Jove, $6.99, ISBN 0-515-13401-5
Historical Romance, 2002
Hello. I’m Millicent Blair. Call me Millipede. Mrs Giggles fainted from agony after reading my story, A Dash of Scandal, so I’ll be doing the reviewing of my story today. The author describes me as someone with classical features (think, oh, Nefertiti after a bad mummification botch-up), great curves, wonderful hair, and if you pop me once, I’ll pop out a boy for you. I’m such a virtuous woman that way, I have “Baby Boy Maker” tattooed on my breasts. Only, you have to kinda imagine that, because tattoos are evil and satanic, and I’m just as simple bluestocking from Hovel Dung Country.
Oh no, I’m not pretty! Why am I not pretty? No guys want me, that’s why! I’m not pretty. I’m not. I’m not! Just because I have great lips, face, curves, and eggs more fecund than you can imagine, that doesn’t mean I’m pretty. Sure, mean bitches will say I’m just a walking big contrivance with breasts, but that’s why I’m a romance heroine – I’m not a bitch, I’m a noble and honest heroine.
Let me tell you about my story. My aunt is sick – injured actually, and she summons me to London and ask me to take over her secret job as Lord Truefitt, the anonymous scandal monger! I’m not eager, because readers, remember, I’m an honest woman, and besides, my mother had a happy marriage with a man after some scandal, and she’s so happy and all, I’m traumatized. I hate scandals. I hate gossips. They caused my momma to have a blissfully happy marriage and it ruined her. And me. So don’t hate me because I’m writing scandal sheets for Auntie. I have a moral conscience – Auntie’s ill, so I must help. Which is a good thing she doesn’t ask me to let sailors down at the wharfs to see my peeky-weeky for ten pence a peek. If she asks, I’ll do it, because she asks and she’s sick and I’m a good virtuous gal, but I just want you all to know that I let ill Uncle Fester touch my peekaboos only because he is sick and not because I want him to touch my peekaboos or anything. I’m a heroine. I don’t have dirty sex thoughts. I procreate, not copulate. Maybe you skanks can do well to emulate me.
How did Uncle Fester get in here? I told Amelia Grey to keep that man’s history out of this book. So there’s no Uncle Fester in this story. Mrs Giggles made it up. Although if he’s sick, I’ll have to let him touch my peekaboos if he asks, because come on, I’m virtuous that way. I let all the boys in the playground play choo-choo with me because it is so hard hearing how those sad little boys miss their dead doggies, you know.
Not that that is in this story. Someone’s been slandering me again.
So I go to parties, sneak around and stare at people like a bug-eyed idiot that I am, and I creep behind sofas to write notes down. I hope you still remember that I’m doing this for Auntie. Don’t hate me for being human, because if you hate me, I’ll have no more reason to live. Anyway, then this handsome hunk creeps up on me. “What are you doing?” he asks.
Since I’m a virtuous heroine, it never occurs to me to bluff. I don’t lie and I don’t copulate, only procreate. Don’t hate me please. Anyway, there’s also this thief around the town, the Mad Ton Thief (not the Toing Tang Thief as Mrs Giggles was overheard calling him), and hunky Chandler Preswick is like wanting to catch the Toing Tang, er, Mad Ton Thief to retrieve some Egyptian heirloom his family has stolen from the Egyptians. Not that I’m saying Chandler is nasty – Chandler is perfect! I love him! I will procreate many many sons for him, because I’m a Virtuous Faithful Wife that way. If he tells me a sad story about his family, I will have to let him to do kinky sex things to me to ease his pain. Don’t hate me, readers, I barely notice the orgasms. Like all good women, I procreate, never copulate.
He kisses me. Oh! Oh! I like it, I don’t stop him, I can’t stop him, because my brain freezes – well, more than it used to, anyway, it’s like, wow, the world just stops, you know? But then I have to protest non-stop, so that you readers will understand that I have no libido, I am selfless, I am the donkey that carried everybody to the trough, and so you better not hate me. Because I want everybody to love me, everybody and Daddy and Chandler.
Chandler is like, wow. I mean, I love Shakespeare, and sometimes my thought processes can get as convoluted as the tortuous torture that is Richard III but even I know that he is a catch. He’s a rake, and while I disapprove of Cyprians and Harlots, he is a rake and hence the prime catch of the Ton. He has two friends, whose names I can’t remember, but I will have plenty of time to catch up when I appear in their upcoming books. I have some equally virtuous, spine-free, brainpower-free female friends too, and we will all see you in Sequelitis Schadenfreude.
So he kisses me, I protest so much, and suddenly, I must have sex with him. I think it is at this point that Mrs Giggles collapses. I guess she can’t stand my non-stop risking virtue and then protesting that it’s my virtue that shall not be invaded, even when his tongue has practically mapped my entire oral cavity by then. After all, isn’t it right, readers, that good women kiss and have sex and all, but they must protest their virtue until everyone is dead?
Anyway, you must love me. I love you, Daddy. I love you, Chandler. I love you, Uncle Fester. I hope all of you know the sacrifices I made. But it’s worth it, because I’m now a wife, mother, and that’s all the individuality I need. I don’t need hobbies, heck, I don’t want my name anymore. I’m no longer Millipede Blair. Call me Chandler’s Wife and Daddy’s Daughter and Uncle Fester’s Favorite Niece Ever (although I’m dead certain Mrs Giggles made Uncle Fester up).
And don’t listen to evil naysayers. I am not a walking contrivance, and my story is not a brainpower-free join-the-dot formulaic rehash of a wannabe. I’m Mrs Chandler’s wife and remember, I procreate, not copulate.