paper

“Safe
Sex
with
Defanged
Vampires:
New
Vampire
Heroes
in
Twilight
 and
the
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries”
 
 Chiho
Nakagawa
 
 
 
 Published
online:
October
2011
 http://www.jprstudies.org

 
 
 Abstract:
 Stephanie
 Meyer’s
 Twilight
 saga
 and
 Charlaine
 Harris’s
 Southern
 Vampire
 Mysteries
both
portray
a
romance
between
a
human
female
and
a
male
vampire,
borrowing
 many
conventions
from
romance
novels
and
Gothic
fiction.
Both
series
 introduce
a
new
 breed
of
vampires
that
refrain
from
drinking
human
blood,
betraying
the
traditional
image
 of
 vampires
 as
 sexually
 transgressive
 creatures.
 The
 romantic
 plotlines
 between
 the
 heroines
and
those
safe
vampire
heroes
reflect
contemporary
women’s
lowered
sense
of
 danger
concerning
sexuality
and
heightened
sense
of
danger
in
terms
of
the
boundaries
of
 self,
 yet
 each
 of
 the
 series
 shows
 a
 completely
 different
 development
 from
 each
 other.
 Twilight
ends
with
a
fairytale
ending
free
from
worries
and
responsibilities,
while
Sookie
of
 the
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries
realizes
that
her
safe
hero
is
not
safe
after
all,
and
that
she
 has
 to
 reconsider
her
perception
of
 sexuality
and
self
 in
order
 to
negotiate
 the
 risk
of
 contemporary
romance.
 
 About
the
Author:
Chiho
Nakagawa
is
an
Associate
Professor
at
Nara
Women’s
University
 in
Japan.
She
teaches
Gothic
fiction
and
American
literature,
as
well
as
Gender
studies.
She
 has
 published
 papers
 on
 Shirley
 Jackson,
 Mary
 E.
 Wilkins
 Freeman,
 Charles
 Brockden
 Brown,
etc.
Her
current
research
interest
includes
spiritualism
and
neurasthenia.
 
 Keywords:
boundaries
of
self,
Chiho
Nakagawa,
Gothic,
hero‐villains,
Southern
Vampire
 Mysteries,
Twilight,
Vampire
fiction
 
 
 


Although
 we
 are
 witnessing
 a
 surge
 of
 vampire
 novels
 and
 movies
 today,
 this
 popularity
is
not
merely
a
contemporary
phenomenon.
Many
vampire‐themed
stories
have
 been
written
since
the
publication
of
the
first
popular
vampire
novel,
Dracula
(1897),
and
 many
TV
shows
and
films
have
been
produced,
notably
including
Nosferatu
(1922),
Blood


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


and
 Roses
 (1960),
 TV
 series
 Dark
 Shadows
 (1966‐1971)
 and
 Buffy
 the
 Vampire
 Slayer
 (1997‐2003),
 its
 spin‐off
 Angel
 (1999‐2004),
 and
 Underworld
 (2003).
 Of
 contemporary
 vampire
media,
two
examples
are
of
particular
interest
to
popular
romance
scholars,
both
 because
of
their
extraordinary
popularity
and
because
of
their
distinctive
deployments
of
 romance
plots:
the
Twilight
saga,
which
started
as
a
series
of
novels
and
has
been
made
 into
a
series
of
films,
and
Charlaine
Harris’s
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries
(SVM),
sometimes
 also
known
as
the
Sookie
Stackhouse
Novels,
after
its
female
protagonist,
which
has
been
 adapted
 into
 the
 HBO
 TV
 drama
 series
 True
 Blood.
 Borrowing
 many
 conventions
 from
 romance
 novels
 and
 Gothic
 fiction,
 both
 of
 these
 series
 portray
 a
 romance
 between
 a
 human
female
and
a
male
vampire;
however,
in
a
startling
departure
from
the
dominant
 traditions
 in
vampire
 fiction,
 in
which
vampires
signify
 transgression—excess
of
 sex
or
 deviation
from
some
sexual
norm—the
vampires
do
not
show
any
deviation
from
decency.
 Edward
Cullen
in
Twilight
and
Bill
Compton
in
the
SVM
usually
do
not
kill
humans,
and
 (with
one
notable
exception,
for
Bill)
they
do
not
attack
humans
sexually,
either.
Quite
the
 contrary:
they
display
almost
perfect
control
over
their
“natural”
urges.
No
longer
dark
or
 horrifying,
these
vampire
heroes
are
almost
defanged.


In
reading
these
vampire
novels,
I
will
take
the
same
position
as
Linda
Barlow
in
 reading
romance
novels:
that
 is,
 I
will
treat
them
as
“psychological
maps
which
provide
 intriguing
insights
into
the
emotional
landscape
of
women”
(46).
By
analyzing
the
heroes
 (or
hero‐villains)
of
these
new
vampire
romance
novels
in
the
context
of
Gothic
novels
and
 romance
 novels,
 I
 hope
 to
 explore
 the
 emotional
 landscape
 of
 women
 today.
 More
 specifically,
 I
 will
 argue
 that
 these
 two
 vampire
 stories
 reflect
 contemporary
 women’s
 lowered
sense
of
danger
concerning
sexuality
as
such,
yet
heightened
sense
of
danger
in
 terms
of
the
boundaries
of
self.
Targeted
at
young
adult
audiences,
Twilight
thus
ends
as
a
 fairytale
in
which
the
man
makes
every
effort
to
talk
the
woman
into
sex
and
marriage
by
 convincing
her
that
the
horror
stories
girls
hear
about
men
are
not
always
true.
Targeted
at
 a
 more
 mature
 audience,
 the
 Sookie
 Stackhouse
 Novels
 offer
 a
 warier
 lesson,
 as
 Sookie
 realizes
 that
her
vampire
hero
 is
 indeed
not
 to
be
 trusted,
and
worthy
of
being
 feared.
 Unlike
Twilight’s
Bella,
that
is
to
say,
Sookie
finds
that
her
safe
hero
is
not
really
defanged,
 but
that
his
fangs
are
merely
retracted.
This
realization
is
crucial
to
her
acquiring
a
more
 mature
 perception
 of
 both
 sexuality
 and
 self,
 one
 appropriate
 to
 an
 adult
 woman
 negotiating
the
risks
of
contemporary
romance.


Vampires
of
the
Past
and
Vampires
Today
 


Vampire
 stories
 in
 the
 nineteenth
 century
 offer
 us
 glimpses
 into
 illicit
 desires,
 allowing
the
writers
to
talk
about
sexuality
in
a
way
that
otherwise
cannot
be
done.
Even
in
 the
 absence
 of
 explicit
 descriptions
 of
 sexual
 acts,
 nineteenth‐century
 vampire
 stories
 offered
 their
 authors
 the
 opportunity
 to
 hint
 at,
 or
 even
 revel
 in,
 a
 variety
 of
 sexual
 transgressions.
 Those
 celebrations
 of
 illicit
 desires
 can
 be
 seen
 in
 some
 of
 the
 earliest
 examples
of
vampire
story:
John
William
Polidori’s
“The
Vampyre”
(1819),
for
example,
in
 which
 male‐to‐male
 desire
 comes
 to
 the
 forefront,
 and
 then,
 about
 fifty
 years
 later,
 Sheridan
Le
Fanu’s
story
of
female‐to‐female
desire
in
another
vampire
story,
“Carmilla”
 (1872).
In
these
older
stories,
the
fatal
penetrations
of
a
vampire’s
bite
displace/replace


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


the
 unspeakable
 sexual
 penetrations
 they
 signify,
 a
 technique
 still
 employed
 in
 contemporary
popular
novels,
where
actual
sexual
acts
might
presumably
be
named
or
 portrayed,
perhaps
in
order
to
give
an
air
of
ominous
significance
and
meaning
to
them
 that
goes
beyond
the
merely
physical.
Anne
Rice’s
The
Vampire
Chronicles,
 for
example,
 plays
with
vampires’
transgressive
sexuality,
invoking
both
male
to
male
desire
and
child
 sexuality.
The
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries
can
also
be
placed
in
this
tradition,
since
many
of
 its
vampire
characters
show
a
variety
of
sexualities.


The
 characterization
 of
 today’s
 vampires
 has
 deep
 roots
 as
 well.
 The
 most
 enduringly
influential
presentation
of
the
vampire
remains
Bram
Stoker’s
Dracula.
Building
 on
 Polidori’s
 model,
 this
 fin‐de‐siècle
 Gothic
 novel
 molded
 what
 used
 to
 be
 a
 folkloric
 monster
 into
a
dark
hero;
 in
the
process,
 it
softened,
or
at
 least
modulated,
the
figure’s
 transgressive
sexual
overtones.
As
Christopher
Craft
argues,
vampire
attacks
confuse
the
 “gender‐based
categories
of
the
penetrating
and
the
receptive”
(261),
but
in
Stoker’s
text,
 the
 potentially
 homosexual
 desires
 that
 link
 Count
 Dracula
 and
 Jonathan
 Harker
 are
 lessened
through
the
novel’s
deployment
of
 female
vampires.
What
remains,
however— giving
a
model
 for
writers
 to
come—is
a
novel
 that
plays
 in
memorable
ways
with
 the
 thrills,
 fears,
and
pleasures
of
 sex
more
generally,
as
 though
even
heteronormative
sex
 were,
 in
 the
 vampire
 context,
 shadowed
 by
 a
 deliciously
 and
 exotically
 transgressive
 quality.
Count
Dracula’s
national
and
class
exoticism,
as
an
aristocrat
who
hails
from
the
 backwoods
of
Europe,
 serves
 to
emphasize
his
Otherness:
a
Byronic,
 “dangerous
 lover”
 figure,
in
Deborah
Lutz’s
terms,
whose
erotic
allure
“represents
the
paradoxical
fascination
 and
repulsion
of
sex
that
is
desirable
because
it
is
dangerous,
because
it
might
lead
to
pain,
 expulsion,
and/or
death”
(85).


We
 need
 not
 read
 the
 fin‐de‐siècle
 vampire
 text
 in
 exclusively
 sexual
 terms,
 however.
Vampires
 in
these
novels
might
also
be
said
to
represent
the
British
Empire’s
 latent
fears
of
the
colonized,
with
the
mysterious
deaths
that
vampires
cause
suggesting
the
 Empire’s
fears
and
guilt
coming
back
to
haunt
it
(in
this
case,
quite
literally).
These
cultural
 and
sociopolitical
overtones
endure
in
contemporary
American
popular
fiction,
although
 they
naturally
play
out
somewhat
differently
in
a
nation
of
immigrants.
As
Count
Dracula
 represents
antiquity
and
exoticism
to
 the
English
readers,
 for
example,
vampires
 in
 the
 United
States
are
also
often
associated
with
something
old
and
exotic—and,
in
the
process,
 they
allow
authors
to
emphasize
the
antiquity
and
exoticism,
or
the
sunny
modernity,
of
 specific
American
 locations.
Anne
Rice,
 for
example,
 sets
New
Orleans
as
 the
capital
of
 American
vampires
because
of
its
exotic
atmosphere,
especially
in
antebellum
periods
with
 its
aristocracy
and
slavery,
while
Joss
Whedon’s
Buffy
the
Vampire
Slayer,
which
featured
a
 mix
 of
 immigrant
 and
 homemade,
 all‐American
 vampires,
 played
 the
 contrast
 between
 these
figures
and
his
setting,
fictional
“Sunnydale,”
California,
for
both
horror
and
humor.
 Buffy
even
has
an
episode
in
which
Buffy
encounters
the
one
and
only
Count
Dracula,
and
 while
he
manages
to
exert
his
hypnotic
influence
on
Buffy,
he
seems
comically
out
of
place
 in
a
bright,
West
Coast
suburb.


Both
of
the
series
I
am
considering
here
offer
elaborate
negotiations
with
Otherness,
 trying
 by
 turns
 to
 emphasize
 the
 alluring
 exoticism
 of
 the
 vampire
 characters
 and
 to
 Americanize
them.
In
Twilight,
for
example,
the
heroine’s
move
from
sunny
and
scorching
 Phoenix,
Arizona,
 to
gloomy
and
overcast
Forks,
Washington,
a
setting
that
has
 its
own
 traditions
of
exotic
horror
(it
recalls
the
1990‐91
TV
series
Twin
Peaks)
and
which
seems
a
 believable
home
for
sun‐avoiding
vampires,
who
find
the
environment
quite
favorable.
The


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


Cullen
children,
Edward
Cullen’s
vampire
siblings,
keep
to
themselves
and
stand
out
as
a
 distinct
group
in
a
school
cafeteria,
rather
like
an
ethnic
or
racial
group
in
any
American
 high
 school.
 However,
 the
 Cullens
 are
 not
 exactly
 foreign;
 the
 patriarch
 of
 the
 family,
 Carlisle
came
from
seventeenth
century
England
but
the
Cullen
children
were
born,
raised,
 and
turned
to
vampires
in
the
United
States.
They
are,
at
heart,
Americanized
vampires,
a
 fact
that
is
emphasized
when
Dracula‐like
Romanian
vampires,
Stefan
and
Vladimir,
visit
 near
 the
 end
 of
 the
 series,
 only
 to
 find
 themselves
 at
 odds
 with
 both
 the
 physical
 environment
 and
 with
 the
 other
 vampires
 in
 the
 New
 World.
 In
 the
 Sookie
 Stackhouse
 Novels,
as
a
nod
to
the
influence
of
Anne
Rice’s
work,
New
Orleans
is
the
vampire
capital
of
 the
United
States.
But
although
New
Orleans
retains
some
of
its
exoticized,
Old
World
flair,
 Harris
seems
more
interested
in
its
place
within
a
broader
Southern
context.
Sookie’s
first
 love
 interest,
 Bill
 Compton,
 used
 to
 be
 a
 Civil
 War
 soldier
 when
 alive,
 making
 him
 a
 hundred‐percent
Southern
homeboy,
and
the
first
personal
favor
she
asks
of
him
is
to
talk
 about
his
Civil
War
experience
to
a
history
group
to
which
Sookie’s
grandmother
belongs.
 Harris’s
vampire
heroes
are
still
“Others,”
yet
if
they
are
immigrants,
they
are
primarily
 immigrants
from
the
past
(which
is,
at
least
proverbially,
a
foreign
country).


Upon
finding
habitats
in
the
U.S.,
then,
vampires
have
lost
some
Otherness,
a
natural
 progression
for
outsiders
in
the
land
of
immigrants.
Indeed,
if
the
vampires
of
both
series
 evoke
the
image
of
cultural
and
racial
minority
inside
the
United
States,
they
do
so
not
in
a
 mode
of
guilt
or
anxiety
(as
 in
the
fin‐de‐
siècle
texts)
but
 in
an
almost
upbeat
fashion:
 these
“immigrants”
have
succeeded
in
assimilating
to
American
society
and
values,
their
 acculturation
made
evident
by
their
success
in
the
stock
market
or
other
investments.
[1]
 (Each
of
the
Cullen
families,
for
example,
has
accumulated
considerable
wealth,
impressing
 people
 with
 their
 expensive
 foreign
 cars.)
 New
 vampires
 maintain
 an
 old
 charm
 by
 remaining
slightly
foreign,
slightly
aristocratic,
but
they
are
also
comfortably
Americanized.


Heroes
and
Hero‐Villains
 


The
reduced
foreignness
and
Otherness
of
vampire
heroes
in
those
stories
points
to
 broader
changes
in
the
“darkness”
(in
a
non‐racial
sense)
of
their
previously
dark
heroes.
 The
hero‐villain
in
the
Gothic
holds
mysteries,
which
normally
means
unspeakable
secrets;
 for
 example,
 aside
 from
 being
 an
 egomaniac,
 he
 could
 be
 a
 wife‐beater,
 a
 murderer,
 a
 demon,
and
of
course,
a
vampire.
It
was
Mario
Praz
in
The
Romantic
Agony
(1933)
who
 coined
the
phrase,
 the
“Fatal
Man,”
to
describe
one
prototype
of
main
characters
of
 the
 Gothic.
Praz’
s
example
is
Schedoni
in
Ann
Radcliffe’s
The
Italian,
and
he
sees
the
Fatal
Man
 to
be
a
descendent
of
John
Milton’s
Satan.
He
describes
the
Fatal
Man
to
be
of
“mysterious
 (but
 conjectured
 to
 be
 exalted)
 origin,”
 marked
 by
 “traces
 of
 burned‐out
 passions,
 suspicion
of
a
ghastly
guilt,
melancholy
habits,
pale
face,
unforgettable
eyes”
(61).


In
Praz’s
account,
the
Fatal
Man
normally
takes
the
position
of
the
main
character
in
 Male
Gothic,
 in
which
he
pursues
his
insatiable
desires—whether
for
power,
for
sex,
for
 money,
or
for
knowledge—using
all
the
means
available
to
him.
This
figure
was
memorably
 transformed
 into
an
actual
hero
(as
opposed
to
simply
a
main
character)
 in
 Jane
Eyre’s
 hero‐villain,
 Rochester.
 As
 Robert
 Heilman
 insists,
 Rochester
 is
 not
 simply
 a
 hero
 or
 a
 villain;
he
is
a
hero‐villain—a
hero
with
some
villainous
aspect,
which
must
be
resolved
(or


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


dissolved
 away)
 before
 the
 conclusion
 of
 the
 novel.
 This
 duality
 seems
 linked
 to
 Rochester’s
masculinity:
 that
 is,
Rochester
 is
 the
Male
as
Other,
a
 figure
who
has
never
 entirely
left
the
genre
of
popular
romance.
In
their
classic
studies,
both
Janice
Radway
and
 Tania
 Modleski
 argue
 that
 sociopolitical
 conditions
 under
 patriarchy
 produce
 a
 psychological
distance
between
men
and
women,
and
that
romance
novels
represent
this
 distance
by
having
the
heroes’
“masculine
behavior”
(Modleski
60)
and
their
rejection
of
 expressing
emotions,
as
much
as
their
access
to
power,
make
them
seem
“Other”
to
women.
 Ontologically
alien
to
the
heroine,
the
hero
is
difficult
or
impossible
for
her
to
read—until,
 that
is,
she
finds
a
way
to
see
through
this
cold
and
hard
surface
and
discover
that
the
hero
 is,
in
fact,
sensitive
and
affectionate,
and
not
“fatal”
after
all.


As
many
critics
have
argued,
in
romance
fiction
since
the
1980s
this
distant
hero
 figure
has
been
supplemented
by
a
new,
more
emotionally
available
presentation
of
man:
a
 transformation
in
the
genre
that
takes
place
in
part
by
the
addition
of
the
hero’s
point
of
 view
to
the
romance
novel,
and
in
part
by
an
actual
change
in
his
behavior.
In
a
study
of
the
 “hero’s
presentation”
from
the
1970s
to
the
90s,
Dawn
Heinecken
asserts
that
the
romance
 hero
has
become
“less
silent,
more
emotional,
and
more
overtly
tender
and
caring”
(158).
 The
new
vampire
hero
belongs
 to
 this
new
generation
of
men.
Edward
Cullen
and
Bill
 Compton
express
their
feelings
often
enough
to
avoid
major
misunderstandings;
as
Bonnie
 Mann
bluntly
puts,
“Edward
gets
it,”
a
sharp
contrast
both
to
earlier
romance
heroes
and
to
 real
life
teenage
boys
who
are
clueless
about
girls’
feelings
(140).
Indeed,
both
Edward
and
 Bill
always
try
their
hardest
to
understand
their
girlfriends’
emotional
lives,
often
putting
 concern
for
them
ahead
of
their
masculine
code
of
behavior.
Each
may
go
away
for
a
period
 of
time,
leaving
their
girlfriends
to
interpret
physical
distances
as
emotional
distances,
but
 on
their
return,
each
soon
explains
himself
and
clarifies
the
situation,
easing
the
heroine’s
 anxieties:
hardly
the
behavior
of
an
ontological
Other.


Safe
Vampire
Heroes
 


Whether
they
feature
the
dark
alpha
heroes
of
the
past
or
the
softer,
caring
heroes
 of
 today,
 romance
novels
have
 to
end
happily.
 In
 the
 former
case,
as
 Jayne
Ann
Krentz
 insists,
the
heroine
must
conquer
or
tame
the
hero
to
achieve
their
happy
ending;
in
the
 case
of
a
softer,
caring
hero,
Heinecken
explains,
the
heroine
has
to
heal
him.
Theoretically
 speaking,
a
vampire
love
story
might
fit
into
either
category:
after
all,
vampire
heroes
are
 traditionally
aristocratic
and
powerful,
and
the
need
to
feed
on
blood
gives
the
vampire
 hero
plenty
of
reason
to
be
a
brooding
hero,
if
he
has
any
conscience
at
all,
or
to
be
sheer,
 terrifying
evil
if
he
continues
to
indulge
his
appetite.

(Angel,
in
Buffy
the
Vampire
Slayer,
 torments
himself
for
what
he
has
done
as
a
vampire
before
he
regains
his
soul
by
a
gypsy’s
 curse;
 over
 the
 course
 of
 the
 series
 he
 is
 arguably
 both
 conquered
 and
 healed
 by
 the
 heroine.)
 In
 the
Twilight
and
Sookie
Stackhouse
Novels,
however,
what
has
 to
be
solved
 before
the
conclusion
of
the
story
and
the
consummation
of
love
is
neither
the
heroes’
cold
 and
distant
attitudes
nor
his
emotional
wounding,
because
 their
boyfriends
are,
on
 the
 whole,
conscientious,
peace‐loving
creatures.


Edward
Cullen
in
the
Twilight
saga,
for
example,
belongs
to
a
family
that
feeds
only
 on
animals,
and
he
himself
exhibits
incredible
self‐control,
subduing
his
desires—for
blood


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


and
for
sex—to
the
point
that
Bella
does
not
have
to
worry
about
her
safety
at
all,
at
least
 from
him.
Throughout
the
Twilight
saga,
Edward
keeps
trying
to
make
Bella
admit
that
he
 is
a
dangerous
hero,
but
he
only
makes
her
feel
safe,
and
his
repetitious
warnings
serve
 mostly
to
remind
us,
by
contrast,
of
how
unthreatening
he
really
is.
As
Carrie
Anne
Platt
 points
out,
Bella’s
physical
vulnerability
reflects
“social
anxieties
surrounding
adolescent
 [female]
sexuality”
(80),
but
Edward
behaves
like
an
ideal
boyfriend
that
a
girl’s
parents
 dream
of.
Because
he
sees
Bella
as
easily
“breakable”
(Eclipse
466),
he
treats
her
like
fine
 china
until
her
transformation,
preaching
and
practicing
“mind
over
matter”
(Twilight
300).
 Bella
may
find
herself
in
occasional
dangers
because
of
her
vampire
boyfriend,
but
if
Bella
 is
a
“magnet
for
trouble”
(Twilight
174),
this
is
so
that
Edward
may
repeatedly
rescue
her.
 The
love
affair
itself
is
not
a
flirtation
with
death.
As
Bella
aptly
comments,
Edward
in
fact
 belongs
to
a
“fairy
tale,
rather
than
the
world
of
horror
stories”
(BD
479).
The
safe
vampire
 is
less
a
dark
hero
than
he
is
a
knight
in
shining
armor.[2]


In
the
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries,
we
see
a
parallel
to
the
Cullen
family’s
decision
 not
to
drink
human
blood.
Here,
vampires
have
“come
out
from
the
coffin”
(Dark
1)
and
live
 among
humans
upon
the
 invention
of
artificial
blood
called
“TrueBlood.”[3]
 Indeed,
 the
 vampires
 themselves
are
sometimes
at
 risk
 from
evil
humans;
on
 the
day
of
 their
 first
 meeting,
Sookie
saves
Bill,
the
vampire
hero
of
the
series,
from
the
Drainers,
people
who
 rob
vampires
of
their
blood
to
sell.
Bill
is
so
damaged
and
battered
that
Sookie
coos,
“poor
 baby”
 (Dark
 10).
 This
 power
 inversion,
 however,
 is
 shortly
 corrected:
 Bill
 saves
 subsequently
Sookie
 from
those
Drainers,
who
come
back
to
attack
her,
and
kills
 them.
 Since
he
is
“mainstreaming,”
i.e.,
attempting
to
live
among
humans,
he
does
not
kill
to
eat,
 but
he
can
kill
 to
protect
her
and
himself.
This
killing
does
not
disturb
Sookie,
and
the
 peaceful
feeling
he
can
give
to
her
is
“priceless”
“no
matter
what
this
creature
beside
[her
 has]
done”
(Dark
50).
While
witnessing
the
proof
of
his
ability
for
violence,
Sookie
does
not
 believe
he
would
hurt
her,
“even
if
[he]
were
really
mad
at
[her]”
(Dark
166):
a
selective
 and
controlled
practice
of
violence,
that
is
to
say,
establishes
Bill
to
Sookie
as
a
savior
and
 protector.
In
this
series,
however—unlike
the
Twilight
saga—the
heroine’s
faith
that
her
 vampire
hero
is
harmless
turns
out
to
be
incorrect,
a
turn
that
I
will
discuss
shortly
in
the
 context
of
the
third
of
the
Southern
Vampire
Mystery
novels,
Club
Dead.


Animalistic
Sex
and
the
Significance
of
Virginity
 


In
 both
 the
 Twilight
 series
 and
 the
 Southern
 Vampire
 Mysteries,
 vampires
 thus
 suppress
and
control
their
animalistic
aspects
in
order
to
assimilate
into
modern
American
 society.
These
animal
aspects
include
both
the
thirst
for
human
blood
and
sexual
desire;
in
 fact,
the
two
are
linked.
Edward
refrains
himself
from
kissing
Bella
because
he
is
worried
 that
his
sexual
drive
triggers
his
desire
for
blood,
while
in
the
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries,
 bloodsucking
functions
as
foreplay.
Bloodsucking
is
thus
no
longer
a
metaphor
for
sexual
 intercourse
but
a
sexual
act
 itself,
and,
 in
turn,
 this
suggests
that
sexual
desire,
 like
the
 desire
to
feed,
is
irresistible.
Edward’s
abstinence
and
the
“vegetarianism”
in
both
series
 paradoxically
crystallize
the
libidinal
and
hedonistic
nature
of
bloodsucking
and
sex,
and
as
 a
 result,
 these
 novels
 reinforce
 the
 old
 and
 traditional
 view
 that
 sex
 is
 instinctual,
 uncontrollable,
and
potentially
fatal.
The
attraction
between
the
hero
and
the
heroine
is


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


described
as
 comparable
 terms.
Both
heroines
 feel
 an
 instant
attraction
 for
 their
 “own
 vampire[s]”
(Dark
1),
while
in
return,
Bella
attracts
Edward
with
her
smell,
and
Sookie
also
 possesses
 special
 fragrance
 irresistible
 to
 Bill.
 None
 of
 the
 complex
 negotiations,
 ambiguities,
or
misunderstandings
of
non‐paranormal
human
relationships
are
on
display
 in
 these
 novels;
 indeed,
 we
 do
 not
 even
 see
 the
 preliminary
 dislike
 that
 was
 once
 so
 common
 between
 the
 heroes
 and
 heroines
 of
 popular
 romance.[4]
 Attraction,
 compatibility,
and
true
love
are
all
somehow
one.


This
 conjunction
 of
 attraction
 and
 true
 love
 is
 central
 to
 another
 motif
 in
 these
 series:
the
heroines
lose
their
virginity
to
their
vampire
heroes.
Like
the
construction
of
sex
 more
generally
in
the
novels,
their
use
of
the
romantic
convention
of
virginal
heroines
is
 curiously
old‐fashioned.
What
can
we
make
of
it?
Romance
writers
such
as
Doreen
Owens
 Malek
and
Brittany
Young
have
defended
this
motif
in
the
genre,
arguing
that
virginity
loss
 creates
more
drama
and
power
to
a
story
(Malek
118)
and
that
this
motif
encodes
an
ideal
 of
female
autonomy
and
self‐possession:
as
Young
explains,
the
heroine
“makes
the
choice
 to
 give
 [the
 hero]
 the
 gift
 of
 virginity”
 (122,
 my
 emphasis).
 From
 a
 more
 skeptical
 standpoint,
however,
one
might
observe
that
the
traditional
emphasis
on
female
virginity
 in
popular
romance
“enlists
sexuality
under
the
banner
of
love”
(Cohn,
29),
suggesting
as
it
 does
 that
 sex
 outside
 the
 context
 of
 “true
 love”
 remains
 somehow
 sinful,
 or
 at
 least
 unfortunate.
It
is
thus
notable
that
although
many
contemporary
popular
romance
novels,
 according
to
Abbi
Zidle,
acknowledge
the
difference
between
love
and
lust
in
women,
and
 even
the
existence
of
multiple
true‐love
interests
(30),
in
these
series,
a
more
traditional
 view
of
sex
and
virginity
still
seems
to
hold.
 In
the
words
of
romance
author
and
critic
 Jayne
Ann
Krentz,
who
defends
the
virginity
motif,
there
are
“high
stakes
involved”
(Krentz
 112).
And
if
popular
romance
generally
embraces
an
“idea
of
selfhood
as
sexual”
(Cohn,
35)
 those
 stakes
 include
 the
 selfhood
 of
 Bella
 and
 Sookie,
 a
 psychological
 issue
 we
 can
 distinguish
from
the
more
obvious
moral
and
political
issues
bound
up
in
female
virginity.


Psychological
Barriers
 


If
the
attraction
between
hero
and
heroine
is
instantaneous
and
instinctual
and
if
 the
romance
hero
does
not
pose
any
threats,
theoretically
speaking,
there
lies
no
obstacle
 in
consummating
love.
Where
are
the
problems
to
be
solved,
the
misunderstandings
to
be
 clarified,
the
mysterious
pasts
to
be
overcome?
In
their
place,
these
new
vampire
romance
 novels
offer
heroines’
psychological
barriers
as
obstacles.
The
concept
of
“boundaries
of
 self,”
 familiar
 from
 critical
 accounts
 of
 Gothic,
 helps
 clarify
 what
 is
 at
 stake.
 Eugenia
 Delamotte
argues
that
Female
Gothic
is
concerned
with
the
boundaries
of
self,
signified
in
 negotiations
at
the
thresholds.
According
to
her,
Gothic
episodes
in
which
a
heroine
has
to
 fend
off
an
intruder
threatening
to
come
in,
or
struggle
to
escape
from
an
underground
 cellar,
 all
 symbolize
 women’s
 anxieties
 about
 the
 boundaries
 of
 self:
 “terrors
 of
 separateness
and
the
terrors
of
unity,”
the
“fear
of
being
shut
in,
cut
off,
alone,”
and
the
 “fear
of
being
intruded
upon”
(19).
These
new
vampire
novels
also
express
the
concerns
 with
the
boundaries
of
self
of
these
heroines,
who
reject
men
or
people
in
general,
raising
 emotional
barriers
against
them.


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


When
we
first
meet
Bella,
her
emotional
barriers
seem
realistic
enough.
A
social
 outcast
 in
Phoenix,
where
 the
sun
shines
all
year
around
and
 is
 inhabited
with
 tanned
 blond
girls,
Bella
does
not
“fit
in,”
either
physically
or
socially.
She
does
not
“relate
well
to
 people
[her]
age,”
the
novel
tells
us,
or
to
people
in
general
(Twilight
10);
even
when
she
 finds
 herself
 surrounded
 with
 admirers
 and
 friends
 in
 perpetually
 overcast
 Forks,
 Washington,
 she
 keeps
 to
 herself
 without
 finding
 a
 friend
 whom
 she
 can
 truly
 trust.
 Because
the
Twilight
series
is
paranormal
fiction,
however,
Bella’s
emotional
barriers
can
 also
be
represented
supernaturally.
Edward,
who
can
read
the
minds
of
others,
cannot
read
 hers,
and
other
vampires
cannot
use
their
supernatural
powers
to
harm
her
even
while
she
 is
human,
a
power
that
becomes
even
greater
when
she
turns
into
a
vampire
herself.


Sookie’s
 barrier
 is
 likewise
 literalized
 in
 supernatural
 terms.
 A
 telepath,
 Sookie
 cannot
 build
 any
 connection
 with
 others
 because
 their
 thoughts
 and
 feelings
 are
 oppressively
transparent
and
overwhelming
to
her.
What
she
calls
“disability”
makes
her
 particularly
stay
away
from
men,
rejecting
any
sexual
advances
from
them.
As
a
result,
she
 has
kept
her
virginity
until
the
age
of
twenty‐five,
and
has
already
given
up
on
having
a
 relationship,
thinking
that
she
will
just
“grow
old
and
die”
(Dark
56).
In
order
to
cope
with
 her
 ability
 as
 a
 telepath,
 Sookie
 has
 to
 consciously
 reject
 hearing
 and
 understanding
 people’s
minds;
this
training
in
shutting
others
off
develops
into
a
barrier
against
vampires’
 supernatural
 intrusion.
 Thus,
 like
 Bella
 who
 intrigues
 Edward
 because
 of
 her
 blocking
 ability,
Sookie
surprises
Bill
Compton
with
her
immunity
to
his
hypnosis.
In
effect,
these
 series
 return
 to
 the
 notion
 of
 an
 unreadable,
 gendered
 Other—but
 this
 time,
 it
 is
 the
 heroine
who
stands
aloof
and
resistant.
These
heroines’
emotional
barriers
are
the
symbols
 of
their
isolation
and
alienation,
but
also
of
their
obstinate
defense
of
the
boundaries
of
self
 against
romantic
approaches.
To
balance
out
softened
heroes,
we
have
hardened
heroines.


In
 a
 more
 literal
 sense,
 barriers
 and
 thresholds
 hold
 a
 particular
 significance
 in
 vampire
lore.
On
the
one
hand,
DeLamotte
argues
that
vampirism
“represents
the
threat
of
 physical
violation—a
transgression
against
 the
body,
 the
 last
barrier
protecting
 the
self
 from
the
other”
(21).
On
the
other
hand,
vampires
cannot
enter
a
house
unless
invited,
or
 so
 the
 convention
 runs.
 Between
 these
 two
 extremes
 we
 find
 vampires’
 legendary
 propensity
 for
 psychological
 violation.
 Because
 they
 cannot
 enter
 houses
 uninvited,
 vampires
have
to
have
the
mental
ability
to
manipulate
and
intrude
upon
human
minds
so
 that
the
physical
intrusion
becomes
possible;
in
other
words,
a
psychological
penetration
 precedes
a
physical
penetration.
Although
the
convention
of
“no
entry
unless
invited”
is
not
 employed
 in
 Twilight,
 Edward
 does
 have
 the
 ability
 for
 mental
 intrusion,
 i.e.,
 to
 read
 people’s
minds,
and
what
intrigues
him
most
about
Bella
is
that
he
cannot
read
her.
In
the
 Southern
 Vampire
 Mysteries,
 vampires
 do
 have
 to
 be
 invited
 into
 a
 house,
 and
 they
 do
 hypnotize
humans
in
order
to
do
so—but
sometimes
in
these
novels,
blood
consumption
 also
 serves
 as
 an
 invitation
 into
 the
 psychological
 domain,
 reversing
 the
 trope.
 When
 injured,
 for
 example,
 Sookie
 has
 to
 drink
 Bill’s
 blood
 to
 heal,
 resulting
 in
 the
 first
 penetration
that
prepares
their
eventual
sexual
encounter.[5]
Sookie
lowers
her
guard,
and
 then
she
 realizes
how
she
 “reveals
herself”
 to
Bill
 (Dark
33).
Not
every
blood‐drinking
 incident
 in
 this
 series
 is
as
 symbolically
 fraught
as
 this
one,
but
 clearly
 this
 (inverted)
 human/vampire
bodily
penetration
promotes
the
emotional
and
psychological
dissolutions
 of
 boundaries,
 which
 ultimately
 leads
 to
 a
 sexual
 union
 that
 combines
 physical
 and
 psychological
aspects.


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


Sex
as
Psychological
Mediator
 


In
 these
 vampire
 novels,
 sex
 becomes
 a
 means
 to
 “share”
 feelings,
 rather
 than
 simply
 to
exchange
bodily
 fluids.
 In
 the
world
 in
which
dangerous
vampires
are
not
so
 dangerous,
 the
 heroines’
 special
 abilities
 concerning
 “penetrability”
 complement
 the
 relative
lack,
or
unwillingness
of
vampires
to
“penetrate”
in
creating
a
necessary
obstacle
 to
be
overcome.
Before
the
intrusion
and
invasion
can
occur,
the
heroines
have
to
learn
the
 mistake
of
their
ways
by
spending
time
with
the
patient
and
conscientious
vampires
so
that
 the
heroines’
boundaries
of
self
stop
being
a
problem.
Here,
again,
we
see
a
role
inversion
 from
traditional
romance;
the
one
who
has
to
be
understood
and
healed
is
now
the
heroine.
 Bella
learns
to
trust
others
and
to
make
friends,
mostly
with
the
Cullens;
Sookie
Stackhouse
 has
to
be
healed
by
opening
up
about
her
painful
past,
in
which
she
was
sexually
molested
 by
her
uncle.
Bill
Compton
is
a
perfect
healer
and
avenger
who
helps
Sookie
prepare
herself
 to
love
a
man.[6]
Pamela
Regis
suggests
that
in
the
romance
novel,
“intimacy”
is
a
means
to
 conquer
the
barrier
of
gender,
both
physical
and
emotional
(180).
In
the
Southern
Vampire
 Mysteries,
 this
 intimacy
 is
 achieved
 in
 a
 profoundly
 literal
 way,
 as
 the
 “blood
 bond”
 established
 through
 drinking
 and
 being
 drunk
 (a
 mutual
 “penetration”)
 establishes
 a
 psychic
 bond.
 After
 sex,
 as
 well
 as
 blood‐sharing,
 the
 heroines
 literally
 can
 feel
 the
 vampires’
feelings.
To
borrow
a
metaphor
from
more
traditional
vampire
narratives,
these
 heroines
have
opened
a
door,
psychologically
and
physically,
and
 invited
 their
vampire
 heroes
into
their
inner
place.


Bella’s
impenetrability
might
also
be
understood
in
a
religious
context.
The
author
 of
 the
Twilight
series,
 Stephanie
Meyers,
 is
a
Mormon,
and
 the
saga
can
be
 read
as
an
 allegory
of
 indoctrination
 to
Mormonism,
 in
which
a
non‐Mormon
 “gentile”
girl
 from
a
 dysfunctional
 family
 finds
 faith
 with
 the
 guidance
 of
 a
 Mormon
 man,
 who
 advocates
 abstinence
 until
 marriage,
 and
 finally
 becomes
 assimilated
 into
 a
 close‐knit
 “beautiful
 family,”
united
 “forever
and
 forever
and
 forever.”[7]
On
 the
physical
 level,
Bella
 seems
 willing
to
step
up
her
relationship
with
Edward
further,
and
she
even
suggests
that
their
 roles
are
reversed;
“you
make
me
feel
like
a
villain
in
a
melodrama—twirling
my
mustache
 while
I
try
to
steal
some
poor
girl’s
virtue”
(Eclipse
453),
but
unlike
Sookie,
Bella
remains
 unreadable
to
Edward
even
after
losing
her
virginity
and
being
transformed
into
a
vampire.
 As
Penelope
Williamson
argues
about
romance
and
the
heroine’s
virginity,
 the
“heroine
 does
 not
 lose
 her
 innocence
 along
 with
 her
 virginity”
 (130),
 and
 Bella’s
 continuing
 psychological
 “impenetrability”
 is
 a
 vivid
 instance
 of
 that
 ongoing
 innocence
 and
 the
 inalienable
power
of
her
separate
selfhood.
Indeed,
when
Bella
becomes
a
vampire
herself,
 a
transformation
required
for
her
to
safely
give
birth
to
her
half‐vampire
child,
her
power
 is
amplified.
Bella’s
impenetrability
is
no
longer
limited
to
herself
but
expanded
to
protect
 her
“family”
from
outside
threats.
Williamson
argues
that
in
late
20th‐century
romances,
 “through
 the
hero’s
 lovemaking”
 the
heroine
 “discovers
 the
power
and
potential
of
her
 woman’s
sexuality”
 (130).
 In
keeping
with
 the
generally
conservative
ethos
of
Twilight,
 Bella
does
not
become
a
sexually
powerful
or
exploratory
wife.
[8]
But
she
does
acquire
a
 new,
 particularly
 womanly
 power
 through
 her
 sexual
 experience—or,
 to
 be
 specific,
 through
maternity.
Once
Bella
becomes
a
mother,
she
can
protect
her
family.


In
 both
 of
 these
 vampire
 series,
 then—and
 in
 sharp
 contrast
 to
 earlier,
 more
 transgressive
 vampire
 narratives—sexual
 intercourse
 and
 blood‐sharing
 lead
 to
 the


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


building
 of
 the
 familial
 bond.
 Bella
 gets
 pregnant
 immediately
 after
 her
 first
 sexual
 encounter,
 followed
by
her
 transformation,
 and
Sookie
has
her
 first
 sex
 soon
after
her
 Grandmother,
her
only
close
 family
member,
dies.[9]
Sex
 is
a
way
to
create
a
 family
or
 create
a
substitute
for
a
family.
In
other
words,
these
new
vampire
romance
novels
uphold
 the
 traditional
 fantasy
 of
 emotional
 bonding
 and
 merging
 of
 self
 through
 sexual
 intercourse.
What
were
once
transgressive
acts
of
sex
with
(or
penetration
by)
vampires
 are
now
safe
and
morally
and
socially
legitimate.
In
keeping
with
the
other
ways
that
the
 vampire
narrative
has
been
Americanized,
these
series
present
sex
with
vampires
as
an
 expression
 of
 what
 conservative
 discourse
 in
 the
 United
 States
 commonly
 refers
 to
 as
 “family
values.”


Rich
Vampires
and
Poor
Heroines
 


In
her
1999
study
of
“Changing
Ideologies
in
Romance
Fiction,”
Heinecken
links
the
 changing
construction
of
the
romance
hero,
with
his
newfound
emotional
accessibility,
to
a
 new
construction
of
sexuality.
In
late
20th‐century
romance
novels,
she
posits,
sex
is
“no
 longer
a
mere
physical
act”
but
rather
an
“expressive
form
of
communication”
(168).
The
 heroes
and
sexual
encounters
in
these
new
vampire
romances—especially
in
the
Southern
 Vampire
Mysteries—might
both
seem
to
follow
this
new
model,
but
as
we
have
seen,
the
 ideologies
of
the
series
remain
remarkably
conservative,
especially
in
their
construction
of
 the
romance
heroine’s
career
prospects
or
financial
situation.
In
Twilight,
Bella
does
not
 have
 any
 future
 plan
 other
 than
 marrying
 Edward.
 She
 has
 a
 chance
 to
 get
 a
 college
 education,
but
she
does
not
seem
to
take
that
path
at
the
end
of
the
series.
Repeatedly
Bella
 insists
that
she
does
not
want
to
be
one
of
the
girls
who
get
married
and
have
children
right
 out
of
high
school,
but
 she
does
exactly
 that.
Naomi
Zack
 insists
 that
 the
popularity
of
 Twilight
indicates
“what
young
women
aspire
to
in
‘having
it
all’”
(122),
yet
Bella
has
only
 Edward
(and
later,
Renesmme).
He
is
the
“only
raison
d’être”
for
her
(158),
as
Abigail
E.
 Myers
 says,
 and
 we
 can
 understand
 this
 from
 an
 economic
 standpoint,
 as
 well
 as
 a
 psychological
one.
Bella
is,
after
all,
a
lower‐middle
class
girl
marrying
into
a
rich
family,
 without
any
financial
independence.
In
the
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries,
Sookie
has
a
job
 (she
 is
 a
 cocktail
 waitress),
 but
 she
 too
 goes
 out
 with
 a
 rich
 man,
 and
 at
 one
 point
 memorably
envies
the
financial
help
Bill
gives
to
his
descendents
while
she
is
struggling
 financially.
The
class
difference
between
the
heroes
and
the
heroines
in
these
new
vampire
 romance
novels
looks
back
to
the
much
older
model
of
romance
narratives
described
by
 Jan
Cohn
in
Romance
and
the
Erotics
of
Property
(1988);
it
does
not
correspond
to
the
more
 feminist
worldview
Heinecken
saw
emerging
at
the
end
of
the
twentieth
century.
Those
 men
 in
 these
 new
 vampire
 novels
 may
 have
 nearly
 equaled
 women
 in
 their
 emotional
 capacity,
but
women
have
not
correspondingly
increased
their
social
or
economic
power.


Similarly,
the
reduced
Otherness
of
vampire
heroes
do
not
indicate
that
the
codes
of
 behavior
for
men
and
for
women
have
become
less
different,
or
that
men
and
women
no
 longer
live
in
separate
worlds.
Quite
the
contrary:
although
these
safe
heroes
share
more
 feelings
with
the
heroines—an
ideologically
progressive
development—they
do
still
live
in
 different
 worlds,
 a
 gendered
 difference
 that
 is
 underscored
 by
 the
 difference
 between
 vampires
and
humans.
Only
marriage
can
bring
these
disparate
worlds
together.
This
union


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


is
accomplished
in
the
Twilight
series,
but
the
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries
present
a
more
 challenging,
adult
narrative,
lacking
this
comfortable
closure.
The
poor
heroine
who
does
 not
 “want
 anyone
 owning”
 her
 (Gone
 98)
 has
 to
 keep
 fighting
 to
 find
 a
 more
 equal
 relationship
with
a
powerful
man—and
 in
 the
process,
 she
rediscovers
 the
danger
 that
 he—as
both
man
and
vampire—actually
poses
to
her.


No
Longer
Safe
 


As
the
Southern
Vampire
Mysteries
progress
from
novel
to
novel,
Sookie
learns
that
 the
safe
vampire,
Bill,
is
not
as
safe
as
the
reader
has
come
to
believe.
Normalized
for
us
 through
his
profession
(he
is
a
computer
programmer
and
vampire
census
worker),
Bill
 remains
both
male
and
a
vampire,
and
the
dangers
posed
by
both
of
these
natures
become
 painfully
 clear
 when,
 in
 a
 momentary
 loss
 of
 self‐control
 under
 physical
 stress,
 Bill
 forcefully
 sucks
blood
 from
Sookie
and
rapes
her.
The
novel
handles
 this
assault
 in
an
 interesting
way.
As
a
rule,
Sookie
turns
a
blind
eye
to
Bill’s
violent
tendency;
from
quite
 early
in
the
series
she
has
known
his
nature,
which
makes
him
lose
his
personality
with
the
 scent
 of
 blood.
 She
 is,
 in
 fact,
 less
 wounded
 emotionally
 by
 this
 assault,
 based
 on
 presumably
uncontrollable
urges,
than
she
is
by
learning
that
Bill
originally
approached
 her
with
an
ulterior
motive,
under
orders
from
a
vampire
boss
who
wants
to
exploit
her
 telepathic
 ability,
 a
 fully
 conscious
 decision.
 In
 effect,
 she
 regards
 his
 emotional
 encroachment
 of
 her
 boundaries—her
 blind
 trust
 and
 emotional
 attachment—more
 seriously
than
his
physical
encroachment.
It
is
the
emotional
betrayal
that
makes
her
feel
a
 pain
that
is
“tied
up
with
a
rage
so
profound”
(Definitely
185)
that
she
has
never
felt
before
 because
the
“structure”
that
her
emotion
is
built
upon
since
she
has
met
him
is
“torn
down”
 (Definitely
 187).
 Rather
 than
 flee
 from
 this
 risk
 into
 a
 safer,
 more
 secure
 relationship,
 Sookie
moves
on
to
romances
where
the
risk
is
more
clearly
visible,
right
from
the
start:
 first
 a
 brief
 affair
 with
 the
 weretiger,
 Quinn,
 and
 then
 another
 vampire
 lover,
 Eric
 Northman,
a
man
who
looks
“kind
of
like
the
guys
on
the
cover
of
romance
books”
(Dark
 105).
“Blond
and
blue‐eyed,
 tall
and
broad
shouldered,”
(Dark
105),
Eric
 is
a
 thousand‐ year‐old
Viking
with
an
accent
occasionally
peeking
through.
Arrogant,
narcissistic,
power‐ hungry,
emotionally
inaccessible,
Eric
is
thus
more
exotic
than
Bill,
and
a
more
traditional
 romance
hero.


With
this
invocation
of
“romance
books,”
the
Sookie
Stackhouse
Novels
step
into
the
 realm
of
metafiction—in
fact,
there
are
many
references
to
popular
romance
fiction
in
the
 series.
Sookie
and
her
grandmother
read
romance
novels
in
their
spare
time,
and
there
is
 another
character,
in
addition
to
Eric
Northman,
who
not
only
looks
like
a
romance
hero
 but
 also
 competes
 for
 “Mr.
 Romance”
 (well‐known
 a
 cover
 model
 competition)
 at
 a
 romance
readers’
convention.[10]
Like
a
romance
reader
gazing
at
attractive
cover
models,
 Sookie
turns
a
fetishizing
gaze
on
naked
weretigers
and
shapeshifters;
she
mentions
that
 she
wants
to
“remember
the
sight”
of
a
man’s
naked
body
because
she
wants
to
“recall
it
at
 [her]
leisure
later”
(World
251),
and
her
distant
cousin
Claude
is
such
a
“treat
for
the
eyes”
 (Doornail
 20)
 that
 every
 time
 he
 appears,
 Sookie
 and
 all
 the
 other
 women
 stare
 appreciatively
at
him,
despite
his
conspicuous
lack
of
interest
in
women.
More
importantly,
 however,
the
series’
turn
from
Bill,
who
seems
like
a
“new
model”
romance
hero,
but
is
not


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


really
 safe,
 to
 Eric,
 the
 “old
 school”
 arrogant
 romance
 hero,
 suggests
 that
 the
 gender
 negotiations
in
romance
novels,
especially
of
the
older,
more
traditional
variety,
remain
a
 useful
model
to
keep
in
mind
when
confronting
the
dangers
of
adult
sexual
relationships.
 Sookie’s
growth
as
a
woman
entails
learning
that
a
safe
man
does
not
exist,
that
to
be
a
 woman
is
to
 learn
how
to
manage
a
difficult
man,
and
that
 it
 is
a
dangerous
illusion
to
 believe
 that
 one’s
 own
 emotional
 barriers
 are
 a
 woman’s
 only
 obstacle
 to
 full
 sexual
 happiness.


As
the
series
progresses,
Sookie’s
 love
 life
becomes
more
and
more
complicated.
 Bill’s
vampire
obligation
comes
before
his
romantic
interest;
Quinn,
a
weretiger,
is
bound
 by
his
family
obligation;
and
Eric’s
priorities
lie
in
the
political
power
game
he
pursues
in
 the
vampire
world.
Sookie
treads
more
carefully
with
Eric,
since
“trust
[has]
gotten
[her]
 burned
in
the
past”
(Family
17),
a
clear
reference
to
her
experience
with
Bill.
She
may
have
 opened
up
her
barriers
to
accept
Bill,
but
now
she
has
to
lift
up
her
guard
again
to
protect
 herself;
indeed,
in
one
novel,
Dead
Reckoning
(2011),
she
goes
so
far
as
to
cut
off
her
“blood
 bond”
with
Eric,
an
attempt
at
restructuring
and
reestablishing
her
boundaries
of
self.
Eric
 softens
to
Sookie
to
the
point
that
his
subordinate
worries
that
he
is
not
practical
when
it
 comes
 to
her,
but
he
never
unequivocally
puts
her
before
his
political
 ambitions.
Even
 when
the
two
marry,
in
Dead
and
Gone
(2009),
the
marriage
fails
to
stabilize
their
union,
in
 part
because
Eric
tricks
Sookie
into
marrying
him,
and
in
part
because
their
vampire‐style
 marriage,
as
with
all
the
other
marriages
in
the
vampire
world,
is
of
a
matter
of
ownership,
 not
of
idealized
emotional
union.[11]
Occasional
appearances
of
Bill
tangle
up
her
love
life
 still
further,
for
he
always
has
a
“special
place
in
[her]
heart”
(Family
33).
It
is
Bill,
not
Eric,
 who
comes
to
rescue
Sookie
when
her
life
is
critically
in
danger,
and
she
confidently
states
 that
he
still
loves
her
even
after
her
marriage
to
Eric
(Gone
224).
Refusing
simplicity,
the
 series
 refuses
 to
 present
 Sookie’s
 original
 psychological
 obstacle
 as
 the
 only
 barrier
 between
her
and
a
happy
and
safe
relationship.
No
man
she
is
involved
with
is
ever
free
 from
other
obligations
that
complicate
their
relationships,
whether
their
vampire
customs
 or
political
considerations,
and
the
vampire
world
remains
dangerous,
in
multiple
ways.
In
 short,
in
this
series,
romances
are
never
simple
or
straightforward,
and
for
a
woman
who
 believes
that
marriage
is
not,
 in
fact,
supposed
to
be
“like
a
settling
back
in
a
La‐Z‐Boy”
 (Gone
98),
exciting
but
never‐comforting
romance
adventures
may
continue
to
unfold.


Conclusion
 


The
 Twilight
 and
 Southern
 Vampire
 Mystery
 series
 both
 show
 a
 new
 breed
 of
 vampire
 heroes,
 and
 they
 both
 locate
 the
 obstacles
 to
 true
 understanding
 and
 the
 consummation
of
love,
at
least
initially,
not
in
those
new
heroes,
but
in
the
heroines.
Things
 develop
 quite
 differently
 as
 each
 series
 goes
 on,
 in
 part
 because
 of
 their
 contrasting
 audiences.
 Aimed
 at
 a
 Young
 Adult
 readership,
 Bella’s
 story
 is
 a
 traditional
 story
 of
 a
 woman
who
transforms
from
a
daughter
to
a
mother
and
a
wife—a
regression,
politically
 speaking,
from
the
feminist
outlook
of
Buffy
the
Vampire
Slayer
a
decade
before,
and
one
 that
depends
on
readers’
willingness
to
commit
to
the
series’
fairytale
ending,
in
which
the
 heroine
and
the
hero
end
up
eternally
free
from
adult
obligations
(in
addition
to
freedom
 from
 mortality).
 Sookie
 Stackhouse,
 by
 contrast,
 does
 not
 get
 a
 fairytale
 ending.
 After


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


suffering
disappointment
and
betrayal
with
her
first
 love,
she
finds
herself
married
to
a
 vampire
who
is
explicitly
compared
to
a
“romance
hero,”
a
man
who
is,
and
remains,
both
 attractive
and
terrifying,
with
a
world
of
his
own
outside
of
their
relationship.
(Where
Bill
 had
to
confront
Sookie’s
“Otherness,”
Sookie
must
negotiate
Eric’s.)
Awakened
from
the
 dream
of
a
safe,
“defanged”
vampire
lover,
this
romance‐reading
heroine
has
to
face
the
 numerous,
ongoing,
unromantic
problems
involved
in
adult
love,
including
the
crucial
issue
 of
keeping
her
own
integrity
and
owning
her
own
life
while
in
a
relationship.
Safe
vampire
 heroes,
that
is
to
say,
are
young
women’s
fantasies,
but
safe
vampires
may
not
be
able
to
 stand
 the
 test
 of
 more
 mature
 readers,
 especially
 when
 they
 are
 readers
 of
 popular
 romance.
 



 [1]
Natalie
Wilson
argues
on
the
implications
of
race
and
ethnicity
in
her
article,
“Civilized
 Vampires
Versus
Savage
Werewolves:
Race
and
Ethnicity
in
the
Twilight
Series,”
pointing
 out
the
use
of
stereotypical
“savage”
 image
of
Native
American
 in
representation
of
 the
 Quileutes.
 I
 agree
 with
 this
 reading,
 and
 I
 have
 to
 point
 out
 that
 the
 Cullens
 as
 new
 immigrants
do
not
necessarily
contradict
her
reading,
 for
they
do
seem
to
acquire
their
 “ultra‐white,
ultra‐privileged”
lifestyle
through
their
assimilation
efforts
they
have
made
in
 the
United
States.
In
the
SVM,
too,
these
two
contrasting
images
are
clear,
too.
As
opposed
 to
“aristocratic”
vampires,
weres
and
shapeshifters,
especially
a
clan
of
werepanthers,
who
 are
mostly
construction
workers
and
mechanics,
evoke
the
image
of
working
class
people
 who
live
under
deprived
conditions.

 [2]
Some
critics
offer
various
analyses
of
Edward
both
in
positive
and
negative
lights.
For
 example,
Edward
can
be
read
as
a
self‐sacrificing
savior
and
Christ
 figure,
according
 to
 Sandra
Gravett.
Yet
more
important
is
the
argument
that
Edward
is
not
a
caring
tender
 boyfriend,
but
a
controlling
and
overbearing
stalker.
Rebecca
Housel
goes
as
far
to
say,
“In
 any
world
other
than
the
fantastical
one
created
by
Meyer,
Edward
would
be
jailed”
(188).
 For
more
detailed
analyses
of
the
power
issue
between
Edward
and
Bella,
see,
for
example,
 Platt’s
“Gender
and
Sexual
Politics
in
the
Twilight
Series,”
Melissa
Ames’
“Twilight
Follows
 Tradition,”
and
Abigail
E.
Myers’s
“Edward
Cullen
and
Bella
Swan:
Byronic
and
Feminist
 Heroes…or
Not.”
 [3]
As
one
can
tell
by
the
phrase
“come
out,”
the
vampires
and
shapeshifters
(who
come
out
 in
the
ninth
book,
Dead
and
Gone)
are
evocative
of
minorities,
especially
sexual
minorities.
 Harris
consciously
uses
this
analogy
to
take
up
the
issue
of
the
civil
rights
of
vampires
and
 shapeshifters
occasionally.
Characters
sometime
react
with
“I
am
Christian”
statements
in
 denying
the
accusation
of
being
vampires
or
shapeshifters,
suggesting
these
supernatural
 characters
 represent
 people
 with
 unChristian
 lifestyles.
 However,
 the
 main
 character
 Sookie
 is
 unhesitatingly
 straight,
 and
 her
 love
 interests
 respond
 to
 her
 as
 traditional
 heterosexual
heroes.
 [4]
In
Twilight,
the
view
that
a
marriage
is
based
on
an
animalistic
and
instinctual
bond
is
 further
confirmed
with
the
werewolves’
habit
of
“imprinting,”
whereby
they
instinctively
 find
their
future
mates.
 [5]
This
process
is
repeated
in
her
second
union
with
Eric.
After
sharing
each
other’s
blood,
 they
 form
a
 “blood
bond,”
which
enables
 them
to
understand
each
other’s
 feelings
and
 thinking,
and
that
bond
eventually
leads
to
their
vampire
marriage.


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


[6]
However,
Bill
Compton’s
solution
to
Sookie’s
pain—to
have
her
uncle
killed—gives
her
 the
first
moment
of
hesitation
regarding
the
safety
of
Bill.
And
she
does
regret
her
decision
 later.
Sookie
wonders
if
she
“should
have
cut
and
run”
when
she
found
out
he
was
capable
 of
violence
(Family
33).
 [7]
Some
critics
offer
analyses
of
Twilight
 in
the
contexts
of
Mormon
teachings.
Marc
E.
 Shaw
and
Margaret
M.
Toscano
both
point
out
the
ending
with
the
happy
vampire
family
is
 a
supernatural
version
of
the
Mormon
teaching
of
an
eternal
marriage,
“forever
and
forever
 and
forever.”
 [8]
Sandra
Gravette
points
out
that
Bella
“shows
herself
as
the
model
of
a
timid
virgin”
(41)
 once
she
becomes
a
wife,
contrary
to
her
former
sexually‐curious
self.
 [9]
In
a
later
development,
Sookie
discovers
and
unites
with
her
lost
(non‐human)
family
 members
while
she
goes
through
various
troubles
and
disappointments
in
love.
 [10]
To
a
lesser
degree,
especially
in
the
movie
adaptations,
Twilight
also
offers
the
objects
 of
female
gaze
with
always
half‐naked
Jacob
and
other
werewolves,
suggesting
the
way
in
 which
the
movies
are
consumed.
 [11]
Their
marriage
becomes
more
strained
in
Dead
Reckoning,
when
she
learns
that
Eric
 may
have
to
fulfill
an
arranged
marriage
with
another
vampire,
set
up
by
his
superior.
 


Journal
of
Popular
Romance
Studies
(2011)
2.1


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