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“What’s this?” I said, picking up a book from Sara’s dining table before we headed out for a gal’s night.
“What’s what?” she said from the other room, finishing putting on her “face.”
“This book on your table.”
“Oh, that’s Nora Roberts’ latest.”
“Nora Roberts? Oh, please! Isn’t she one of those sappy romance writers?”
“Uh, someone gave it to me,” Sara said somewhat defensively, surfacing from the bathroom, “face” intact. “Why?”
“I’m just surprised to see such porn in your house, that’s all.”
“What are you talking about? It’s a romance novel, not porn.”
“Same thing, baby.”
“It is not!”
Hmm, well, I guess it depends on what you
consider porn.
Porn isn’t just a bunch of naked people having a really good time with various body parts — especially certain wonderfully super-hard and extra-huge parts — and exchanging bodily fluids until everyone’s smiling and happy after all’s said and done — although that’s certainly the kind of porn I like.
But that porn’s not for everybody. A lot of women don’t like that kind of porn because the porn babes are beautiful and have massive boobs and tight perfect butts and luscious bods, and honestly, few
of us really look like that and never will look like
that.
