I wish I could say that the first time I actually read the book, my friends and I had taken turns reading the steamy parts aloud between swigs from a bottle of cheap wine. I was studying 18th-century poetry! I didn’t have time to be aroused! My friend had written on the title page, “It could be worse.” We were freshmen in college and I was studying English literature, so Barefoot and Pregnant? was squeezed onto my dorm bookshelf between the Norton Anthologies and Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style. The first book I received, a copy of Barefoot and Pregnant? by Colleen Faulkner, featured two white people kissing in a canoe on the cover. It was a dark time in my life and smutty novels were the first foothold out of my self-pity. At the time, I had just broken up with my first boyfriend and was becoming infamous in our social circle for leaving parties and drunkenly asking my friends why none of the men we knew wanted to make out with me. In 2008, my best friend began giving me romance paperbacks as gifts.
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