I’m sort-of reading these two paranormal romances at the moment: Samson’s Lovely Mortal; My Lady Vampire – Book One.
In both of these, the male lead is a handsome vampire with rippling muscles (er, okay, I suppose), wealthy (must be nice) and impotent (and I don’t mean physically incapable because he’s a vampire, he’s a man with a problem… I don’t read a lot of romance – hardly any romance romance, anyway – so I have to ask: Is this a common trope?) except…
Except with this one particular woman whom he is instantly attracted to, can’t stop thinking about, and develops a serious case of priapism over. (I think a vampire must have glands that produce Viagra… or… Viagra is vampires! – in the same way that soylent green is people?)
Since the woman in question reciprocates this sexual obsession and turns out to be an Olympic athlete in the sack, the plot of the novel keeps falling into puddles of soft porn like a road during an English summer, complete with metaphors for orgasm such as volcanic eruptions and atomic explosions (huh?).
Which is not to say it isn’t interesting at times, but I’ve started getting really bored of all the sex and the fixation on his cock. (The word is used 58 times in one book and 99 times in the other.)
This line from My Lady Vampire – Book One makes me laugh:
Hard enough to crack wood, his cock wept tears of anticipation, eager to bury itself in between those soft thighs, to find the darkness that awaited it with a bath of hot juices.
I don’t know… Maybe it’s a vampire thing.
I don’t have a problem mixing sex and vampires, but this kind of paranormal romance that creates The Perfect Man who just happens to be a vampire (in a nice kind of way) just stretches credibility beyond escapism to pure absurdity.
No wonder people are sick and tired of vampires.
But, there’s life in’t, man! Or undeath, at any rate, if only we can remember that vampires are monsters. Even the nice ones.
Here’s an interesting post by Alex Beecroft.