In these, you give yourself permission to judge a book by its cover.  The verdict?  Sizzling hot!  Full of searing scandal and lusty dames, shameless rogues and sinister villains.  Buy them you must, just as you must run your hands over their worn covers and imagine all the sordid deeds seeping through each page--almost soiling you as if you are guilty by association...and rather enjoying it.

These books throw virtue out the window, just as they reject any pretense at literary grandeur in favor of grit and sin and a yarn spun so well you're dizzy after reading it.  Their covers are a cold hard promise of people behaving badly--and liking it as much as you love reading about it.  It's all about base instincts and tawdry actions.

They are the books no one wants to admit to reading, to wanting; the ones that kindle your imagination the most just by their covers alone.  This is why you love them, why you give them a prized place on your bookshelves and writing desk and nightstand.  These books, out of all the others, remind you that you are human, made of bone and skin and blood, of heat and heart, of wisdom far deeper than the thin veneer of respectability you are tempted to commit to with a quick purchase of some old classic or other.

So you surround yourself with these pulp pops of humanity, theses thin slivers of juicy life full to bursting with bright flashes of human experience, these over-the-top exaggerations of what it means to bite into life and savor every moment, the good, the bad, the pulp.