RAUNCHY READING

Erotic fiction is more popular than ever - could women's rather frustrated libidos be the reason, ponders Helen Coffey

- Helen Coffey

I distinctly remember the time my friend and I purchased our first “sexy” books. We were giddy and giggly as we browsed the extensive selection of Mills & Boon in WH Smith, two university students regressing to our 13-year-old selves in an instant. There were so many genres within the smorgasbord of erotica laid out before us – were we into sexy historical fiction, or sexy medical fiction? Sexy rich men who were misunderstood royals, or sexy rich men who were misunderstood CEOs? Sexy stable boys getting down and dirty with duchesses, or sexy barristers lusting after legal secretaries (and, if so, would a gavel be involved at any point in proceedings?)? Decisions, decisions!

In the end, we grabbed one apiece at random – mine featured a sheikh of a made-up Gulf nation, my mate’s the heir to a Greek shipping fortune – and cringed with embarrassment as we avoided eye contact with the cashier during purchase, these being the days before self-checkout. We shoved them deep in our tote bags, our cheeks flame-red as we scuttled out of the shop. The only thing worth this abject mortification was the tantalising promise of self-exploration that lay ahead; though the excursion had ostensibly started as a joke, we were both curiously quiet on the walk home, keen to disappear into our respective bedrooms and get speed-reading under the covers.