How reading romantic novels by Mills and Boon shaped me from the age of 12 and may have ruined me for every real man since

I WAS 12 when I read my first Mills & Boon.

A late bloomer, my first snog was still four awkward, spotty years away.

But in the pages of M&B, I fell in love over and over again.

There was the Arabian prince, the Italian playboy . . . the overworked doctor running a hospital for orphans in the Amazon. And, er, the other Arabian prince.

These men had exotic names like Xavier, Alejandro and Khalid.

They came from all over the world — rarely the UK, urgh barf — but they had several traits in common.

Strong, brooding, bright and prone to huffy fits of bossing people about, they were Alpha males before we even knew what that meant.

Most had “aquiline noses” (pity me in the days before Google), chiselled cheekbones and sensual mouths.

Without fail they’d seem like rotten b******s to begin with but, like Mr Darcy, would turn out to be utter softies (except where it counted) by the final page.

And the women all fitted a formula too. Independent, headstrong heroines who knew their own mind, they would invariably melt at the first practised caress from the tailored cuff of our hero.

One of the main things they all had in common was they were virgins. If not, they’d had “a bad time of it” with some feckless cad or pervy uncle.

They wore clinging jersey dresses to show off their curves and tried to tame their auburn curls with little success.

And the stories? They would start with a bereavement, a millionaire who needed a wife but only for a weekend conference.

Or maybe two experts in their field (he the established authority, she the young upstart, natch) would be thrown together when there was a misunderstanding at the hotel reception — and only one bed.

Invariably the heroine would get pregnant by accident then annoyingly decide to run off, rather than tell the bloke.

Much misery and worrying weight loss would ensue before he’d finally show up to secure a happy ending.

Of course, a decent plot and characters will only get you so far. What I was really there for was the sex.

You’d probably get wilder scenes on Poldark these days, but to a sheltered, small-town girl, they were absolute filth. And I loved every line.

Men were invariably up for performing oral pleasure but almost never asked for it — huzzah! And the final blissful act of union — always in a kingsize bed — would usually be careful or tentative then thrash-about crazy before ending in a shuddering, mutual climax.

And what exactly did this to a pre-teen me?

Well, it possibly ruined me for every boy or man I’ve met since. Yes, lovely Dave was all very well. But he was no Crown Prince Enrico of Moldavia.

I loved these fantasy men and their for-her-pleasure bedroom prowess — a million miles away from the grim, woman-hating anatomy lessons available on Pornhub these days.

Personality-wise, I shudder at the memory of these heroes for very different reasons. I think I’d probably find them pompous, humourless and unbearable now.

Ironically, that probably means I’ve turned into the headstrong, independent woman who featured in my favourite books.

Of course, times and heroes change. Today, Mills & Boon hunks are just as likely to be woke single dads.

Instead of throwing a pliant, panting heroine on the kingsize, the lovers can now bond over raising kids alone while sipping matcha lattes.

A cursory look at recent titles shows plenty of the old-school shenanigans I craved are still on offer. Just in the past month, Mills & Boon has published A Virgin To Redeem The Billionaire, A Wedding At The Italian’s Demand and . . . Spaniard’s Baby Of Revenge. Yes!

I’m gagging to read them but, knowing how they set me back, should probably put my energy into finding a mate in the (sigh) real world.

Oh well, Enrico, we’ll always have Rome. And your Leaning Tower of Pisa.

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