Am I unwholesome?

Image by Victoria from Pixabay

By Lisabet Sarai

Lately I’ve noticed some of my author colleagues touting their work as “clean and wholesome” romance. To be honest, this bothers me a bit. Maybe I am being over-sensitive, but I can’t help feeling there’s an implicit judgment in that label. It makes me wonder whether my work is viewed as somehow unwholesome.

I understand the motivation behind this marketing. Some readers don’t want to consume stories that feature explicit sex. I respect that, and certainly wouldn’t want to cause anyone distress. I’m upfront about the fact that almost everything I write does include at least some sex, because I don’t want to upset people who are looking for something else.

What bothers me about the phrase “clean and wholesome” is its intense polarity. Both of these adjectives have strong positive connotations. Their opposites have negative connotations. “Wholesome” means “healthy; conducive to physical or moral well-being”. The implication is that my sexually-explicit stories will make you sick, or undermine your spiritual or social values.

I strongly reject this notion. In my view, good health includes enjoying and being comfortable with your sexuality. There’s ample scientific evidence that people who have satisfying sex lives also have better relationships, report being happier, and even live longer than people who are celibate or sexually frustrated.

Of course there are people who have plenty of fun in the bedroom but still don’t care to have all the juicy details spelled out in the stories they read. On the other hand, I worry that some readers who insist on “clean and wholesome” tales do so because they think sex itself is dirty or shameful or even evil, something to be hidden or denied. That’s a sad attitude, because they’re losing out on a lot. In fact, I believe it’s downright unhealthy.

Another term sometimes used for non-explicit romance is “sweet romance”. I have no problem with this at all. In contrast, my books are spicy. Not everyone likes spicy food, either. There’s no value judgment, it’s just a preference.

I’ve toyed with the idea of writing “sweet romance”, just to see if I could. In fact I have a few short pieces that might qualify. If you want a taste, check out my story “Vegas”. 

Here are the first few paragraphs:

If I was a normal, God-fearing Indiana girl, I wouldn't be driving this eighteen-wheeler. I'd be settled, with kids and a husband to keep me tired, burying my wanderlust under piles of laundry and dirty dishes.

Lord knows I tried, it's not like I didn't. I tried the curlers and the make-up, the meatloaf and the apple pies. But it didn't take. And when Jim upped and left me for some girl with tighter skirts and longer eyelashes, I stopped trying. I got out my comfortable old jeans and plaid shirts and hit the road as I'd always wanted to do.

I'm not bitter, though my mother shakes her head whenever I'm home to visit. Jim did me a favor, really. If I happen to run into him and, what's her name, Charlene, at the IGA or the movie house, I always give them a warm smile. Thanks for leaving, Jim, I think, and giving me back my self.

It's not a soft life, pushing a big rig, but I love it. I love the freedom of the road, the asphalt stretching endlessly before me toward unknown wonders. I love the urgency, the need to put the miles behind me. I love the power. When I'm behind the wheel, rolling towards Chicago or LA, KC or Boise, no one can bring me down. With the Stones or George Thorogood blaring through my cab, I sweep past the sedans and SUVs and runty imported pickups like a queen. I honk at the other tandems and semis and they honk back. My brothers in arms. We own the road, and we know it.

My mother's sure that I sleep with every guy I meet on the road, but mostly I keep my distance. I'm a professional, and I take my work seriously. I can't afford entanglements. Or delays.

It’s free on my website. Let me know what you think. Can I do sweet?

I’m happy to let people write what they want - and read what they want. But please, don’t imply there’s something wrong with me or my books, just because I like to write about the many fascinating aspects of our sexual selves.