Tamara Morgan Guest Blogs: Cleanliness is…Godliness?

One of the reasons I love you Vixens is that you represent a well-balanced collection of romance genres. You’ve got the Regency and Victorian eras covered, as well as a variety of contemporary and paranormal worlds. Since I’m an equal opportunity reader, that makes you kind of awesome.

I am not, however, an equal opportunity author.

When I started out writing, I focused primarily on historicals—and mostly because of the underwear. Stockings! Corsets! Open-crotch drawers! Unfortunately, while a love of silky underthings might make me a good audience for historical romance, that doesn’t always translate to good authorship.

In short, it turns out I suck at historical research. I’m not patient enough to wade through primary resources to get my facts right, and I often slip into modern sayings and mindsets without even realizing it.

Of course, that doesn’t mean my books are completely without accuracy…it just means my research is tailored for my own mischievous ends. Take this important factoid, which I learned while, um, researching.

c. 1710 Leave it to the French to invent the bidet. Though cleanliness is not a priority, the bidet serves a sexual function. French women use a sponge as a contraceptive and its efficacy is enhanced by the douche, which the bidet aids. There’s also speculation that the newfound cleanliness makes oral sex more palatable. –Great Moments in Sex by Cheryl Rilly

Let’s listen to that last part again, shall we? There’s also speculation that the newfound cleanliness makes oral sex more palatable.

Ah, technological advancements. Ah, the French. How you improve our lives in so many unseen ways.

Forget that regularly washing your nether regions will help prevent infections or stave off unwanted pregnancy or simply make you a less offensive human being overall. It’s the eighteenth century! You washed your junk! I can put it in my mouth now!

(I also read somewhere that doggy-style positions got a lot more popular at this time for the same reason. Let’s all close our eyes and imagine why good hygiene in all of the body’s southern locations might contribute to that phenomenon.)

…and with that delightful image, I present to you Love is a Battlefield.

My book is a straight-up contemporary, but since it features historical re-enactors, there are a few tidbits from the past that make it in there. Just the parts I like (Corsets! Hot Scottish warriors! The cleanliness of one’s nether regions!), and with a total disregard for chronological consistency or any of those other pesky problems.

I’ll leave that stuff to the professionals.

* * *

Love is a Battlefield, available 2/14

“I guess you’re just going to have to move your silly little book club somewhere else.”

Julian’s words had the opposite effect than he’d imagined. Kate’s eyes didn’t fill with tears, and she didn’t storm off in a huff. Instead, her eyes narrowed, and Julian realized with a chill that she was moving her Cadillac to the center of the road.

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

Michael, Jada and Peterson all looked up. The room stopped, and everyone in it might have looked up too. Julian couldn’t tell.

“That there is nothing to discuss.” He was resolute. He had to be.

“After that.” She clenched her teeth as she spoke, and her entire body stilled. “About my little club,” she added.

Julian chose his words carefully, calculating them to hit like perfectly landed blows. Michael and Peterson stood there, watching him, counting on him. Those two men practically were the SHS. He was the SHS. Years of dedication to history and tradition had taught him if there was one thing the Scottish never did, it was give in to the British.

And no woman’s touch would ever be able to change that.

“Let’s not pretend we’re talking about the same thing here,” Julian said coolly. He aligned himself next to his friends, all three of them straightening as one. “You’re talking about dressing up and reading some old books with a few of your friends. I’m talking about a major athletic event that’s been going on for centuries. You and I both know all that Jane Austen stuff is fluff. Romantic fluff.”

“You got that right,” Peterson muttered. Julian had no idea if Peterson knew what was going on, but the man had his back anyway. Warriors. Friends. That’s what they did.

“It’s not fluff, but it is romantic.” Kate busied herself with shoving her arms into a white sweater, but Julian didn’t miss the expression on her face. Pain. Anger. He knew them well. “Jane Austen is worth serious study if only because men knew how to behave back then.”

Jada nodded. “In a more gentlemanlike manner,” she added.

Julian gave a bitter laugh. Gentlemanlike. He knew all about women’s fanciful notions of a gentleman. He knocked on their front door with ten dozen roses and a white horse. He gave up his land for a chaste peck on the cheek and declarations of undying love.

But Julian knew a real man stood up for himself and protected his own. He fought for what was his.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said, “but you’re wrong. The only thing that makes the nineteenth century the least bit romantic is that it was the first time men and women starting having sex from behind. All that romance had nothing to do with tea and ball gowns. It was about hard, dominant, mind-blowing sex.”

Kate’s eyes widened and her face paled. She couldn’t have reacted any stronger if he’d smacked her across the cheek.

“That’s offensive.”

“No, Kate, it’s true,” Jada interjected. “I was reading on the subject the other day. It had to do with issues of hygiene.”

“Exactly.” Julian nodded, barely even recognizing himself as he shot out the words. “Give a woman a bath, and every man suddenly wants to be hitting it doggy-style. That’s your romance.”

Kate stared at him as Peterson and Michael shook with muffled laughter behind him.

Julian almost got caught up in the hilarity of the moment himself. It was absurd—he’d just betrayed every minute of the polite upbringing his mother had worked so hard to instill. In a dueling piano bar. Over a tract of land. With a woman he wouldn’t mind having hard, dominant, mind-blowing sex with right that minute.

But he didn’t budge.

* * *
About Tamara Morgan

Tamara Morgan is a romance writer and unabashed lover of historical reenactments—the more elaborate and geeky the costume requirements, the better. In her quest for modern-day history and intrigue, she has taken fencing classes, forced her child into Highland dancing, and, of course, journeyed annually to the local Renaissance Fair. These feats are matched by a universal love of men in tights, of both the superhero and codpiece variety.

You can find her on Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.