On Writing Sex Scenes

Like every author I’ve weathered rejection, criticism, and tactful notes from copy editors asking if a character is meant to combat shivering by ‘crapping herself in a blanket.’

But, last month, true disaster struck. 

My mother discovered that I’m an author.

She arrived at my door with an uncertain glare, saying, “Aunt L said she’s looking forward to your book.” Whatever she was uncertain about, it wasn’t how annoyed she was at being the last to know.

“Er, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, as the ARCs dropped onto the doormat between us, the envelope labelled HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP in size 72 font. Red font. Bolded. We both stared at the parcel.

“Aunt L must have got me confused with someone else,” I continued. “Hey, did you know Cousin T is gay?”

She was undeterred. Apparently, it’s no longer shocking news that someone in the family is gay. I never thought I’d regret persuading her to stop reading the Daily Mail.

I did know I’d regret teaching her to use the internet, especially in those first few weeks when she called me seventy-eight times a day to ask if she should left-click or right-click (I think she was just showing off that she knew the difference), but now that really came back to bite me, too. Within fifteen seconds she was looking at my book on her iPad. The iPad that I bought her. God dammit.

So, my mother is going to read my book.

There are several reasons I didn’t want this to happen.

First, she’s going to treat the book as memoir, not fiction, and think the protagonist is based on me and – worse – the protagonist’s dippy, comic-relief mother is based on her. And I really don’t want her to find out that I do actually share all the dippy things Mama Kaling says, albeit on Twitter. To 6,000 followers.

Second, I don’t want her to read any of the swearing, because she’s going to leave a 1* review that apologises to all readers for her clear failure in my upbringing and urges them to return the book for a refund.

But mostly, I really, really, don’t want her reading my sex scenes.

This may be true for all authors, or it might just be those of us writing romance, but people seem to think our books are our fantasies. That I want to be my heroine, and my hero is my perfect man. And, by extension, that my sex scenes show my idea of perfect sex.

If that were true, my sex scenes would go something like this:

Hero: “You know, I don’t think we should bother with sex anymore. That time could better be spent reading, and, when you think about, sex is kind of ridiculous and unattractive.”

Me: “You’re so right. Let’s also sleep in separate beds from now on, because whoever decided humans should share beds needs to get in the fucking sea.”

Hero: “Absolutely. See you in the morning.” 

Me: “Better make it afternoon. I need about four hours of warming up before I’m ready for interaction with other humans.”

Hero: “How about I just move out and you call me when you have a back itch you can’t reach?”

Me: “Darling, you’re the perfect man.”

Rest assured, those of you who’ve bought my book – the sex scenes deviate significantly from my fantasy.

However, “fantasy” isn’t a word I ever want to use in conversation with my mother unless we’re discussing the virtues of Tolkien. And that conversation would probably be something like, “Anna, you know an author who’s good enough to carry a book without bad language? Tolkien. And his covers aren’t pink.” Followed by a hard stare.

So Cthulhu knows what my mother is going to think of my sex scenes. I can only hope she’s so disgusted by the pinkness of the cover and the first mention of “fuck” that she never gets that far.

That might deal with the mother problem, but my boss has pre-ordered my book. So have several of my colleagues. My HR manager read a previous book; one with gay sex. Gay arse sex. But that was okay because she once vomited on me at a team away day, so we’ll call it even in the embarrassment stakes.

I suppose I’ll just have to encourage everybody I know to vomit on me before they read the book. On an unrelated note, where can I get a life-size poster of Piers Morgan?

But that’s not even the worst thing about writing sex scenes.

The worst thing is the terminology, because there are no good words for genitals.

Look at that ridiculous word: genitals. Who came up with that? The same fucker who stuck a P on the beginning of pneumonia and decided lisp should have an S in it?

But my god, the horror pales in comparison to the alternatives.

Pussy? Do I want to think about pus when my loins are a’loining? My agent said “hard pass” when I suggested writing a pimple-popping romance (tagline: Is their love only skin deep or truly irrecystable?) and, on reflection, I think she was right. 

Mound? Is it a grassy hillock? No? Then fuck off and take your mound with you.

Cooch? Scooch right off the end of a cliff before I vomit over your grassy hillock.

Pecker? I’m sorry, I thought I was sleeping with a man, not an inquisitive chicken.

Love truncheon? Just get out. Get right out. Now. And think about what you’ve done.

I vote that we all do what I did when I was a new writer and sent my work to a friend for the first time: replace all sex scenes with the line, “And then they had sex.”

Or maybe, for the next book, I’ll do diagrams. 

—

Anna Kaling writes mostly British contemporary romances featuring lots of tea, rain, and passive-aggressive queuing. By day she writes about concrete erections for a construction firm, and by night she… well, never mind. She’s working towards being an old cat lady and is a big fan of sharks, bad horror movies, and the Loch Ness Monster.

Links

Website: https://annakaling.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AnnaKaling

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/annakalingauthor/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/annamkaling/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18580715.Anna_Kaling

 

 

 

 

 

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Category: How To and Tips