Once upon a time there was a genre called Romance; and many women did read it, the young and the old together. And there was much enjoying of descriptions of swells of waves and rising doves and sheets of raw sensation, and many fadings to black.

But the hearts of some women were troubled. “Lo,” said they, “we do live in the 21st century, yet our stories of that which passes between a man and a woman involve exceeding numbers of waves, and doves, and other things which are not meet to have in a bed. Let us write out the whole scene, without the fading to black, that we may fully experience the relationship between true loves.”

And the hearts of some of the women were troubled no more, for the tempest had moved to their pants. And there it did stay, and they were much pleased with it.

But the hearts of other women were now troubled. “Lo,” said they, “this genre is called Romance, that is the tale of the relationship between a man and a woman. It is not meet to have stickiness and squelchings; such things are not spiritual, and it brings great shame upon they who read them.”

But the readers paid no heed, for they had gotten to The Good Bits.

“LO,” said the troubled ones more loudly, “IT IS A SHAME UPON THE NAME OF ROMANCE THAT SUCH SQUELCHINGS AND ROLLINGS AND TOUSLINGS SHOULD BE PART OF THE TALES.”

But the readers still paid no heed, for the rollings and touslings were shameful indeed, and the lovers were so loath to part that they were nigh to falling off the kitchen table upon which they performed their shameless acts; and the villain was in the room below and would hear the thump, and come up to investigate, and be as horrified by the deed as were the troubled women, though to rather more interesting effect. And the readers were loath to put their books down.

“SUCH BOOKS DO NOT DESERVE THE NAME OF ROMANCE,” said the troubled women, “FOR VERILY, THEY ARE PORN.”

“Good idea!” said a reader, and rushed off to found her own online press, which would specialize in such shameless works. And lo, did the works come to be known as “erotic romance.”

“Erotic romance is not romance at all!” cried the troubled women, who were becoming known as the old guard. “It is titillation for the sake of titillation, mere sex between a woman and a–HEY, THAT’S NOT A WOMAN!”

And it was not. For the writers of erotic romance had said unto one another, “Verily, if one man is hot, two are hotter, and really we don’t need the heroine at all.”

“And,” said another writer, “loving and supportive relationships are all very well and good, but personally, I find nothing more supportive than a leather harness suspended from the ceiling.”

“But what will the hero do with his wings?” said one writer.

The other writers turned to her. “Wings?”

“My hero is an angel,” the writer said, scuffing her foot shamefacedly. “It’s just something silly, a little fancy, I just kind of like–”

“–vampires?” said one writer.

“Werewolves?” said another.

“Shapeshifting dragons and the fairy knights who love them?” said a third.

And the writers all agreed that the requirement that the lovers be human was outdated and due for an overhaul.

And lo, did the readers read the books, and find them good. Very good. Very, very good. Especially that one about the leopard shapeshifters who had public gay sex for the purpose of determining who would be the pride’s next… something or other, did it really matter?

And lo, did the notion of “crack” enter the newborn genre. And no one paid enough attention to declare it either good or bad, for they were all too busy reading BDSM about alien vampire cat shifters in steampunk London.

The hearts and minds of the old guard were troubled exceedingly, but no one paid them any mind, either, for all they shouted was, “No one wants to read about gay men having sex!” And lo, did the falsehood of this amuse them all, the young and the old, who gathered to read erotic romance and enjoy tales of love that contained neither waves nor doves unless the lovers were feeding the birds on the beach.

And that is the tale of how erotic romance came to be.

No, really, what’s erotic romance?

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