On writing love scenes
Sep. 30th, 2003 01:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
davywavyDuring the course of my authorial composition recently (it was whilst I was trying to thrash out the Zombie/Samurai tale that I’ve been promising – which I have to confess isn’t going as well as I might hope) I was put in the position of having to write a scene that was mildly – and when I say mildly, I mean mildly -salacious. I was actually forced by the narrative to use the word ‘breasts’ as pertaining to the female anatomy in a sexual sense.
It was an odd experience. My mouth went dry, my heart sped up and I spelled it wrong three separate times before I finally committed the word correctly to paper. It’s odd. I can happily write that girls have Hooters, or Gazoinkers, or Wally Jumblatts, or even (thank you![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mamahooch) ta-ta’s, but writing seriously about human sexual characteristics leaves me completely flummoxed and feeling like a bit of a pervert.
Writing serious, descriptive sex scenes – what others might call erotica – leaves me completely cold. A less erotic thing than ‘erotica’ I actually find difficult to envisage, and the clinical, almost scientific descriptions of sex that one finds in books has never really done it for me. This is, I think, because Woody Allen was right when he said that sex is only funny when you’re doing it right.
Perhaps this is why my occasional forays into the world of the perverse have been marked with a singular lack of success. Fetishists tend to take their personal thang very seriously, and so being met with my hoots of merriment when someone wants to call me master in all seriousness can’t help matters; and any man wearing a PVC skirt asking me to thrash him is just asking for trouble, one way or another.
Let’s face it, any human activity which shares both a name and sound effects with a whoopee cushion shouldn’t be taken seriously and this, I think, is why I feel so uncomfortable writing serious ‘erotic’ descriptions. Any love scene that I write which doesn’t feature a gay octopus and a couple of dozen custard pies feels somehow incomplete*
So it remains that when it comes to writing whoopee, I remain much happier descending into farce and perhaps I ought to leave the writing of serious, biological sex scenes to those who like their own love lives like that, and I’ll stick to the having fun part.
Now all I have to do is see if I can fit in the scene with a baby oil coated Space Hopper before the zombie horde attacks the Shogun.
*The author would like to stress to any interested ladies reading that he does not consider the inclusion of cephalopods and bakery products essential to a night of lovemaking, and will happily forego them if it tips the scales in his favour.
It was an odd experience. My mouth went dry, my heart sped up and I spelled it wrong three separate times before I finally committed the word correctly to paper. It’s odd. I can happily write that girls have Hooters, or Gazoinkers, or Wally Jumblatts, or even (thank you
mamahooch) ta-ta’s, but writing seriously about human sexual characteristics leaves me completely flummoxed and feeling like a bit of a pervert.Writing serious, descriptive sex scenes – what others might call erotica – leaves me completely cold. A less erotic thing than ‘erotica’ I actually find difficult to envisage, and the clinical, almost scientific descriptions of sex that one finds in books has never really done it for me. This is, I think, because Woody Allen was right when he said that sex is only funny when you’re doing it right.
Perhaps this is why my occasional forays into the world of the perverse have been marked with a singular lack of success. Fetishists tend to take their personal thang very seriously, and so being met with my hoots of merriment when someone wants to call me master in all seriousness can’t help matters; and any man wearing a PVC skirt asking me to thrash him is just asking for trouble, one way or another.
Let’s face it, any human activity which shares both a name and sound effects with a whoopee cushion shouldn’t be taken seriously and this, I think, is why I feel so uncomfortable writing serious ‘erotic’ descriptions. Any love scene that I write which doesn’t feature a gay octopus and a couple of dozen custard pies feels somehow incomplete*
So it remains that when it comes to writing whoopee, I remain much happier descending into farce and perhaps I ought to leave the writing of serious, biological sex scenes to those who like their own love lives like that, and I’ll stick to the having fun part.
Now all I have to do is see if I can fit in the scene with a baby oil coated Space Hopper before the zombie horde attacks the Shogun.
*The author would like to stress to any interested ladies reading that he does not consider the inclusion of cephalopods and bakery products essential to a night of lovemaking, and will happily forego them if it tips the scales in his favour.
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on fetishes and that stuff in general
Date: 2003-09-30 05:47 am (UTC)I can think of few situations in life more than sex where an ability to laugh at yourself is completely essential.
You need to read the following.
Date: 2003-09-30 06:57 am (UTC)---
Sailor Jim pauses in his latest endeavor and frowns. After a meditative sip of his drink, he addresses those around him.
"There are some literary subjects that have become total clichés and attempting to describe an erect penis is one.
"I am writing a sex scene and my hero is now crossing the room while fully erect. So, basically, his stiff dick is bobbing like a demented conductors baton as he crosses the room ... however, one cannot simply write, 'He crossed the room, his stiff dick bobbing like ... ' and so forth. Well, one could if one was writing that sort of scene (and one was half plastered), but this one cannot.
"To write anything referring to his 'turgid manhood' is also somewhat tacky. Hell, just the term 'manhood' to describe the penis strikes me as idiotic. A dick is no more one's 'manhood' than a hymen is one's 'maidenhood.' 'He
strutted across the bedroom, his hard manhood pointing the way' sounds somewhat he owns a badly named seeing-eye dog. 'Sit, Hard Manhood ... good boy.'
"Just describing the state of erection is tough. It is a simple matter of erectile flesh and hydraulics, but damnably difficult to put into terms romantic. 'His penis, reacting to his viewing her naked flesh, achieved satisfactory erection, proving good vascular response and
socio/psychological adjustment." Oh, yeah ... baby, baby.
"Terms like 'throbbing,' 'pulsing' and all other variations of this nature make it sound as if the silly thing had a blood pressure cuff wrapped around it. 'His fleshy organ quickly surged into full alertness, throbbing and pulsing and otherwise scaring the shit out of him.' When I envision something throbbing, I imagine an action somewhat akin to a bullfrogs throat sack as it croaks. THROB! Frankly, with this in mind, if my dick ever took to throbbing, I'd call a doctor. Matter of fact, I would think that any woman, faced with an actively throbbing and pulsing penis, would be somewhat concerned as well.
(I don't know this for a fact, though ... Dian says that in certain situations, the sight is somewhat excited, but the first time she experienced this situation, she looked for a stick to kill it with.)
"And then there is the matter of size, shape, color and texture. Well, he's the hero ... I suppose it should be heroic, but somewhat shy of practical joke size. Shape, now, there's another difficulty ... as well as color and
texture. Hell, let's face it ... a dick is a fairly funny looking, if not downright ugly, piece of equipment. Veins, bumps, ridges and all that; a color that never matches the sheets, much less the surrounding flesh (or any flesh, for that matter); an overall look of a plum precariously balanced on a badly whittled rod. Let's not even mention it and simply stick to the concept of a literary description of my hero approaching the heroine.
"Okay, he's naked and fully aroused ... does he stride? Stalk? Strut? Strikes me as a situation that calls for something more than 'walk,' but something less than 'bound.' I could have the silly sod moonwalk across the
floor, but the resulting mental image ... damn, too late! Oh, well .. another round of therapy. And what does the erect penis actually do while he crosses the floor? Does it bounce against his belly, producing it's own applause? Does it wave about in some sort of vague response to his stride? Would it be feasible if I simply had him hang a towel from the damn thing and skip the entire description?
"And what about the heroine? She is languidly reclining on the bed... and doing her level best to not bust a gut laughing, I suspect. Should she stare? Gasp? Giggle? Ogle? Chant 'boingy, boingy, boingy' as he approaches or whistle the 'Elephant Walk' in time to the swaying? This is
suppose to be a moment of strong passion and deep emotions ... but a bouncing, throbbing, column of manhood slowly moonwalking forward ... damn, gotta stop that image ... strutting towards her cannot be what every woman dreams of in her fevered imagination. I want this scene to be equally stirring to both men and women, but fear that this is impossible."
(cont)
Date: 2003-09-30 06:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-30 07:12 am (UTC)Re: (cont)
Date: 2003-09-30 08:54 am (UTC)Really?
Read some Margaret Atwood, I'm quite surprised at how well she integrates sex into her fiction, and not Sex!(TM) In mundanity, beauty, and eros.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-30 10:39 am (UTC)Zombie sex! Zombie sex!
You'll never take Zombie moaning in quite the same way again! ;-)
no subject
Date: 2003-09-30 08:16 pm (UTC)Personally
Egalitarian I thought.
Come to think of it, I think that's what I call them myself, hmmm...
Re: Personally
Date: 2003-10-01 09:57 pm (UTC)