Growing up. No thank you.
My house was littered with red solo cups, empty potato chip bags, barbies and romance novels. My mother got my sisters hooked in 5th grade, a bandwagon I never jumped on. It rode past and I waved my no thank you's, mocking their simple minds and codependency.

Then he bought me a Kindle.
Oh has a fire ever been kindled in my life, a spark deep in my gut. Not the ****** pirate books filled with ***** bosoms and ***** flexing muscles. No, and not the cliche millionaire with mommy issues falling for the average, helpless, clumsy but persistent "Jane". No, I mean the normal pretty cute girl fallen for the best friend of 10 years who saved her everyday from the memories of her childhood loss. I mean the steamy love scenes and the dramatic losses only to found again in the end.

I'm a sucker.
A straight sucker for the 99 cent heart pounding dramatizations of a life that's a roller coaster revolving around a fiery misplaced love. Gosh, we're talking lunch break, city bus rides, leaned up against the computer at work in between guests. Bundled on the couch with Chai and my kindle diving head first into a tragic love affair.

It gets me through the annoying sound of her Boston accent Wednesday through Friday. It tears me away from the less desirable moments of a real love affair called marriage. It takes me up and down with the thundering pulse of the characters involved.  

Then comes the guilt.
The looking over my shoulder while I ride the city bus in the middle of a hot and steamy love making session, slightly tucking my kindle into my body, not wanting to put it down. It's the guilt that my gut knows how to react to a book a little too well. It's the heat in my veins and the pounding in my chest.

Dear lord, I'm a sinner.
I find no true guilt in the pleasure.