FABIO: betas and twinks and supple squishy femme-b0is: the microplastics to my asbestos, yet here’s why we MUST nourish ALL raunch appetites:

How might one apply to become Fabio’s PR spokesbloke?

Recently I was gobbling material for book covers, to complement the ones I’d thrown together at mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse. Who’s splashed across hundreds of 1990s romantic novels? Fabio, that’s who.

On my travels, I bumped into one of his recent interviews. Turns out our Mr. Fabio has a few things to say about today’s romance novel artwork trends:

Kaitlin Olson, a senior editor at Atria, a division of Simon & Schuster, told PW, “More readers are asking for ‘cinnamon rolls’ — described as sweet, supportive and kind types of dudes, and ‘golden retrievers’ — men sporting floppy energy and positive attitude.

In romance novel publisher-speak, that means male lovers who are more, well, puppy-like, soft and cuddly, and less toxic — certainly not the hard-bodied, fiery Fabio type.

“Hogwash!” declares Fabio Lanzoni, the multimillionaire retired cover boy star of romance novels, who turned 64 last March, and still looks as hunky as ever.

In an exclusive interview with The Post, he scoffed at romance publishing’s “soft masculinity” concept, and blames it on the “progressive woke movement” that he feels is being promulgated by “the political far left and the Biden administration.”

“In life, there are trends, and this is nothing more than a trend. It’s ridiculous, like all the rest of the woke movement.”

“I talk to many people, I talk to many women and the women say, ‘We can’t find real men anymore,’ and they say, ‘We want a real man, not a metrosexual,’ so what they say is happening in the new romance novels is detached from reality. It’s La-La Land.”

As tempting and as hilarious as it may be to blast the “progressive woke movement”, as he phrases it, such word choices can be a teensy bit waffly and misleading.

I think we can all kind of see what Fabio’s getting at, but might I suggest an alternate blurb?

I ain’t got no quarrel with merely broadening romance novel artwork! Seriously, ladies, it’s all good. Might these squishy golden-retriever betas better satisfy your cravings for passion? Might you hunger for more resplendent raunchfests? Sure, why not? Betas welcome, says I. Loads of room for all.

But what I must protest is today’s sterile glut of nothing BUT squishy betas.

Don’t get me wrong! I realise that I, friggin’ FABIO, am the LAST person positioned to critique romance art gluts. Come on. It’s ME. For much of the ‘90s, merely wandering into random bookstores felt like I was tripping serious balls inside a glittery disco mirror ball. For wherever I stared, I beheld ONLY my own chiselled jaw, my luscious locks, my rock-hard abs, and my modesty pouch. It’s like https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olbers%27s_paradox but beefcake. These should be SOMETIMES foods, as Sesame Street’s Cookie Monster so sagely reminds us all. He’s my Yoda. Yumyumyum.

Yet ‘90s romance publishers strained the patience of all by squidging my friggin’ likeness into every damn crevice imaginable. You know Lake Vostok? It’s sandwiched between four kilometres of Antarctic ice cap above, and aeons-ancient bedrock below. Scientists recently drilled to sample its bacterial life. Instead they uncorked an oil-gusher of my own posters. And not my earliest ‘80s work! Recent stuff! I couldn’t believe it! My likeness scuttles everywhere! Sometimes I fear I’d always been nine million cockroaches in a trench coat.

Loads of romance fans thus thirst for more myriad fare. And I agree! Bring on the betas and the twinks and the supple squishy femme-b0is, baby. Fair’s fair, fellas and/or lady-fellas. Let’s make history!

But our romance overlords instead just switcheroo’d one noxious raunch hegemony with another. Beta twinks now clog the universe. Exotic invasive plump femme-b0i butt-cheeks genocide indigenous muscle-taut glutes. Geologists unshroud antique dino fossils betwixt slutty strata of metrosexuals. Mars rovers pierce rock ancient even at the Solar System’s creation and a trillion flimsy twinks flop out. Holy shit. They’re everywhere. They’re the microplastics to my asbestos. They’re a wobbly scourge of wuss. Old-school romancers mourn their missing macho. Those who once feasted on your classic virile masculine vibe now face famine and drought. Betas are so much empty styrofoam. Fuck ‘em.

Or don’t! Whatever does or doesn’t light your fire, hawt-stuff. And that’s my point, really. It’s a huge world. Surely there’s oodles of room for all bodice-ripper appetites? Something for everyone. Let us cater to all tastes. Let a billion hard-ons bloom.

Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2025/1/fabio-betas-and-twinks-and-supple-squishy-femme-b0is-the-microplastics-to-my-asbestos-yet-heres-why-we-must-nourish-all-raunch-appetites-

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Further Reading: The SEXYVERSE NOVELS

IN A WORLD where wars are fought with romance and flirting and delicious erotic TENSION, the rivalries throbbing between history’s Great Powers have become a BUTTLOAD more bubbly, with fewer hideous massacres of musket and cannon, and OODLES more frisky cunnilingus contests:

The Sex Commandos Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse

Part One: The Knights Of Raw Phwoar

Might Earth’s free nations drown under terrifying tornadoes of French femme-foam? Like hell, shout Britain’s Royal Marines Sex Commandos. Let’s assassinate France’s Imperatrix Brigitte Bardot! Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?

Part Two: The Soviet Sluts Superb

Turns out out-flirting Imperatrix Bardot is like trying to wank off Mt. Blanc when it’s wanking you back. Plan B: skedaddle, regroup, out-flirt the entirety of France and get loads more practice, then it’s stealthy-sneaky Round Two or bust.

Part Three: The Cervical Supremacy

Turns out flirting with every ladybro Rambo in France produces Rivals and Frenemies and Jilted Waifus galore. Smashing fun, but utter Kryptonite for Imperial kill-plans. Like, ever tried noshing off a world leader whilst a billion fanb0is fondle your buttocks? Want to? Read on!

Part Four: The Praetorian Prostitutes

The game’s up! The irresistible force of fanb0i-fondlemania has headbutted the immovable object of a gazillion furious Paris cops. They too thirst for Sex Commando patoot. Crunch time. Either launch one final rocket-strike against Bardot and France, or Earth’s free nations forever perish.

Part Five: [soon, baby]

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Crave more bullshit laughs? Click these and enjoy these and your appetites will be SATISFIED. And it’ll make me incredibly happy. You put yummy in my tummy, you know that?