It has long been a dream of mine to throw a party where everyone has to come dressed as an unpopular wife from a prestigious drama on cable television and treat each other with respect the entire night. I would dearly love to see just one day on TV where all the fancy, brutal male protagonists have to act like their loathed spouses, where the viewing public took a twentieth of the love they bear for Tami…
He left me where he found me: the balcony of my mother’s apartment with the smell of adobo wafting in from the windows above, my sneakered feet dangling off the edge. His cape fluttered in the breeze and disappeared over the apartment building across the street, its jagged hem just barely missing a satellite dish.
*
The first headline I saw was by accident. My mother had sent me
Recent historical romances featuring cross-dressing heroines (and heroes) show that bodice rippers can be more than prettified, corset-bound wank material.
Cross-dressing is one of my favorite tropes of historical romance. When a historical romance novel features a woman disguised as a man, I am ON IT like pair of buff-colored breeches on a deliciously rounded female bottom. It’s easy to see why authors and readers find cross-dressing appealing. The heroines can punch, cuss, and…
