I used to consume romance novels like junk food; guilty pleasures to whisk me away from reality into a fantasy world of alpha males and the women who loved them. I'd get lost in these books, feeling sympathy-anguish for the heroines along with sympathy-arousal. Some of my earliest orgasms were achieved leaning on one elbow, book in hand, while the fingers of my other hand were hidden beneath the covers of my bed, busily stroking and circling my clitoris.
In my masturbatory fantasies I was the heroine being awakened to her sexuality by an experienced and masterful hero. Often, said hero was a dominating rat bastard who only redeemed his asshole behavior after becoming captivated by the plucky virgin and humbled in the face of true love. I'd been reading these novels on and off for 20 years before losing my virginity at a humiliatingly late age. By then I'd graduated the Harlequin novels and moved on to bodice-rippers of the 80's which were shockingly politically incorrect (at the time, abusive behavior by the 'hero', including rape, was not uncommon). It was softcore porn, basically. And I loved it.
Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Was I predisposed to be attracted to the Alpha Hero and thus found my secret fantasies in these books? Or did the hundreds upon hundreds of books shape my predilections for dominant men who don't treat me very well? To be fair, I have many issues regarding the male-female dynamic, daddy-issues being at the top of the list; but that's another story...