Come on, admit it. You read romance novels. Not very often, perhaps, and not very publicly, but you do. Hey, we all do, including yours truly. I buy them for a buck from the "desperate to unload" rack at the drugstore and prop them on my Nordic Track during my morning exercise. Nothing like a good bodice-ripping to start the day on a high note. Others pick them up for even less at used bookstores — and the used ones, as Wild Rice points out, are already creased in all the right places. I've even seen whole series purchased in bulk at dollar-a-pound book sales.
Fabio on the cover, a combination of "carnal" and "innocence" in the title, the whole bit. Some are naughty, some are sweet, some revolve around main characters with children, some center around finding romance within religious guidelines. Some are historical, some are so modern they could have been written last week. No matter how specialized, they're all different versions of the same fairytale, all meant to make the reader believe that this True Love Experience could happen to her (or, increasingly, to him). And why shouldn't she believe? Romances are one step removed from science fiction in that way; whereas with sci-fi you know the story can't really come true, with romance you can hold out at least a little hope. If you kiss enough frogs or turn enough pages, maybe one day you'll find your prince. And if not, it's still fun to shop.