Fairy tales never get old, even if we do.

It is a curious phenomenon that a sometimes jaded woman (yours truly), who relishes the grittiest HBO crime shows, would shed a tear each and every time she watches Disney’s Cinderella, Snow White or Sleeping Beauty. I appreciate any live-action spin-off, no matter how cheesy, but something about those animated images get me.
Every time.

Now how can that be? I am a slick modern being, well-versed in the new tech world of CGI and flashy effects. Still, those iconic frames I remember from my childhood resonate—especially the kiss in Sleeping Beauty. Prince Phillip was always my favorite Disney crush. He had a badass black horse and a red cape. He took charge. The prince in Cinderella had some good moves but he was too much of a pretty boy. Those epaulettes gave me the creeps. Leave Sargent Pepper to Sargent Pepper.
I digress. I am supposed to be addressing the ambiguity of my psyche. There is no great mystery here. Why is it that I can watch violence on TV while maintaining my impressive resting heart rate of 59, but I fall to pieces when I watch any Disney fairy tale? The answer is simple and I stated it before. I first saw those moving pictures as a child, before I came of age and discovered the truth about life: this world is not the make-believe land in a fairy tale, I don’t have a 17 inch waist, and if I fall into a stupor a prince will not appear to smooch me awake. Most likely I will just lie there like an idiot while my unibrow fills in. Worse than that, I won’t have the faculties needed to make a wax appointment.
It took me decades to get over the blow of discovering this truth. Yet, each time I watch one of those classics, I am a child again, innocent once more. More importantly, I am reminded of my own imagination—I can fashion my own personal prince who will arrive whenever I wish him to. I now write my own tales of romance, that others can enjoy.

It delights me to know that even in my steamiest, lust-driven novels, there is the ever present influence of a fairy tale love story. That’s where I learned about romance after all, from those squeaky clean images. And let’s face it, it’s what most of us want. I mean, sometimes we want hot and sweaty sex, and other times we are in the mood for the bad boy. Ah, but then the ever changing desires of women are hard to nail down, aren’t they? I may be generalizing, but I still think most of my lady-friends would agree. A prince kissing a fair maiden awake is the classic that never disappoints. Sort of like a baked potato with butter.

Read all of Tessa Bowen's romantic adventures here:

 Keep in touch with all things Tessa!

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

When a 42-year-old wears a bikini.

Image
At what point does a lady of riper years have to stop wearing a two-piece? A high ponytail? A mini skirt? A smoky eye? These are all questions that pop up when you are a woman my age. In your 20’s you are heedless, reckless in your youth. By 30, you’ve matured a little and have perhaps strived to adopt a classier look—you’ve also invested heavily in sunscreen. By 40, you still have it—if you’re lucky— but have begun to detect your glow slippage, cracks in the surface etc. Some women panic. I have chosen not to. However, it has occurred to me that maybe it’s time to ditch the two-piece. Should I invest in some totally blah racer-back unitard? Perhaps a 1920’s bathing costume— a garbage bag? Nahhhhhhhhh. I’m going to carry on with the boobs and butt front and center program. You know why? Because it’s more fun. Besides, I have recently discovered everyone at the gym is just looking at their cell phones anyway. They wouldn’t notice if I swam nude in tube socks while wea
Read more

GRANDMAS MAKE GOOD PROOF READERS, and other observations from my ridiculous existence.

Image
It seems only fitting that in honor of Mother’s Day I tease my own mother without mercy. Here goes. I find it quite hilarious that my 74-year-old mom has “first crack” at my manuscripts. I call them “manuscripts” and they are, but come on, seriously, they are steamy romance novels and sometimes that steam turns into straight up smut. The idea of the most dignified lady I know burning her tender eyes out on phrases like “throbbing need” and “pulsating male hunger” not to mention “dampening cleft” or “slippery bud of desire” sends me straight into a fit of spasmodic giggles. Especially when she uses her schoolmarm Eraser Mate pen on said salacious phrases. My mother is a lady from another time. She was born in 1812. I’ve never even seen her legs. She is prim and strict, always buttoned up. She is continually scandalized by my brashness, my rude and raucous humor, my bright red lipstick (I could go on and on) and wonders how she ever sprouted such a rotten seed. When she edits my
Read more

The continuing saga of the battery-operated gizmo…

Image
My best friend James, who happens to be a straight male, called me yesterday and said “I bought you a vibrator.” I supplied him with a very long pause and then responded, “You mean like a special massager for my wrists?” (I’m still battling the RSS). “No, it’s a vibrator,” James continued very seriously. “Like a lady’s vibrator for your lady’s parts.” WTF? Yes, my straight male friend bought me a masturbating device for my lady’s parts. No, people, this isn’t the start of my new romantic comedy. This is my life. James went on to explain that he’d just had an appointment with a specialist for his own RSS and she prescribed the use of a vibrator to massage the stressed tendons in his hands and wrists. Yes, a vibrator—a small one, the type that could be carried in a purse, the very same kind that could be used to stimulate one’s clitoris. Or I suppose one’s achy wrists. Huh? The idea of my dear friend James purchasing this device from the drugstore was enough to sen
Read more