Theorising Male Virginity in Popular Romance Novels more


 
 
 
 Theorising
Male
Virginity
in
Popular
Romance
Novels
 
 Jonathan
A.
Allan
 
 
 
 Published online: October 2011 http://www.jprstudies.org 
 
 Abstract:
 Although
 the
 virginal
 female
 heroine
 is
 a
 standard
 trope
 in
 popular
 romance
 fiction,
the
male
virgin
in
popular
romance
novels
has
yet
to
be
studied
or
theorised.
This
 study
 therefore
 seeks
 to
 explore
 and
 theorise
 the
 male
 virgin
 in
 heterosexual
 popular
 romance
 novels.
 Initially,
 I
 demonstrate
 at
 least
 four
 “types”
 of
 male
 virgins:
 the
 sickly
 virgin,
 the
 student
 virgin,
 the
 genius
 virgin,
 and
 the
 virgin
 as
 commodity.
 I
 conclude
 this
 theoretical
groundwork
by
considering
Eloisa
James’
When
the
Duke
Returns,
which
brings
 together
 each
 of
 these
 “types”
 of
 male
 virginity.
 Ultimately,
 I
 argue
 that
 male
 virginity
 in
 romance
fiction
is
complex
and
is
distinct
from
other
treatments
of
male
virginity
in
other
 popular
media.
 
 About
 the
 Author:
 Jonathan
 A.
 Allan
 is
 a
 Ph.D.
 Candidate
 at
 the
 Centre
 for
 Comparative
 Literature
at
the
University
of
Toronto.
His
dissertation,
“The
First
Time
and
the
Mourning
 After:
 A
 Study
 of
 Love,
 Loss,
 and
 Virginity,”
 considers
 the
 question
 of
 “the
 first
 time”
 and
 how
 we
 understand
 and
 experience
 it.
 His
 research
 interests
 include
 flirting,
 kissing,
 romance,
and
virginity. 
 Keywords:
 Virginity,
 Male
 Virginity,
 Masculinity,
 Jonathan
 A.
 Allan,
 Popular
 Romance,
 Eloisa
James
 
 
 
 
 Almost
 every
 major
 critic
 of
 popular
 romance
 fiction—and
 probably
 minor
 ones
 too—notes
that
in
reading
the
romance
novel,
readers
will
encounter
virgin
heroines.
“For
 most
of
the
genre’s
history,”
Pamela
Regis
explains,
“the
romance
heroine
was
depicted
as
a
 virgin”
(35).
Indeed,
in
the
first
wave
of
romance
scholarship,
the
trope
of
female
virginity
 was
 often
 presented
 as
 a
 necessary
 feature
 of
 the
 genre.
 “Virginity
 is
 a
 given
 here,”
 Ann
 Snitow
thus
declares
in
her
influential
early
article,
“Mass
Market
Romance:
Pornography
 for
Women
is
Different”:
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 
 The
heroine
is
not
involved
in
any
overt
adventure
beyond
trying
to
respond
 appropriately
to
male
energy
without
losing
her
virginity.
[
.
.
.
]
[S]ex
means
 marriage
 and
 marriage,
 promised
 at
 the
 end
 [of
 romance
 novels],
 means,
 finally,
there
can
be
sex.
(309)

 
 Snitow’s
 study
 was
 not
 based
 on
 a
 very
 broad
 sample
 of
 the
 genre—she
 only
 considers
 a
 handful
 of
 Harlequin
 romances—and
 it
 is
 tempting
 to
 dismiss
 her
 claims
 as
 dated,
given
the
evolution
of
romance
fiction
since
the
1980s.[1]
But
consider
some
recent
 Harlequin
 titles:
 The
 Timber
 Baron’s
 Virgin
 Bride
 (Clair,
 2009),
 The
 Spaniard’s
 Virgin
 Housekeeper
 (Hamilton,
 2009),
 The
 Playboy
 Sheikh’s
 Virgin
 Stable­Girl
 (Kendrick,
 2009),
 Capelli’s
Captive
Virgin
(Morgan,
2009),
Rescuing
the
Virgin
(Rosemoor,
2009),
The
Virgin’s
 Price
(Milburne,
2009),
His
Convenient
Virgin
Bride
(Dunlop,
2010),
Virgin
on
Her
Wedding
 Night
 (Graham,
 2010).
 And
 novels
 with
 female
 virgins
 in
 the
 title
 are
 not
 the
 only
 ones
 where
 such
 characters
 appear.
 Clearly,
 the
 virgin
 heroine
 is
 still
 a
 regular
 character
 in
 popular
romance
fiction.
 Indeed,
 even
 if
 modern
 romance
 fiction
 no
 longer
 insists
 on
 “making
 heroines
 compulsorily
 intact
 and
 reifying
 a
 hymenal
 virginity,”
 as
 a
 more
 recent
 scholar,
 Jocelyn
 Wogan‐Brown
puts
it,
what
she
calls
the
“cultural
performance”
of
female
virginity,
at
least
 in
some
metaphorical
sense,
remains
remarkably
important
to
the
genre
(346).
“Harlequin
 romances
 (within
 the
 many
 subgenres)”
 have
 come
 to
 “represent
 virginity
 not
 as
 an
 essentialized
 and
 mystical
 anatomical
 condition,”
 this
 scholar
 writes,
 “but
 as
 an
 interior
 state,
produced
by
volition
and
emotion”
(346‐7).
Bloggers
Sarah
Wendell
and
Candy
Tan,
 whose
familiarity
with
the
genre
is
far
broader
than
most
scholars’,
concur:
the
“sexually
 unawakened
 heroine”
 who
 is
 “relatively
 innocent,
 as
 proven
 by
 her
 inexperience
 or
 her
 outright
 virginity,”
 remains
 “one
 of
 the
 more
 peculiar
 constants
 of
 most
 romance
 novels,
 from
 historicals
 to
 contemporaries
 to
 paranormals
 to
 even
 erotica”
 (37),
 they
 explain
 in
 Beyond
Heaving
Bosoms:
The
Smart
Bitches
Guide
to
Romance.
“No
matter
what
type
she
is,”
 they
add,
“she
is
definitely
not
the
ho‐type”
(37).
 What,
though,
of
the
sexually
unawakened
hero?
Is
there
a
“type”
for
the
male
virgin
 in
 popular
 romance?
 At
 first
 glance,
 this
 figure
 is
 perhaps
 a
 rarity,
 both
 in
 fiction
 and
 in
 scholarship.
Many
current
studies
of
the
popular
romance
hero,
for
example,
focus
on
the
 “alpha
 male”
 hero,
 a
 figure
 who
 tends
 to
 be
 as
 sexually
 experienced
 as
 he
 is
 powerful,
 masterful,
and—at
least
as
the
novel
begins—emotionally
reserved.
In
fact,
as
an
anecdote
 from
romance
author
Monica
Burns
reveals,
the
alpha
hero
may
seem
hard
to
square
with
 the
idea
of
male
virginity:
 
 A
 little
 more
 than
 a
 year
 ago,
 I
 was
 getting
 ready
 to
 write
 my
 March
 2011
 release
 Pleasure
 Me.
 My
 editor
 and
 I
 had
 talked
 at
 a
 conference,
 and
 she’d
 asked
me
to
make
the
hero
a
virgin.
My
initial
[response]
on
the
outside
was,
 ummm
.
.
.
sure,
I
supposed
I
could.
Inside
I
was
thinking
WTF?
I
write
alpha
 heroes.
How
in
the
hell
am
I
going
to
write
an
alpha
male
who’s
never
been
 with
a
woman?
 
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 Even
Laura
Vivanco
and
Kyra
Kramer’s
discussion
of
the
virgin
romance
hero,
which
 appeared
last
year
in
the
Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies,
finds
oddly
little
to
say
about
 him:
 “Virginal
 heroes
 do
 exist
 in
 the
 genre,”
 they
 point
 out—but
 their
 discussion
 quickly
 moves
 on
 to
 cite
 a
 short
 questionnaire
 attached
 to
 the
 Mills
 &
 Boon
 edition
 of
 Susan
 Napier’s
 Secret
 Admirer,
 which
 seems
 to
 play
 down
 this
 figure’s
 importance.
 “[M]any
 heroines
in
our
stories
are
virgins,
but
it
is
rare
for
the
hero
to
be
sexually
inexperienced,”
 the
questionnaire
explains.
 In
 this
 article,
 I
 hope
 to
 move
 beyond
 merely
 acknowledging
 the
 virgin
 hero’s
 existence
to
a
more
complex,
theorised
understanding
of
him
as
a
complex
character
within
 the
genre
of
popular
romance
fiction.
My
argument
is
that
male
virginity
in
romance
novels
 is
 worthy
 of
 a
 more
 significant
 study
 than
 it
 has
 thus
 far
 been
 afforded—in
 part
 because
 male
 virgins
 are
 treated
 so
 differently
 in
 these
 novels
 from
 the
 ways
 they
 appear
 in
 cinematic
representations,
and
in
part
because
studying
the
virgin
hero
allows
us
to
revisit
 some
 of
 the
 most
 puzzling
 and
 provocative
 of
 Northrop
 Frye’s
 pronouncements
 on
 the
 “romance,”
broadly
considered:
in
particular,
his
claim
that
in
“romance”
there
is
a
“magical
 emphasis
on
virginity,
the
fact
that
virgins
can
do
things
other
can’t”
(CW
XV:219,
236),
but
 that
 “this
 prudery
 [about
 virginity]
 is
 structural,
 not
 moral”
 (CW
 XV:187).
 With
 Frye
 in
 mind,
my
approach
to
the
topic
will
be
anatomical;
that
is,
I
will
anatomise
various
“types”
 of
the
virgin
hero
in
modern
popular
romance
fiction,
with
some
exploration
of
how
they
 overlap
 and
 relate
 to
 one
 another.
 I
 will
 close
 with
 an
 extended
 discussion
 of
 one
 recent
 romance
novel,
When
the
Duke
Returns,
by
Eloisa
James,
to
demonstrate
how
a
single
text
 can
 make
 use
 of
 several
 distinct
 tropes
 concerning
 male
 virginity
 and
 the
 quest‐like
 narrative
structure
surrounding
its
loss.
 To
understand
the
construction
of
male
virgins
in
popular
romance,
we
might
begin
 by
 turning
 to
 the
 burgeoning
 field
 of
 “virginity
 studies.”
 Unfortunately,
 this
 body
 of
 research
so
far
only
contains
the
scantest
of
mentions
of
male
virginity.
In
Hanne
Blank’s
 book,
Virgin:
The
Untouched
History,
the
most
“untouched”
of
topics
is
the
male
virgin;
and
 the
culture
surrounding
male
virginity
is
surprisingly
peripheral
to
Anke
Bernau’s
Virgins:
 A
Cultural
History.
Laura
M.
Carpenter’s
Virginity
Lost:
An
Intimate
Portrait
of
First
Sexual
 Experiences,
 however,
 offers
 us
 insights
 not
 only
 into
 the
 modern
 social
 realities
 of
 male
 virginity,
but
perhaps
also
into
the
silence
surrounding
it
in
scholarship.
While
“girls
can
be
 labelled
 ‘sluts’
 if
 they
 have
 sex
 without
 love,”
 Carpenter
 reports,
 “boys
 can
 be
 labelled
 ‘wimps’
or
even
gay
should
they
not
have
sex
early
enough
in
their
adolescence”
(12).[2]
 Male
virginity
not
only
must
be
lost;
it
must
be
lost
as
quickly
as
possible:
if
Virginia
is
for
 lovers,
 as
 the
 old
 advertisements
 used
 to
 proclaim,
 then
 (male)
 virginity
 is
 for
 losers.
 In
 Frygian
terms,
when
the
male
is
beyond
the
‘normal
age’
to
lose
his
virginity,
he
becomes
 an
 alazon
 figure,
 the
 kind
 who
 serves
 as
 “an
 object
 of
 ridicule
 in
 comedy
 or
 satire”
 (CW
 XXII:331).
 I
 am
 not
 the
 only
 scholar
 to
 make
 this
 connection
 between
 the
 male
 virgin
 in
 popular
culture
and
the
alazon.
In
his
reading
of
the
recent
Hollywood
comedy
The
Forty
 Year
Old
Virgin,
Celestino
Deleyto
struggles
to
argue
that
Andy,
the
hero
of
the
film,
cannot
 quite
be
seen
as
“a
ridiculous
man
or
as
an
Aristotelian
alazon”
because
of
“other
traits
of
 his
character
[that]
are
more
affirmative”
(259).
We
might,
however,
reverse
the
argument,
 since
 those
 affirmative
 traits
 serve
 precisely
 to
 contrast
 and
 counterpoint
 Andy’s
 long‐ enduring
virginity,
which
otherwise
would
indeed
leave
him
simply
“an
object
of
ridicule”
 (Frye,
CW
XXII:331).
He
often
seems
like
one
in
any
case:
as
Deleyto
himself
notes,
“one
of
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 the
 narrative
 and
 commercial
 goals
 of
 the
 centrality
 of
 Andy’s
 sexual
 innocence
 is
 its
 exploitative
 potential:
 it
 becomes
 the
 perfect
 excuse
 for
 the
 deployment
 of
 gross‐out
 discourse
 on
 sexuality”
 (260).
 Inasmuch
 as
 the
 film
 moves
 beyond
 that
 “gross‐out
 discourse”
 into
 telling
 an
 actual
 love
 story
 it
 proves
 itself
 to
 be
 a
 romance,
 rather
 than
 simply
 a
 sex
 farce,
 but
 it’s
 clear
 that
 the
 “Happily
 Ever
 After”
 of
 Andy’s
 romance
 plot
 requires
him
to
lose
his
virginity
to
the
film’s
heroine,
Trish—after
which,
we
are
assured,
 he
will
not
only
retain
all
those
other,
“affirmative”
traits,
but
will
put
them
to
their
proper
 use
in
the
context
of
a
truly
“adult”
(which
is
to
say,
sexual)
relationship.
 The
Forty
Year
Old
Virgin
frequently
invokes
the
discourse
of
ridicule
that
Carpenter
 describes
surrounding
male
virginity:
that
is,
the
question
of
whether
Andy
is
“a
wimp”
or
 “gay.”
It
does
so
for
comic
effect,
notably
in
the
film’s
repeated
bantering
exchanges
about
 “how
I
know
you’re
gay.”
But
one
might
well
wonder
how
the
representation
of
the
virgin
 hero
in
this
film,
which
was
written
and
directed
by
men
(Steve
Carell
and
Judd
Apatow),
 differs
 from
 the
 representation
 of
 the
 virgin
 hero
 in
 popular
 culture
 that
 is
 written
 by
 women,
for
example,
popular
romance
fiction.
 As
Sarah
S.
G.
Frantz
and
Katharina
Rennhak
write
in
their
introduction
to
Women
 Constructing
 Men:
 Female
 Novelists
 and
 Their
 Male
 Characters,
 1750­2000,
 several
 issues
 are
 at
 stake
 in
 the
 study
 of
 female‐authored
 masculinity.
 The
 first
 of
 these
 arises
 from
 questions
of
power.
As
Frantz
and
Rennhak
explain,
feminist
scholars
have
long
studied
the
 ways
 that
 male
 characters
 in
 female‐authored
 texts
 serve
 as
 “catalysts
 for
 the
 subject‐ formation
 of
 the
 female
 characters,
 sparking
 in
 them
 emotional
 reaction
 and
 ideological
 resistance,”
 but
 this
 is
 not
 their
 only
 function.
 Rather,
 “the
 male
 characters
 of
 female
 novelists
 represent
 the
 authors’
 negotiation
 with
 the
 ideologies
 of
 gender,
 class,
 and
 sexuality”
 (3)
 in
 their
 own
 right,
 with
 ideological
 and
 political
 issues
 playing
 out
 in
 the
 literary
 bodies
 and
behaviour
 of
 a
 novel’s
men.
Fictional
men
 are
no
more
 “natural”
 than
 fictional
women;
no
character,
in
short,
is
created
without
an
ideological
potential.
 But
more
than
merely
an
interest
in
ideology
should
draw
us
to
the
study
of
female‐ authored
masculinity.
If,
as
Annette
Kolodny
observes,
a
male
reader
“in
opening
the
pages
 of
 a
 woman’s
 book,
 finds
 himself
 entering
 a
 strange
 and
 unfamiliar
 world
 of
 symbolic
 significance”
 (174),
 part
 of
 that
 strangeness
 and
 unfamiliarity
 may
 lie
 in
 the
 degree
 to
 which
 issues
 of
desire
 play
 out
 in
 the
female
construction
 of
masculinity:
desires
that
the
 male
 reader
 finds
 embodied
 both
 in
 “symbolic”
 ways
 and,
 sometimes,
 quite
 literally.
 As
 Frantz
 and
 Rennhak
 remark,
 “when
 women
 construct
 and
 write
 about
 men
 in
 fictional
 worlds,
 not
 only
 do
 they
 analyze
 the
 causes
 and
 effects
 of
 patriarchy,
 as
 Woolf
 does
 in
 A
 Room
 of
 One’s
 Own,
 but
 they
 also
 construct
 their
 own
 realities,
 imagining
 alternative
 masculinities
 that
 are
 desirable
 from
 a
 woman’s
 perspective”
 (2).
 The
 male
 reader
 may
 thus
confront
an
analytical,
even
diagnostic
representation
of
masculinity
at
its
patriarchal
 worst,
or
he
may
encounter
an
idealised
representation
of
some
“alternative
masculinity”
 at
 its
 post‐
 or
 anti‐
 or
 reformed‐patriarchal
 best—or
 even,
 most
 unsettling
 of
 all,
 he
 may
 face
a
male
figure
who
somehow
combines
or
moves
between
these
extremes.
 The
romance
novel,
of
course—particularly
in
its
popular
manifestation—has
been
 predominantly
theorised
as
being
a
genre
written
“by
women,
for
women.”
What,
then,
can
 we
 say
 about
 the
 virgin
 hero
 of
 the
 romance
 novel?
 How
 might
 he
 be
 read
 in
 political
 or
 ideological
terms?
Might
he
turn
out
to
be
one
of
those
“alternative
masculinities
that
are
 desirable
 from
 a
 woman’s
 perspective”?
 Certainly
 the
 treatment
 of
 the
 virgin
 hero
 in
 romance
fiction
seems
different,
and
generally
more
desirable,
from
the
representation
of
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 male
virginity
seen
in
other
media,
fictional
and
otherwise,
if
only
because
the
virgin
hero
 tends
 to
 be
 a
 complex
 character,
 not
 a
 joke
 to
 be
 laughed
 at
 or
 a
 tragic
 figure
 to
 pity.
 Romance
 novels
 have
been
 criticised
and
 even
 discarded
by
the
 academy
 for
 the
 ways
 in
 which
they
unconsciously
reinforce
patriarchal
norms,
but
when
we
read
these
novels
with
 a
particular
focus
on
the
virgin
hero,
we
find
that
they
are
remarkably
self‐conscious
about
 those
norms,
allowing
us
insights
into
both
gender
and
genre.
 In
my
study
of
virgin
heroes,
I
have
come
across
a
variety
of
archetypes—by
which
I
 mean
a
“typical
or
recurring
image”
(Frye,
CW
XXII:91)
in
literary
and
cultural
texts—of
the
 male
 virgin
 in
 popular
 romance.
 The
 first
 archetype
 is
 the
 sick
 virginal
 hero:
 that
 is,
 the
 hero
who
was,
for
some
specific
period
of
time,
too
sick
or
too
weak
to
lose
his
virginity,
 unable
to
perform
sexually
and
therefore
unable
to
“perform”
adult
masculinity
as
well.
In
 Katherine
Kendall’s
First
and
Forever
(1991),
a
Harlequin
Temptation,
we
are
introduced
to
 a
 mature
 heroine,
 Laura
 Daniels
 (she
 is
 35),
 who
 meets
 a
 younger
 man,
 22
 year
 old
 Alex
 Shaw,
 who
 happens
 to
 be
 a
 virgin.
 “I’ve
 never
 been
 with
 a
 woman,
 Laura,”
 he
 tells
 her
 forthrightly:
 “I’m
 a
 virgin”
 (136).
 The
 announcement
 of
 virginity
 seems
 to
 be
 one
 of
 the
 requirements
of
the
male
virgin
romance
novel:
indeed,
as
far
as
I
can
tell,
all
virgin
heroes
 at
 some
 point
 confess
 that
 they
 are
 virgins,
 as
 though
 this
 articulation
 were
 a
 defining
 feature
of
virginity
itself,
at
least
for
a
romance
hero.
The
romance
heroine’s
virginity,
by
 contrast,
 may
 be
 declared
 aloud,
 but
 it
 is
 often
 also
 “written”
 by
 her
 body
 in
 the
 form
 of
 pain
during
sexual
intercourse,
blood
on
the
sheets,
or
other
signs
that
the
hero
must
read
 and
respond
to—and
if
he
fails
to
see
any
signs,
like
the
hero
in
Maureen
Child’s
atypical
 Last
Virgin
In
California,
this
is
a
surprising
twist
on
the
trope.
(“In
every
book
she’d
ever
 read,
 the
 hero
 always
 noticed
 a
 thing
 like
 that,”
 Child’s
 heroine
 thinks
 to
 herself,
 a
 little
 disappointed
[156].)
 The
speaking‐aloud
of
the
hero’s
virginity
often
arrives,
for
the
sick
virgin
hero,
in
 the
context
of
some
explanation
of
his
wounded,
hence
virginal,
status.
In
the
case
of
Alex
 Shaw,
a
car
accident
gets
the
blame:
“I
was
seventeen.
Guy
hit
me
head
on.
He
crossed
the
 line
 and
 hit
 me.
 When
 I
 woke
 up
 .
 .
 .
 [
 .
 .
 .
 ]
 It’s
 impossible
 for
 me
 to
 covey
 the
 pain,
 the
 horror—the
goddamned
fear”
(135).
Some
of
that
“horror”
spills
over
into
the
depiction
of
 Alex’s
recovery
and
his
life
after
the
accident.
As
he
further
explains:
“While
I
learned
a
lot
 during
 that
 time,
 I
 managed
 to
 miss
 quite
 a
 few
 things
 about
 the
 real
 world.
 I
 feel
 so
 .
 .
 .
 different,
 so
 ignorant
 of
 life.
 I
 never
 really
 had
 any
 friends.
 I
 fell
 behind
 other
 people
 my
 own
 age”
 (136).
 What
 Carpenter
 says
 about
 virginity
 loss
 in
 everyday
 discourse—that
 it
 “represents
 a
 rite
 of
 passage,
 a
 process
 of
 transition
 from
 sexual
 youth
 to
 adulthood”
 (143)—thus
seems
true
in
this
novel,
since
Alex’s
transition
to
adulthood
has
been
delayed
 (“I
 fell
 behind”).
 A
 later
 passage
 makes
 this
 issue
 quite
 explicit.
 “Alex
 was
 a
 boy,”
 the
 heroine
thinks
to
herself.
“He
should
be
making
out
with
girls
in
the
back
seat
of
a
car
at
a
 drive‐in.
 His
 first
 time
 should
 be
 a
 joyful
 adventure.
 Not
 a
 self‐conscious
 performance
 where
the
only
thing
on
his
mind
was
the
review
he’d
receive
the
next
morning”
(140‐41).
 As
 a
 “boy,”
 Alex
 should
 lose
 his
 virginity
 in
 a
 boyish
 way,
 as
 part
 of
 an
 “adventure.”
 Although
he
is
physically
capable
of
“performing”
sexually,
he
seems
here
too
emotionally
 frail
(which
is
to
say,
still
too
much
like
a
child)
to
endure
the
rigors
of
a
female
“review”
of
 his
 “performance,”
 which
 includes
 his
 performance
 of
 adult
 masculinity.
 This
 scene
 concludes
with
Alex
being
sent
home
by
the
heroine,
still
a
virgin,
in
a
cab—it’s
as
though
 he
were
even
too
young
to
drive,
at
least
metaphorically
speaking.
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 The
construction
of
virginal
Alex
as
a
“boy”
in
First
and
Forever
leads
quite
naturally
 into
a
second
common
archetype:
the
student
virgin
hero,
with
the
heroine
as
his
teacher.
 Kendall
makes
the
most
of
the
erotic
potential
built
into
this
archetype,
and
of
the
power
 imbalance
 as
 well.
 When
 Laura
 arrives
 at
 Alex’s
 apartment,
 she
 promptly
 and
 playfully
 takes
charge,
and
Alex
is
glad
to
go
along
with
her
mix
of
metaphor
and
role‐play
scenario:
 
 “Time
 for
 night
 school.”
 Wordlessly
 she
 led
 him
 to
 the
 bedroom
 and
 stationed
him
next
to
the
water
bed.
Kicking
off
her
shoes,
she
turned
on
the
 lamp
next
to
his
bed.
 “Lesson
 number
 one,”
 she
 began
 with
 a
 smile
 that
 put
 to
 rest
 any
 doubts
 about
her
talents
at
seduction.
“Sometimes
it’s
better
with
the
lights
on.”
 Alex
returned
her
smile,
intensifying
it.
“Should
I
take
notes?”
(163)
 
 She
continues
elaborating
a
series
of
lessons:
 
 Laura
closed
her
eyes,
fighting
off
the
lush,
lazy
heat
that
threatened
to
drug
 her
 into
 speechlessness.
 “Lesson
 three,”
 she
 managed
 at
 last,
 opening
 her
 eyes.
“Female
anatomy.”
 “I
think
I’m
going
to
like
this
class.”
(163)
 
 As
the
scene
comes
to
a
climax,
the
power
dynamic
is
reversed,
with
Alex
assuming
 the
generically‐typical
quality
of
sexual
mastery.
Although
she
begins
by
leaving
the
lights
 on,
Laura
eventually
“couldn’t
watch
any
longer,
closing
her
eyes
to
the
delicious
things
he
 was
 doing
 to
 her
 body.
 Things
 no
 man
 had
 ever
 been
 able
 to
 do
 to
 her
 body”
 (167).
 One
 thinks
 of
 Frye’s
 observation
 that,
 in
 a
 romance,
 “virgins
 can
 do
 things
 other
 can’t”
 (CW
 XV:219,
 236)—and,
 perhaps,
 of
 the
 sharp
 contrast
 between
 Alex’s
 immediate
 sexual
 prowess
 and
 the
 Andy’s
 goodhearted,
 fumbling,
 and
 extremely
 brief
 first
 time
 in
 The
 40
 Year
 Old
 Virgin,
 which
 is
 played
 entirely
 for
 comic
 effect.
 Although
 it’s
 true
 that
 the
 two
 men
 both
 respond
 with
 boyish
 enthusiasm
 to
 their
 first
 sexual
 episode—“Wanna
 do
 it
 again?”
 Alex
 asks
 (169)—this
 parallel
 hardly
 cancels
 out
 the
 striking,
 generically‐specific
 difference
between
them
when
it
comes
to
satisfying
the
heroine,
perfectly,
right
from
the
 very
first
time.
 In
 Bonnie
 Dee’s
 The
 Countess
 Takes
 A
 Lover
 (2009),
 we
 see
 a
 variation
 of
 the
 teacher/student
motif,
one
common
enough
to
be
its
own
archetype.
This
time,
the
student
 is
a
genius,
and
in
the
genius
virgin
archetype,
the
hero
has
not
had
sex
because
he
is
simply
 too
 intelligent
 to
 be
 concerned
 with
 carnal
 matters.
 His
 mind
 has
 been
 elsewhere.
 In
The
 Countess
Takes
A
Lover,
readers
are
told
about
a
virgin
hero
of
twenty‐five
years
of
age:
 
 Science
 and
 reason
 had
 always
 been
 the
 guiding
 forces
 of
 his
 life.
 Animal
 impulses
were
for
the
uneducated,
unthinking
louts.
There
must
be
more
to
 life
 than
 satisfying
 base
 lust
 with
 bestial
 coupling;
 otherwise
 the
 whole
 of
 society
 might
 as
 well
 run
 about
 in
 animal
 skins
 cooking
 shanks
 over
 open
 fires.
(31)
 
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 The
 genius
 virgin
 hero
 gives
 visible
 form
 to
 an
 enduring
 dichotomy
 in
 patriarchy:
 that
is,
the
association
of
men
with
intellect
and
the
mind,
and
women
with
emotion,
sex,
 and
the
body.
In
this
line
of
thought,
only
men
are
fully
human—and
as
we
can
see
in
that
 reference
 to
 “uneducated,
 unthinking
 louts,”
 within
 the
 category
 of
 “men,”
 some
 men
 are
 more
 fully
 human
 than
 others.
 Needless
 to
 say,
 the
 novel
 does
 not
 endorse
 this
 line
 of
 thinking—rather
it
introduces
the
dichotomy
in
order
to
undo
it.
 This
 process
 plays
 out
 even
 more
 vividly
 in
 Jo
 Davis’
 Under
 Fire
 (2009).
 Here
 our
 virgin
 hero
 Zack
 Knight,
 26,
 is
 a
 “so‐called
 genius”
 (3),
 while
 the
 heroine,
 Corinne
 “Cori”
 Shannon,
 is
 an
 exotic
 dancer
 who
 works
 for
 private
 parties
 at
 night
 and—to
 trouble
 the
 patriarchal
 dichotomy—also
 studies
 during
 the
 day
 to
 become
 a
 nurse.
 Cori
 exudes
 sexuality:
“she
was
sex
incarnate”
(75)
and
“she
put
the
‘voom’
in
vavoooom”
(11).
Zack’s
 sexuality
is
alluringly
present,
but
repressed,
a
duality
that
plays
out
nicely
in
the
novel’s
 choice
of
career
for
him
(he’s
a
fire
fighter)
and
in
his
behaviour
at
the
outset
of
the
novel.
 “He’d
never
been
good
at
relating
to
women
on
any
level—pathetic,
but
true—”
we
learn,
 “and
now
he
had
to
keep
from
staring
like
an
idiot
at
the
goddess
standing
in
front
of
him”
 (2).
But
if
being
a
“genius”
makes
him
“like
an
idiot,”
this
doesn’t
last:
 Her
 big,
 white
 smile
 blasted
 him
 with
 a
 double
 shot
 of
 desire.
 Awakened
 his
 slumbering
 libido.
 She
 was
 sex
 incarnate,
 a
 treat
 he’d
 never
 sampled.
 He’d
 wondered
 if
 she’d
believe
his
innocence,
then
reminded
himself
it
didn’t
make
any
difference.
Even
if
he
 wasn’t
a
disaster
zone,
Cori
was
way
out
of
his
league.
(75)
 In
this
novel,
as
we’ve
seen
elsewhere,
the
hero
has
to
articulate
his
virginity
to
the
 heroine,
 a
 moment
 that
 shifts
 the
 novel
 back
 into
 the
 student
 /
 teacher
 model
 we
 saw
 in
 First
and
Forever:
 
 “I’m
sort
of
.
.
.
new
at,
you
know
.
.
.
”
 Sitting
 up,
 she
 stared
 at
 him,
 processing
 what
 he’d
 said.
 Holy
 crap!
 “You
 mean,
you’ve
never
gone
down
on
a
woman
before?”
 He
 groaned,
 slapping
 a
 hand
 over
 his
 eyes.
 “More
 than
 that.
 I’ve
 never
 had
 sex
with
a
woman,
period.”
(143)
 
 Following
his
virginal
announcement,
Cori
begins
to
introduce
Zack
to
the
pleasures
 of
 sexuality
 and,
 of
 course,
 not
 only
 does
 he
 lose
 his
 virginity,
 but
 “the
 sex
 was
 pretty
 damned
amazing”
(149),
not
embarrassing,
frustrating,
or
disappointing,
to
either
party.
 The
discourse
of
male
virginity
in
Under
Fire
also
introduces
us
to
a
fourth
common
 archetype:
 the
 virgin
 hero
 as
 commodity.
 “Good
 god,”
 Cori
 ponders
 at
 one
 point,
 “how
 on
 earth
had
she
snared
one
of
the
last
sexy
male
virgins
over
the
age
of
twenty‐one?”
(143).
 Such
a
construction
of
female
virginity
is
certainly
not
novel
in
any
sense;
female
virginity
 has
 long
 been
 prized
 and
 required
 at
 marriage,
 reducing
 women
 to
 the
 status
 of
 commodities.
The
commodification
of
male
virginity,
by
contrast,
is
rarely
so
reductive
as
 female
virginity—and
when
it
is,
when
the
male
is
now
commodified
and
spoken
of
as
an
 object,
a
virgin,
rather
than
as
a
subject
(who
just
happens
to
be
a
virgin),
this
reduction
is
 often
 played
 for
 comedy.
 Consider
 Katherine
 Deauxville’s
 The
 Last
 Male
 Virgin
 (2002)
 in
 which
 we
 are
 introduced
 to
 Dr.
 Peter
 Havistock,
 “the
 author
 of
 the
 surprise
 bestselling
 book
Determining
Anthropological
and
Developmental
Social
Factors
Among
the
Papua
New
 Guinea
Aborigines
in
the
Antorok
Valley”
(6).
Indeed,
his
celebrity
is
so
popular
that
readers
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 learn
that
“[t]he
Harry
King
show
called.
They
want
me
to
be
interviewed
on
CNN
tonight”
 (23).
 Havistock,
 in
 this
 interview,
 explains
 how
 he
 survived
 a
 plane
 crash
 that
 killed
 his
 parents—a
 variation,
 perhaps,
 on
 the
 sick
 or
 wounded
 virgin
 motif—and
 how
 he
 subsequently
spent
a
great
deal
of
time
in
the
jungles
of
Papua
New
Guinea.
Pressed
by
an
 interviewer,
he
has
no
embarrassment
about
his
state:
“I
believe
what
you
are
getting
at
is
 that
I’m
still
a
virgin,”
he
says
(39).
For
Havistock
there
is
nothing
out
of
the
ordinary
about
 his
 lack
 of
 sexual
 experience;
 for
 Harry
 King
 and
 his
 viewers,
 there
 is
 nothing
 but
 shock:
 “I’m
sorry,
Doctor,
I’m
told
our
lines
are
jammed,
so
we
are
going
to
have
to
answer
some
of
 these
calls.
It
seems
a
lot
of
people
would
like
to
talk
to
you”
(40‐41).
The
question
of
why
 the
 phone
 lines
 are
 jammed
 is
 quickly
 answered:
 Havistock
 has
 become
 a
 fetishised
 commodity.
 Deauxville
 clearly
 has
 fun,
 throughout
 the
 novel,
 playing
 with
 popular
 culture
 stereotypes
 and
 readers’
 expectations.
 Havistock,
 for
 example,
 is
 utterly
 unfazed
 by
 his
 virginal
identity,
with
no
fear
that
it
brands
him
as
a
“wimp”
or
as
“gay”
or
as
something
 less
than
an
adult
man.
Indeed,
he
turns
the
tables
on
a
woman
who
gives
voice
to
those
 views:
 
 Leslie
snapped.
“To
many
people
in
our
society
here
in
the
U.S.,
and
maybe
to
 most
of
the
world,
a
man
who
is
twenty‐nine
years
old
and
hasn’t
had
sex
is
.
.
 .
is
.
.
.
unnatural!”
 He
raised
his
eyebrows.
“Hmm.
You
mean
it’s
assumed
that
at
my
advanced
 age
I
must
simply
be
more
interested
in
having
sex
with
myself?”
 Leslie
 couldn’t
 help
 a
 little
 shudder.
 “I
 don’t
 believe
 you
 know
 how
 unattractive
that
sounds.”
 “Nevertheless,
that’s
what
you
implied.
Damn.
Is
that
what
the
majority
of
the
 citizens
 in
 the
 United
 States
 believe
 I’ve
 been
 doing
 for
 the
 past
 fourteen
 years?”
 She
 hesitated.
 “Well,
 I
 know
 it
 sounds
 bad,
 but
 can
 you
 blame
 them
 for
 thinking
it?”
(89)
 
 Playing
 with
 the
 usual
 Romantic‐primitivist
 assumption
 that
 indigenous
 cultures
 are
more
sexually
open
than
the
West—Havistock’s
book
recalls
Margaret
Mead’s
famous
 Coming
of
Age
in
Samoa,
just
as
his
name
recalls
that
of
sex
researcher
Havelock
Ellis—our
 virgin
 hero
 explains
 that
 “[f]rustration
 and
 sexual
 repression
 have
 no
 meaning
 in
 their
 [Antorok]
 language;
 they
 don’t
 think
 of
 themselves
 that
 way”
 (Deauxville
 93).
 In
 such
 a
 cultural
 context,
 many
 of
 the
 meanings
 of
 male
 virginity
 seem
 to
 fall
 away,
 leaving
 Havistock
quite
bemused
by
his
effect
on
American
women:
 
 “And
they
[Antorok]
would
never
understand
why
my
saying
I’m
a
virgin
on
 television
 is
 evidently
 like
 a
 shot
 of
 Viagra
 to
 apparently
 hundreds
 of
 women.”
 “Women
don’t
take
Viagra!
At
least,
I
don’t
think
they
do.
But
you’re
.
.
.
you’re
 an
aphrodisiac,
that’s
for
sure.”
(93)
 
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 Although
he
shares
some
traits
with
the
sick
virgin
hero
and
the
genius
virgin
hero,
 Havistock’s
 openly
 announced
 “aphrodisiac”
 quality
 seems
 linked
 neither
 to
 a
 boyish
 arrested
development
nor
to
a
charmingly
awkward
repression
of
the
body.
It’s
all
about
 his
 status
 as
 a
 commodity,
 a
 rare
 thing
 that
 can
 be
 desired,
 when
 it’s
 advertised
 on
 television,
by
hundreds
of
women
at
once.
 In
conclusion,
I
want
to
consider
the
ways
these
various
archetypes
come
together
 in
a
particularly
complex
novel
with
a
virgin
hero,
Eloisa
James’s
Regency
historical
novel
 When
 the
 Duke
 Returns.
 The
 novels
 of
 Eloisa
 James
 have
 a
 rather
 large
 number
 of
 male
 virgins;
by
my
count,
at
least
five
of
her
novels
incorporate
them,
and
this
repeated
use
of
 the
trope
suggests
an
effort
to
explore
its
narrative
and
symbolic
possibilities.
This
novel
 tells
 the
 story
 of
 a
 duke,
 Simeon,
 who
 returns
 home
 to
 his
 wife,
 Isidore.
 The
 pair
 was
 married
via
proxy
while
he
was
travelling
through
exotic
lands;
upon
his
return
the
twenty‐ three
 year
 old
 bride‐now‐wife
 realises,
 to
 her
 disappointment,
 that
 her
 groom‐now‐ husband
 (six
 years
 her
 senior)
 not
 only
 is
 a
 virgin,
 but
 intends
 to
 remain
 one.
 The
 first
 chapter
emphasises
this
departure
from
the
usual
male‐virginity
trope:
 
 “He’s
a
virgin.”
 “What!”
 “He’s
a
virgin
and—”
 “Your
husband
is
a
virgin?”
 “And
he
won’t
bed
me.”
 
 Jemma,
 Duchess
 of
 Beaumont,
 sank
 into
 her
 chair
 with
 a
 look
 of
 almost
 comical
 dismay
on
her
face.
“Darling,
if
there
were
ever
grounds
for
annulment,
these
are
they.
Or
 this
is
it,”
she
added
with
some
confusion.
“Is
he
some
sort
of
monk?”
(11)
 The
 attention
 to
 language
 here,
 as
 Isidore’s
 friend
 Jemma
 wonders
 whether
 these
 “grounds
for
annulment”
should
be
singular
or
plural,
reminds
us
that
the
hero’s
virginity,
 too,
 is
 partly
 a
 matter
 of
 language:
 in
 the
 romance
 novel,
 as
 I
 argued
 above,
 it
 must
 be
 announced
and
articulated
to
be
real.
 As
 this
 opening
 chapter
 continues,
 the
 female
 friends
 repeatedly
 discuss
 male
 virginity
 as
 an
 emasculating,
 even
 monstrous
 phenomenon.
 “What
 sort
 of
 man
 stays
 a
 virgin
 until
 he’s
 near
 to
 thirty?”
 Isidore
 demands.
 “That’s
 almost
 disgusting.
 How
 am
 I
 supposed
to
introduce
him
to
the
bedroom,
Jemma?
Men
do
this
sort
of
thing
on
their
own.
 Honestly,
if
he’s
never
used
his
equipment—well,
who’s
to
say
that
it
will
function
at
all?”
 (13).
 In
 part,
 of
 course,
 this
 speech
 reveals
 her
 anxiety—Isidore,
 too,
 is
 a
 virgin,
 not
 an
 older,
more
experienced
woman
like
Laura
in
First
and
Forever—and
in
part
it
reveals
her
 frustration
about
being
treated
as
a
commodity,
“Isidore,
property
of
the
duke”
(10)
rather
 than
 as
 a
 woman
 with
 her
 own
 emotional,
 social,
 and
 even
 sexual
 desires.
 Jemma’s
 agreement
 that
 “incapability
 lies
 at
 the
 heart
 of
 this
 situation”
 (20),
 however,
 as
 the
 conversation
 end,
 shows
 that
 the
 novel
 is
 aware
 of
 and
 informed
 by
 modern
 American
 discourse
about
male
virginity
as
a
sign
of
lack,
something
for
wimps.
Never,
for
example,
 do
the
women
praise
Simeon
for
having
remained
loyal
for
eleven
years
to
his
proxy
bride;
 instead,
he
seems
at
fault
for
not
having
learned
about
“this
sort
of
thing
on
[his]
own”
(13).
 Given
the
elaborate
explanations
other
novels
have
offered
for
the
hero’s
virginity,
 we
might
expect
to
find
something
comparable
here,
and
we
do.
Simeon,
it
seems,
spent
his
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 childhood
 “long[ing]
 to
 escape
 his
 parents’
 pitched
 battles”
 (22)—a
 version
 of
 the
 sick
 virgin
 archetype—and
 as
 an
 adult
 he
 now
 aspires
 to
 “quell”
 any
 strong
 emotion
 and
 be
 instead
a
“follower
of
the
Middle
Way”
(22),
a
vaguely
Eastern
philosophical
discipline
he
 adopts
during
three
years
of
“rigorous
solitude”
in
India.
(57).
The
novel
explicitly
links
this
 philosophy’s
 aspiration
 to
 mastery
 over
 emotions
 and
 the
 body
 with
 a
 particular
 construction
 of
 masculinity:
 he
 spent
 those
 years
 “learning
 endurance,
 manliness,
 the
 Middle
Way,”
we
read;
“he
had
learned
to
create
an
oasis
of
calm
around
himself,
no
matter
 what
happened”
(57).
Clearly,
then,
Simeon
is
not
just
a
version
of
the
sick
virgin,
but
also
a
 version
 of
 the
 genius
 virgin
 as
 well,
 a
 man
 who
 embodies
 the
 patriarchal
 split
 between
 body
 and
 mind,
 alternatively
 disciplining
 or
 ignoring
 the
 former,
 “animal”
 side
 of
 himself
 and
identifying
only
with
the
latter,
“principled,
thoughtful”
side
that
makes
him
a
“human
 being”
(162).
 In
this
novel,
the
genius
virgin
tends
to
pride
himself
not
just
on
his
intellect,
but
on
 his
self‐control.
When
his
Indian
teacher
Valamksepa
“used
to
recite
the
poetry
of
Rumi,”
 we
learn,
“Simeon
had
exulted
because
he
was
free
from
the
embarrassments
described
by
 the
poet,”
particularly
the
way
that
“reason
was
powerless”
in
the
face
of
desire
(162).
At
 one
point,
Isidore
laments
that
“she
had
the
remarkable
bad
luck
to
be
married
to
the
one
 man
 in
 control
 of
 his
 body”
 (206),
 but
 Simeon
 associates
 the
 absence
 of
 self‐control
 with
 “violent
 tempests
 of
 emotion”
 (162)
 both
 inside
 himself
 and
 between
 members
 of
 his
 household,
as
he
witnessed
with
his
parents.
This
issue
of
control,
or
the
lack
of
it,
is
crucial
 to
 the
 point
 in
 James’
 narrative
 where
 both
 hero
 and
 heroine
 lose
 their
 virginities.
 “That
 was
the
wonderful
thing
about
it—there
wasn’t
an
ounce
of
composure
about
Simeon
now,
 nothing
of
the
controlled
man,”
Isidore
marvels.
“His
face
was
alive
with
pleasure”
(263).
In
 this
 scene,
 self‐control
 begins
 to
 take
 on
 a
 new
 meaning,
 redefined
 or
 displaced
 into
 the
 sexual
act:
“I
can’t
control
myself
much
longer,”
Simeon
 says
as
he
makes
love
to
Isidore,
 and
 to
 her
 delight
 “his
 voice
 sounded
 dark
 and
 anguished”
 (263).
 As
 the
 scene
 ends,
 the
 narrator
locates
us
squarely
in
Simeon’s
point
of
view:
“[p]leasure
was
roaring
in
his
legs,
 and
Isidore
was
meeting
him
now,
raising
her
lips
in
a
way
that
made
him
want
to
bite
her
 on
the
collarbone,
act
like
a
rampaging
beast”
(264).
Finally
during
the
orgasmic
moment,
 we
are
told,
“[h]e
threw
his
head
back
and
roared
like
a
man
who
was
never
quiet,
like
a
 lion
claiming
his
mate”
(264):
a
clear
signal
that
he
has
finally
come
to
inhabit
and
“claim”
 his
own
animal
nature.
 With
 this
 turn,
 Simeon’s
 virginal
 journey
 might
 seem
 to
 be
 complete.
 However,
 unlike
earlier
novels
considered
in
this
study,
the
post‐coital
moments
in
James’s
text
are
 not
spent
considering
the
completion
or
perfection
of
the
sexual
experience;
that
is,
the
sex
 was
 not
 entirely
 satisfying,
 neither
 for
 Isidore
 (who
 has
 yet
 to
 climax,
 and
 who
 finds
 Simeon’s
 semen
 rather
 disgusting)
 nor
 for
 the
 hero
 himself.
 “‘We
 weren’t
 very
 good,’
 he
 said
 propping
 himself
 upon
 an
 elbow”
 (267).
 Having
 both
 become
 sexual
 subjects,
 this
 couple
 must
 now
 learn
 to
 be
 ‘good’
 at
 it:
 a
 remarkable
 displacement
 and
 revision
 of
 the
 teacher
 /
 student
 motif
 that
 I
 discussed
 earlier.
 Simeon
 is
 quite
 willing
 to
 act
 as
 both
 student
and
teacher,
asking
Isidore
a
series
of
questions
about
her
sexual
body
and
offering
 to
 demonstrate
 certain
 aspects
 and
 capacities
 of
 his.
 She
 finds
 the
 questions
 and
 offers
 startling:
 in
 response
 to
 his
 inquiry
 about
 how
 it
 feels
 to
 have
 breasts,
 for
 example,
 she
 initially
 replies
 “How
 does
 it
feel?
 Simeon,
 do
 you
 think
 you’re
 a
 normal
 man”
 (267).
 The
 fact
that
she
does
so
with
“a
delicious
low
gust
of
laughter,”
however,
shows
that
the
novel
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 does
 not
 consider
 being
 a
 “normal”
 man
 an
 entirely
 good
 thing,
 since
 it
 implies
 a
 lack
 of
 curiosity
about
women,
or
at
least
women’s
sexual
subjectivity.
 The
 first
 time
 marks
 a
 juncture
 between
 having
 completed
 the
 necessary
 act
 of
 virginity
loss
and
becoming
a
sexual
subject;
however,
as
we
likely
know,
the
first
time
is
 hardly
ever
a
good
time,
let
alone
“pretty
damned
amazing,”
as
it
was
in
Under
Fire
(149).
 But
 James’
 novel
 does
 not
 simply
 distinguish
 between
 sexual
 activity
 (i.e.
 losing
 one’s
 virginity)
 and
 sexual
 happiness
 (which
 is
 to
 say,
 being
 “good”
 at
 sex,
 or
 making
 it
 both
 enjoyable
 and
 satisfying
 for
 both
 partners).
 It
 further
 distinguishes
 between
 sexual
 happiness
 and
 marital
 happiness,
 which
 requires
 much
 more
 than
 mere
 sexual
 compatibility.
 The
 final
 hundred
 pages
 of
 the
 novel
 focus
 primarily
 on
 how
 the
 couple
 arrives
 at
 the
 latter.
 But
 in
 an
 elegant
 turn,
 James
 frames
 the
 couple’s
 mutual
 struggle
 towards
marital
success
in
the
same
terms
that
shape
their
virginity
loss
and
subsequent
 sexual
 education.
 The
 two
 forms
 of
 happiness
 cannot
 be
 reduced
 to
 one
 another,
 but
 the
 obstacles
to
both,
and
the
lessons
that
must
be
learned
to
achieve
both,
are
set
in
parallel.
 Control,
vulnerability,
respect,
the
desire
to
belong
to
a
beloved
and
to
possess
him
or
her
 (not
exclusively
as
a
rare
commodity,
although
not
entirely
not
as
a
rare
commodity):
these
 topics
and
their
key
terms
come
up
in
each
context.
 The
final
moments
of
the
novel
offer
a
scene
that
embodies
this
parallelism.
As
the
 novel
enters
its
closing
chapters,
there
has
been
a
constant,
even
growing
tension
about
the
 success
 of
 the
 marriage;
 indeed,
 “the
 king
 has
 interested
 himself
 personally
 in
 the
 dissolution
of
[Simeon’s]
marriage,”
we
learn,
“on
the
ground
of
[his]
insanity”
(342).
But
 after
 a
 series
 of
 melodramatic
 twists
 and
 rescues—and
 the
 novel
 itself
 calls
 them
 “melodramas”
 (346)—the
 couple
 find
 themselves
 ensconced
 in
 a
 sumptuous
 carriage,
 a
 vehicle
metonymous
with
marriage,
enjoying
a
passionate
scene
in
which
sex
and
love
and
 companionate
 union
 are
 inextricably
 conjoined.
 “In
 the
 moments
 that
 followed,
 broken
 only
 by
 their
 whispered
 endearments,”
 we
 read,
 Simeon
 “realized
 something
 his
 heart
 already
 knew.
 They
 were
 partners”
 (363).
 And,
 as
 we
 learn
 in
 the
 novel’s
 two‐part
 epilogue,
 their
 marriage
 is
 not
 only
 re‐consecrated
 after
 this,
 but
 “a
 year
 or
 so
 later”
 the
 couple
 become
 the
 parents
 of
 triplets
 (371),
 each
 of
 them
 a
 “living,
 breathing,
 adorable
 source
of
chaos”
(372).
As
Simeon
thinks
to
himself
in
the
closing
lines
of
the
text,
“living
in
 a
clean
tent
on
the
banks
of
the
Ganges
river”
leaves
one
with
“no
gummy
smiles,
no
warm
 little
bundles,
no
beautiful,
impetuous
wives,
no
responsibilities.
.
.
.
No
life.
Real
life”
(373).
 Isidore’s
 pregnancy
 and
 childbirth
 are
 thus
 metaphorically
 shared:
 the
 metaphorical
 virginity
 loss
 of
 their
 true,
 marital
 union
 (rather
 than
 of
 their
 first
 sexual
 encounter)
 has
 transformed
each
of
them
into
a
child‐rearing,
if
not
child‐bearing,
parent.
 To
 close,
 virginity
 in
 popular
 romance
 fiction
 is
 never
 simple,
 even—or
 perhaps
 especially—for
when
the
virgin
is
the
romance
hero.
Romance
authors
do
not
simply
treat
 the
 male
 virgin
 as
 an
 alazon
 or
 ridiculous
 character
 who
 is
 simply
 in
 need
 of
 sex,
 post‐ haste;
 instead,
 writers
 of
 romance
 treat
 male
 virginity
 as
 a
 topic
 worthy
 of
 serious
 consideration
and
sometimes
quite
elaborate
exploration.
No
matter
which
archetypes
he
 belongs
 to,
 the
 virgin
 hero
 can
 be
 read
 as
 a
 narrative
 trope,
 whether
 moral,
 structural,
 ideological,
 or
 as
 an
 opportunity
 to
 explore
 female
 desire.
 But
 more
 than
 that,
 in
 some
 contemporary
popular
romance
fiction—as
in
the
James
novel—the
male
virgin
asks
us
to
 read
him
through
all
of
these
lenses
at
once
and
by
turns:
a
complexity
that
borders
on
the
 complexity
 of
 male
 virginity
 in
 real
 life,
 if
 one
 can
 still
 speak
 of
 “real
 life”
 in
 an
 academic
 context.
Romance
novels
have
been
criticised
and
even
discarded
by
many
in
the
academy
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 for
the
ways
in
which
they
apparently
reinforce
patriarchal
norms,
but
when
we
read
these
 novels
with
a
particular
focus
on
male
virginity,
we
find
that
romance
novelists
are
quite
 conscious
of
these
norms,
and
they
sometimes
break
new
ground
in
both
gender
and
genre.
 Male
 virginity
 may
 receive
 its
 most
 honest
 and
 most
 complete
 fictional
 treatment
 in
 the
 genre
pervasively
written
“by
women,
for
women”:
the
popular
romance
novel.
 
 
 The
 author
 gratefully
 acknowledges
 the
 financial
 support
 of
 the
 Social
 Sciences
 and
 Humanities
Research
Council
of
Canada
and
of
the
Romance
Writers
of
America.
 
 [1]
For
further
contextualization
of
Snitow’s
place
in
the
canon
of
critical
theory
of
 romance,
see
Pamela
Regis’s
“What
Do
Critics
Owe
the
Romance?”
in
this
issue.
 [2]
 My
 study
 does
 not
 attend
 to
 matters
 of
 queer
 or
 gay
 virginities
 in
 popular
 romance;
 however,
 there
 is
 much
 to
 be
 said
 about
 this
 concern.
 Queer
 virginities
 are
 problematic
 precisely
 because
 they
 define
 themselves
 in
 contradistinction
 to
 the
 overarching
 heteronormative
 definitions
 of
 virginity,
 which
 are
 dependent
 upon
 penile/vaginal
 penetration
 as
 a
 deciding
 factor.
 In
 male/male
 romance,
 for
 instance,
 the
 presentation
of
virginity
loss
is
not
always
dependent
upon
penetration
(either
actively
or
 passively).
As
such,
this
study
brackets
this
area
of
concern
as
another
space
wherein
the
 polemics
of
virginity
in
m/m
romance
can
be
further
discussed
and
developed.
What
does
 seem
certain
is
that
the
tripartite
process
discussed
in
this
article
does,
for
the
most
part,
 hold
true.
However,
there
is
one
striking
difference
that
must
be
attended
to
in
a
study
that
 would
 consider
 virginity
 in
 these
 textual
 spaces;
 that
 is,
 there
 is
 often
 a
 necessary
 recognition
of
the
epistemology
of
the
closet
and
a
surrendering
of
the
previous,
closeted,
 identity.
 But,
 it
 must
 further
 be
 acknowledged
 that
 this
 is
 not
 always
 the
 case;
 likewise,
 sometimes
heroes
of
these
novels
have
had
sex
with
women.
Clearly
the
matter
of
virginity
 in
male/male
romance
is
complicated
and
deserves
to
be
studied
further.
 
 Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1
 
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