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A couple years ago I was totally put off by vapid MF romances of every ilk—historical, dark urban, paranormal… You name it, the same old tropes ruled, the bodice rippers, all gussied up in contemporary dress yet dragging along the baggage of ancient terms and conditions—heroines without agency, alphaholes without merit yet commanding book boyfriend status (and WTF is that about?), the distaff side living lives of proscription and prescription.
Then I discovered gay literary fiction, along with advancing subsets of MM romance that quickly devolved into MF clones (heavy on feminine sensibilities/desires/expectations), and lawdy they became fraught with HEAs and monogamous attachments, like an interpretative dance where the choreographer has no clue about the realities of lives lived on the periphery.
Then I found the male authors—and merciful heavens, you have to search long and hard because they’ve become buried under an avalanche of usurpers—and I gave a sigh…
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