Writing About Sex

This brief meditation on the perils of dealing successfully, and professionally, with the myriad facets of both love and sex within your writing - you are almost certainly going to have to wrestle with at least one of these volatile topics during the composition of your novel*; indeed, love, passion, desire (call it what you will) is the fuel which drives the vast majority of literature - arose out of my many, sometimes heated, discussions with individual students, and those in a group setting. Nothing, I’ve discovered, polarises a gathering of novelists manqué more than matters relating to human mating. The scramble to claim the moral high ground can be undignified in the extreme.

(*I retain the word ‘novel’ for convenience; these notes are adapted from the pack I produced for the students on my novel writing course. The advice given applies equally to all forms of writing.)

Let’s begin by setting out a few general principles:

Your love scene[s] (which, herein after, also refer to all forms of sexual activity) should be written, and placed within your work, so that they are central to the story and, in some fundamental way, advance the plot, disclose necessary information and reveal character - ideally all three.

All such scenes must maintain and/or directly contribute to the novel’s innate tension and on-going conflict. They should not be there merely for decorative effect.

Characters should remain consistent once in a state of dishabille. Albert, your timid, unworldly, myopic public librarian cannot, whilst frolicking in the building’s subterranean book store with his equally astigmatic colleague, Lola, come across as some frighteningly adept and rapacious sex machine, a prodigiously gifted lover who has experienced every position described within the covers of the ‘Kama Sutra’ at least once. Beware: it’s all too easy to sacrifice your characters’ true personalities as soon as their underwear makes contact with the Wilton.

The language you use to tell the reader what Lo and Al get up to beneath the duvet should be suitably fresh and original, evocative and rich - whilst also remaining fully compatible with the linguistic tonal values of the novel as a whole. Waxing heavily poetic (or pornographic) during moments of passion is certain to create a fatal sense of falsity in the proceedings if these episodes conflict stylistically with what has gone before – and with what is to come. At all costs avoid the use of cliché - not by any means an easy task - which will have the effect of dousing poor Lo and Al (and the reader) with a bucket of iced water. Cliché (the literary equivalent of bromide) is the best antidote to sexual desire there is; don’t prescribe it for your characters and then expect them to perform with anything approaching conviction.

A major problem with writing love scenes revolves around the questions of when, how much and how often. These factors will likely be determined by the kind of novel you’re writing. Sex in a thriller has a different role from that depicted in a romance or a horror story, say, even though the physical act may essentially be the same. Remember, scenes of a strictly sexual nature are not mandatory - unless, of course, you’re writing one of those sordid little ‘Black Lace’ style numbers whose characters if not actually dead (and perhaps even a state of advanced rigor mortis doesn’t disqualify them) indulge in an almost continuous (and frequently ludicrous) round of sweat raising screwing.

So, never insert a love scene into your narrative just to achieve a state of temporary tumescence in an otherwise flaccid plot. Never attempt to bribe the reader into staying with your story with a little acrobatic, and distracting, sex. Don’t play the pimp. Most readers are canny, and perceptive, enough to immediately see through your ruse and will readily, and rightly, condemn you for your gross impertinence and boorish tactics.

Sexual encounters do not stand isolated within a novel; they should be the culmination of everything has gone before, a natural consequence of past events - a release of tension which has been relentlessly building between two characters for example. Check the veracity, and legitimacy, of your amatorial encounters by reading the relevant chapter/section both including, and excluding, the scene in question. Does the sequence loose some vital energy and power through Lo and Al failing to proceed from coffee and conversation to full-blown simultaneous orgasm on the moonlit veranda?

Any scene in your novel (if it’s functioning correctly) is likely to be a miniature version of the story itself. It is imbued with similar properties: rising action, conflict, climax and resolution - just like the act of love itself in fact. You can (and indeed many authors have) profitably use the ebb and flow of lovemaking to give your scene its shape and rhythm - its dynamic.

There must always be something at stake for the participants beyond the mere gratification of sexual desire. Will Lo’s twenty-two stone psychopathic partner learn of her current whereabouts, and what will be the result for her (and Al) if they’re caught in flagrante delicto by homicidal Harry and his shiny hatchet? Will Al’s ailing, neurotic and possessive mother disinherit him if she discovers what her little short-sighted son gets up to on his nights away from the kitchen sink? The stamps Al collects on such illicit occasions are not the kind you can stick in an album. How will Al conceal the mounting evidence of his torrid affair with literature loving Lo? (‘Oh, please, please, Al baby, beat me again with that annotated copy of ‘Moby Dick!’)

As a result of Al and Lo’s sexual conjoining the balance of the story must alter.

As alluded to above, one of the commonest problems for writers embarking upon a love scene is the (often unconscious) temptation for the author to come - I’m sure you know what I mean - between the tremulous couple about to catch sight of what’s lurking in each others undergarments. The conduct of the characters concerned begins to conflict horribly with the set of emotional/behavioural patterns which, hitherto, they’ve lived by, and observed, quite contentedly and convincingly. This is frequently the moment when clichéd thought on the part of the writer translates into clichéd action/reaction upon the page. The demon of chauvinism often rears its repulsive reptilian head at this point.

In any sexual liaison there will, inevitably, be some subtle power struggle taking place, but within your novel sex should not be portrayed as just a gratuitous and reflexive act of possession by the man. This is an anachronistic, and reductive, approach to the subject which you should strive to avoid - unless, of course, that’s the whole point of the scene. Similarly male sexuality is not solely comprised of brute force, ego and ignorance (am I in danger here of endowing the male of the species with a sensitivity that so few of them exhibit?), the man’s erection rendering him mute of voice and thought, and devoid of all feeling not centred around the groin.

Characters must remain consistent at all times - and especially during those heady moments of immediate pre and post sexual congress. The author has absolutely no business intruding upon their private time together forcing them (deliberately or otherwise) to enact his/her own erotic fantasies. Onanism is not part of the novelist’s remit once his characters are stripped for action. Wishfulfilment has no place here – and I’ll not thank you for bringing up ‘Wuthering Heights’ at this point!

It’s axiomatic that certain individuals will behave wholly unexpectedly given a specific set of circumstances. We witness such anomalies in human conduct daily on our roads; the meek become manic once their backsides ease into the driver’s seat of their penile Mondeos. If self-effacing, mousy little Albert is one of life’s sexual Jeykll and Hydes then this fact must be subtly foreshadowed within the text prior to his producing a length of copper piping and a tube of super-glue while lusty Lo hunts around in the bathroom for a vanilla flavoured condom. (See my above comment on male sexuality.) Al’s use of Araldite as an aid to gratification must seem both surprising - and yet inevitable - based upon the reader’s understanding of his character as presented by the author.

The biggest challenge facing the novelist is how to convey the theme of love and the ‘mechanics’ of lovemaking using language which is both interesting and innovative (and appropriate) - and completely devoid of the hackneyed phrase and the fifth hand sentiment. Most sex scenes tend to fall into the categories of the clinical, clichéd, or overly poetical. Thus we are treated to Lo’s genitalia being described in terms more suited to a gynaecologist preparing a pre-operative diagnostic report, or a tweed jacketed TV gardener detailing the luxuriant glossy bloom of some exotic orchid. ‘The engorged silky petals of Lola’s labia opened under the warm rain of his breath…’ Spare me, per- leese!

Test each line, each shiny nugget of description, ruthlessly; if anything on page (or screen) sounds even remotely familiar, trite (or merely risible) then cut it and try something new. Be sure to eschew over-indulgence in metaphor and simile. Sex and love attract these literary embellishments like a magnet suspended above a dish of iron filings. Trust the ability of the reader’s imagination to supply the necessary details of Lo and Al’s physical appearance during arousal, and their subsequent bedroom maneouvres.

How graphic/explicit you choose to be in your use of sexual language might depend largely upon how comfortable you are using words like ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck’. (Never, though, fall into the trap of employing euphemism - ‘his rampant manhood’) If such notorious four letter words would not fall naturally from the tongue of your dunking duo (and you’ve not employed them thus far in your narrative) then don’t use them here just for effect or shock value. If, on the other hand, Lo is one of those decent, ultra-respectable women who like to indulge in coprolalia during sex, then don’t deny her her mouthful of orgasm-inducing expletives.

I’m aware that my stance might appear to be an avowedly heterosexual one; however each of the points raised above apply equally to gay and lesbian relationships. The ‘political’ and moral complexities which surround gay sex are not so very different from those which inform heterosexual activity. How the writer handles his/her characters’ sexual orientation will depend upon the story they are trying to tell and the psychological, emotional and cultural make-up of the characters who populate the narrative.

To conclude: always be true to your characters’ psychological, spiritual and emotional dispositions (see above). Keep your own prejudices/hang-ups firmly under wraps. Any form of self-censorship, however mild, will destroy the impact of your work and make it sound banal or, even worse, specious. In the same way that you would never burst in upon a couple making love in real life, refrain from doing so in your fiction. Your characters’ morality is very much their own business. Bear this - often unpalatable - fact in mind whenever you find yourself creeping towards the bedroom door with that large zinc pail of icy water.

NB: Since originally penning the above, I’m pleased to report that further help is available in the shape of ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ by Elizabeth Benedict (Souvenir Press. £9.99). An edited version of my original review, which you may find helpful, is given below:

Very few writers, however accomplished (and who are not called Nabokov), can do sex convincingly, and satisfactorily; indeed the great majority suffer, at some time, from the literary equivalent of various sexual nasties: premature or retarded ejaculation, impotence, vaginismus, dysparreunia, nonorgasmia, etc. (Urgh!) Novelist and teacher Elizabeth Benedict offers a diagnosis and course of treatment for those writers afflicted with one (or more) of the above conditions. As a creative writing tutor, I’ve ploughed through more than my fair share of writing primers, very few of which justify their existence. I’m therefore both delighted, and frankly surprised, to be able to give Benedict’s book an unconditional – er - thumbs up. For those sweatily toiling at the coal-face, hewing their novel word by word, the advice and guidance provided is steeped in commonsense, and possesses a genuine insight into the problems which every writer encounters once their character’s make a beeline for the bedroom. Benedict draws on the work of many respected authors (Edmund White, Toni Morrison, John Updike, Roddy Doyle) to identify the problems, and solutions, relating to matters sexual. The general reader need not feel excluded, relegated to the role of voyeur. For anyone with an interest in contemporary fiction, there is a great deal here to enjoy and consider. This is as much a work of literary criticism as it is a writing manual. ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ takes into account the profound change in our sexual attitudes in recent years. AIDS, cyber-sex, adulterous and married sex, solo sex, and more, are covered. Benedict is at pains to point out that the creation of a convincing sex scene must take on board every aspect of fiction writing: dialogue, mood, plot, the psychology of relationships, character. Hear, hear! Wise, stimulating and so-o-o sexy. A course of Viagra between soft covers.