I lost interest in the Laurel K Hamilton books pretty quickly. I found the constant whingeing and Fraught Emotional Tension annoying, and I wanted to hit Richard the werewolf with a sock full of silver nickels. Gods, what a pansy.

I don't mean pansy as in a homophobic slur, but pansy as in a delicate flower that leaves a smear on the bottom of my Doc Martens.

I read Clan of the Cave Bear when I was about nine, and loved it. Well researched, well written, full of adventure and etc. Very little sex, and what there was was brutal and not scintillating at all.

Then, someone loaned me Valley of the Horses, the second one. My mother had vetted Clan of the Cave Bear, and found it acceptable for a precocious preadolescent, so she didn't bother to give the sequel more than a cursory once-over.

Whew! Every book in that series beyond the first is solid caveman sex. The history is still well-researched, the story is still good, but the books are at least 1/3 purple. There is no kink, either; just pages and pages of them doin' it the same way every time.

Jondalar's giant, stalwart, tumescent Manhood (like a baby's arm holding an apple!) and Ayla's soft, velvety, Goddess-given love mitten Womanhood.

Yark. Startled the hell out of little innocent me. I hid it under my mattress because I figured that is what you did with such things.

Freki