This one sucked so hard, I had to invent new shelves to separate it from already awful books I've tripped with. I can't even put it under the deep-fried-twinky category because it doesn't stand up to guilty pleasure. Not even the sickening kind. Just sickening. Nor could I put it under cheap-romance, because it felt an insult to every pink novel out in the world. Those are just silly. This one is offensive and dangerous.
And not romantic.
The guy blackmails the woman into a dirty weekend. He is a dickhead about everything, and I already wanted to strangle him with his own scrotum, but the blackmail was... I can't even find a word crude enough to explain how violently mad with rage all that made me. The woman accepting it was an idiot. Scared, and an idiot. She should have sued him on harassment charges.
But hey, since she enjoyed it, it was OK! (Do you hear that steam sound? That's me going nuclear)
I'm not even entering on the part where she takes him back. I felt my respect for my sex actually sink a notch.
Just yesterday I read some awesome post by Shannon Hale about what makes a rape culture. This... This thing made of paper and ink that should never be called a book carries exactly the kind of ideas that help build one. It's vile in it's seemingly innocent presentation. Noxious because women read it and think it swoon worthy and in real life it's not. It really, really isn't. But then a man can point at it and say: "hey, but you like that kind of books".
I just *shakes head* I'm going to stop. I'm angry, and a bit depressed and feel very much cheated. I picked a supposed love story and got a horror one instead. About pernicious ignorance being propagated in real world.