then, along came this guy…
What was it about your golden locks, your bulging biceps (and all those other muscle groups that I can’t take the time to name here) that made all of us feel kind of, well, guilty? It didn’t matter if we never even opened the first page of whatever delicious historical romance whose cover you were gracing—there you were! Bulging. And blonding. And rippling. And ripping.
You darkened your mane–it didn’t matter. Your wicked, I-will-have-you gleam remained–and we remained rapt.
And so, a guilty pleasure was born.
Friends, you can have your Fifty Shades. I prefer my guilty pleasures of the Fabio-kind.
What do you all think of as a guilty literary pleasure? Do you have any you’d care/dare to confess??