So, I just discovered that I might be… how do I put it politely… romantically aroused by applied science.
I was innocently scrolling through Inkitt’s tag list for my new orc-human romance (yes, Zhak’orr, I still love you, you tusked menace) when I stumbled across the tag “monster fucker.”
Naturally, I thought, “Surely this can’t be that bad.”
Spoiler: it was worse.
Centaurs. Minotaurs. Dragons. Things with ratios.
And you know what? I wasn’t appalled because it was gross or weird or whatever—no, no, no. I was appalled because 90% of those scenarios are physically impossible. (I’m not kink shaming anyone!)
Like, ma’am. Sir. That’s not erotic, that’s a geometry problem.
You’d need a physics degree and a pulley system to make that scene work.
And don’t even get me started on those poor FMCs with chronic illnesses in smut scenes—like Violet (hi, Ms Yarros), the delicate angel with joint issues who somehow survived being pinned to a wall by a 2-meter man without dislocating a single limb. I call B.S. That’s not romance, that’s a medical emergency waiting to happen.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here trying to calculate whether an 50cm height difference is mechanically sustainable without one of them needing a chiropractor or divine intervention.
Anyway. I’ve come to terms with it. I’m not a monster-fucker, I’m a logistics-fucker.
I’m in it for the math, the bone structure, and the sheer Newtonian madness of it all.
Conclusion: I am, in fact, mentally ill. But it’s the fun kind — the one that writes fanfic equations in the margins of the Kama Sutra.