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Since there always seem to be discussions about Alpha-Heroes (and y’all know how much—insert sarcasm here—I love them) on a number of other blogs related to romance fiction, I thought it only fair I visit the manly-man-osity again and offer an observation beyond heroes and facial hair.

            There are several so-called ‘sexy’ things in this world I simply do not understand: Pole dancing, male strippers, and hatchbacks. Shrinky and I see eye-to-eye on two items, but then we part ways. “Well, my sweet little Oldbiteywifey,” Shrinky might say, “since you’re not a dude, I totally understand how you don’t you get the appeal of a chick dancing around a fixed metal pole that is clearly a phallic representation and/or compensation for a male member (like those 80s ‘Member’s Only’ jackets were too), and yeah, strippers like The Thunder From Down Under are completely desperate in the same way chick strippers are, but come ON! A hatchback is friggin’ HAWTT!"

 Yeah, honey, that Gremlin is sex on wheels. No, I can’t lie.  Darling, You are wrong. This is HAWTT:
It’s an Aston Martin Vanquish V-12 and IT is sex on wheels.
Maybe North dives a hatch in Jennifer Crusie’s Maybe This Time, but let’s get this straight. While there is such a thing as a hot hero, Alpha or Beta, there is no such thing as a “Hot Hatch.”

Just look at that Pacer to your left. A hatchback is one step below the supreme sexiness of…a Station Wagon—but at least you can have good boink in the back of one of those. Forget car sex if you own a hatchback—and I mean real sex, not handiwork. A hatchback is for groceries, not nookie. Sorry, y’all. No matter what Jeremy Clarkson and his Top Gear buds say, no matter what sort of engine you shove inside, no matter how aerodynamic you try to make it with the hideous spoiler, no matter if you bolt on a big-assed noisy exhaust system with a big fat hole of a pipe (which makes it even less sexy), a hatchback is nothing more than an ugly shopping buggy on big fat rubber tyres (or tires if you other English speakers prefer) instead of clattering wheels that never let you steer straight. And you out there with filthy minds, stop reading dick imagery into the words shove, hideous spoiler, hole, and rubber. A hatchback is not even vaguely phallic.

And maybe that’s the problem.

The hatchback is NOT a chick magnet. A Peugeot 206 or a Fiat 500 are not made of HAWTT—I should know because I drive a 500 and dudes always tell me how cute it is. I think one guy even said it was ‘darling’.  @font-face {
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A romance hero CAN drive a hatchback, but he does not own it by choice, and if he does have a hatchback it has to be one that he’s kept because:

a)    It’s a sentimental memento of his dead best friend/twin brother/father whose murder he is trying to solve;

b)    it’s stolen to execute a Jason Bourne-esque escape from hit men;

c)    it’s cover for police/FBI/spy/bounty hunter work;

d)    he’s been wrongly accused, imprisoned, and released and it’s the car his sister lent him until he’s cleared his name, is back on his feet, and can afford an Audi A5;

e)    it’s a loaner from the dealer while his Bondian Aston-Martin DB4 is in for routine maintenance;

f)     It’s the only rental car left in the lot.

Of course, if you care to argue about this, feel free. I’m stickin’ to my six-guns-a-blazin’ on this one.