Real - Katy Evans Nothing in the world could have prepared me for this book. It’s too much and too little and too fucking bad for my brain to wrap itself around. I like romance. Really, I do. But books like Real are twisting the romance genre to a place where the phrases “pussy lips” and “fucks my ear” are becoming the norm, and I can’t with that. I can’t.

And how about these “hot alpha heroes” the writers have been cranking out lately? What a bunch of assholes. Just empty, pointless shells of rudimentary DNA and 0% body fat. After another one of my forays into the New Adult world, my AXEL! experience, I wrote an ode to the New Alpha. However, after reading about Remy in REAL, it seems that my ode was incomplete.

With no further ado, BAVR’s Ode to the New Alpha: Remy Edition…

He's hot, ripped, and hung like a horse.
His dick slices through granite and punches ten sharks.
He likes a girl with a vagina that can gush like a geyser
and HATES any man who dares look sideways at her.
His sperm are like ninjas that make dragon babies.
He may speak like a child but fucks like 8 porn stars.
The New Alpha makes good girls fantasize about douchebags.
Who needs good characterization when - blah, blah, blah - 12 pack?

Hark! None of these douchebags prepared us for Remy,
who licks like a lion and plays with his semen.
His spiky black hair and his pants worn that way
make women have orgasms in public arenas.
He speaks through a series of grunts and gruff growls
but all of his street cred comes from his iPod – GOO GOO DOLLS!
They say that his cock moves faster than the speed of light.
There it is, behind you! You’re pregnant now, slut!

So, whatever, the moment has arrived to review this masterpiece. It’s time to stop being polite and start getting REAL. The REAL World: Brooke’s Vagina.


You know what makes books like Real most insufferable to me? They’re shallow. The plot of this is just a partially evaporated puddle of piss in the desert. There is no reality to “Real,” no substance. It is what it fucking is, and that is a poorly crafted self-insert fic with squicky sex.

Our narrator is Brooke Dumas, a sports rehabilitation specialist (or in simpler terms, a “stretcher”)who swore off men after hurting her leg in the Olympic trial. Her vagina could drown a small village if a hot six-pack walked by.

The first time she sees Remy:
My panties are soaked, and my pulse has gone haywire.

When Remy talks:
My thighs go watery when the answering voice slides across the shell of my ear, both velvet and chillingly hard.

At seeing acts of violence:
My sex muscles clench every time he hits an opponent.

Brooke’s sex muscles always clench. I’m surprised Remy never got his peen stuck in there, to be honest. The other thing we have to know about Brooke is that she doesn’t know what “literally” means. This is important because correct usage of words is KIND OF THE WHOLE POINT ABOUT BOOKS.

For example, Brooke can’t sprint anymore because she hurt her leg and WAH, WAH, WAH, that’s her tragic backstory. Then she thinks this:
I want to go crazy. Bungee. Sprint again, even if only in a literal sense.

And then Brooke implies that she may be a dragon:
There is, literally, a ball of fire in my throat, and I can’t even swallow my saliva.


Brooke uses words like a handless man wearing a blindfold uses a hammer – blindly and with no discernible precision. There are several very boring passages where she pretends to be all smart and shit by using anatomical terms to describe Remy’s glistening deltoids or whatever, but all of that “I R TEH SMARTZ” dies when she thinks things like this:

My head is spinning inside my cranium.

Time to submit that phrase to thingsthatcan’

Oh, and this:

For the past four evenings, he’s come get me from my room and carry me back to his, and on this last one, I even stayed the full day.

Seriously. Editing is not evil, writers. Give it a try.

So, anyway, Brooke is insufferable. The time that she doesn’t spend ruminating over Remy’s “perfection” and hot penis is spent feeling like she’s the cat’s meow for being the cure for Remy’s Bipolar episodes and beating out all the whores and sluts for his sexxors and love.

And then there’s Remington “Riptide” Tate, the PERFECT and UNBEATABLE underground fighter with the SOUL OF A LION. Or whatevs. Remy has “people,” and all that these people basically do is pay off the hotel and wait staffs when Remy goes manic and destroys shit and shoot him full of tranquilizers when he gets violent outside of the ring.

Yes, in REAL, Remy is bipolar, and it’s insultingly fetishized. A sensitive, nuanced issue like Bipolar Disorder deserves a far smarter book than REAL to pay it the proper respect. Brooke just fucking loves it when he goes manic, mostly because he gets really, really horny, and also because she likes to feel needed. Aside from the tranquilizers, Remy will NOT take medication for his very dangerous condition. Because this is real, you see, and making the true love with a man who could snap and kill you without remembering it in the morning IS TOTALLY NORMAL.


Brooke doesn’t give a shit about any of this, of course, because thinking about Remy’s mental illness in a thoughtful way wouldn’t make her wet. In fact, if this book mentions something other than how perfect, hot, glistening, hard, strong Remy is, it only lasts for a couple of paragraphs. Because we can’t tear our attention away from how HAWT this empty shell of a character with his Tragic Backstory of the Week is, can we? Note to authors: If you describe your hero as “perfect,” YOU’RE DOING CHARACTERIZATION WRONG.

But come on, Rachel, you say, thinking I seem like a huge bitch for being mean to this book. The sex has to be good. Right? RIGHT?

His expression is tense, ravenous, so hot as he scrapes his finger deep into my channel. "Do you want me inside you?"


"Sticky?" he asks in a gruff manner, bending his head and licking my shoulder as he pushes his semen back inside with one finger.


”When I get you in bed, I’m going to scrub you raw with my fucking tongue until there’s nothing anywhere on you from him. Only me. Only me.”


I’m finished with this. The secondary characters and sequel bait aren’t even worth mentioning because I know Evans will make them have all kinds of icky semen covered sex in future books. As for Remy and Brooke’s future book, I won’t be reading it. Because this first book is basically the same shallow thought on repeat for a couple hundred pages mixed with some very rough writing, I don’t see how the second one will be any different. Obviously, there’s a target audience for this kind of book, but I’m not in it. Not even close.

Read my status updates for more squicky excerpts. You won’t enjoy a minute of it.

Also: Read my buddy reader Karla’s review for some more fleshed-out thoughts that I don’t currently have the emotional capacity to handle. >:D

One more quote before I go:

"Do you like what I do to you ... with this...?" When he slides his sweatpants off, I'm fainting with the sight of ten Remington's butts in the reflections behind him, his powerful legs from behind, his narrow waist and broad shoulders.

And his cock, standing before me.

I've just died.

And a visual representation of how I feel about this book: