Yesterday I did a blog sightseeing tour. I wanted to see what the erotica writers are blogging about, and get some ideas to sex up the smut-blog. As you see, I’ve wandered off-topic here, with posts about darling Izzy (whose nose is, at this moment, buried in my cleavage; either she’s trying to help or I’ve lost a Cheerio), and Oregon, and even occasionally about writing. But what about the sexy talk? Where have all the naked torsos gone?
Well, I found them. The blogs I visited all had posts about upcoming events, links to published books and stories, updates about works in progress. Writerly topics, by writers I admire. But many of them also discuss sex toys and sex news and sexy photo shoots and contraception and the (to me) disturbing trend of anal penetration. What I’m saying is, there’s a lot of sex on the sex blogs. And I like sex, but . . .
That’s a lot of sex.
God, maybe I’m in the wrong racket, maybe I’m missing the point. Much of this stuff seems oddly plastic to me. The dirt is too clean, too purely physical. I can’t engage. I like a mind-fuck better than the regular kind, and I want it pretty deep. I want to think about misogyny and deception, rage and lust and perversion, the mating ritual of the preying mantis. I want to think about the darker cravings. The ugly beauty of the whole thing. Pent-up aggression, deviance and promiscuity. Sex as a force of nature. Sex as an acid balm. Hold the fucking cutesy-pie rabbits and the safe words and the lavender lingerie, and bring it like you mean it. If you wanna fuck me, fuck me over. Break my spirit so I can rebuild. Hold your tepid concern for my well-being; that condescending bullshit makes me yawn. Ask me how I’m doing and you’re doing it wrong.
Or maybe I’m doing it wrong. The blog tour makes me think I don’t know shit about sex-writing. I should write about medieval espionage, it’s nearer the point.
What’s so great about sex, anyway?
Everybody wants satisfaction without creating a scene and fiction just don’t work that way.
That’s it exactly. What we all love about fiction is conflict. And not ho-hum, low-stakes conflict, but the good stuff. We want to worry, we want the characters to struggle. Writers back off from this when it’s a sexual struggle, because of convention or timidity or whatever. To me that makes a story feel fake.
I’m just gong to wait here until “Greener” shows up to see what happens …..
Lordie. Let’s hope this one slips by her.
I imagine great sex is like dying, and I imagine dying as wonderful. I’m probably wrong. But I do love sex and I’m not afraid of dying.
Let me try again.
What’s so great about sex is the loss of self in that explosive moment. I feel like I stop existing.
I’m terrified of dying. Not of being dead, or the afterlife or anything like that, but the act of dying itself. There are so many awful ways it can happen.
You are very brave, J.
you’re spot-on in my book. as for what’s so great about sex, anyway, fucked if i know…
though it has given me a lot to write about…
and, you know, there’s a lot to be said for pinning a willing woman down and fucking the daylights out of her…
i’ll be in my bunk.
There’s a lot to be said for being pinned.
@Tetman: you got me at “pinned.”
I must not be reading the same kind of stuff about sex. Is the sex not good because it seems pointless? Maybe because sex (even done causally) has purpose.
My answer is the connection.
I don’t know if it seems pointless–pleasure is fine, why not. It’s all just so lovely and easy and good, and what interests me are awful head games and sexual misery. It’s not them, it’s me.
You like pain with your pleasure. That’s reality though. Everything isn’t perfect and good. Not even sex.
Oh, you’ve got so many fabulous one-liners here. “I like a mind-fuck better than the regular kind, and I want it pretty deep.” Hot. *Phew!* I don’t know what’s so great about sex, but you make me want to read all about it.
Sometimes I think I’m not writing about sex at all. I’m writing about something else, something I haven’t figured out yet.
you may have something there. it never occurred to me until you just said. i suspect it may be a source of strength in your writing.
It’s psychology made physical. It’s minds that can move and show you what they’re thinking. I love that about you, Averil. You make me think about the physical world.
Yes to both of these.
I have the nicest friends.
I rarely like sex in my books, because it feels so much more intimate than just watching it or looking at photos of it. Its all right there up in your brain. The badly written sex is worse than it could be even in life, but when its good it is SO f-ing good. And so rare too. I’m with you about dirty sex being too clean. Its not intimate enough. I had to stop reading some trashy saucy novel with bad writing, idiotic characters and totally ridiculous scenarios for the exact same reason.
Well–and this is not a diss on any other writer, just a general observation–it seems to me that sex writing is usually a step or two back from the line. You can have conflict and dirty doings in a book, but everyone needs a safe word or an understanding mate–what you’d want in real life. I just think fiction should be more difficult than that. I think it’s more interesting to have a situation and characters who don’t notice the lines they’re crossing, or don’t care, or can’t help themselves. That’s the mind fuck. That’s what I like to read.
Like I’ve said before, it isn’t the mechanics, it’s the longing.
Yeah, exactly. The mechanics are a snooze.
But your stuff isn’t. Your stories are about so much more than acrobatics.
Mmmhmmm.
This.
This is what makes me and every other person here want to read your book the moment it comes out. Raw, honest, aching need.
To write like you…
You can’t fake honest.
Hat’s off.
Thanks, Lyra.
XO
Oh, the older I get, the more fun I have writing the build-up–I could go on for PAGES on the build-up-to-the-act and wrap up the act in a sentence, I swear.
Absolutely, the build-up is the point. The build-up, and the aftermath. . .
Some great comments about sex and getting off and raw real writing. I agree it sounds like your stuff is not so much about jerk-off sex but about paradyms pushed over and people crying out through their animal selves.
I also can’t wait to read this baby.
Oh, I haven’t figured it out either, believe me. But I’m trying.
I liked your answer to Girl in the Hat. You must know that that’s exactly what a psychologist would say to you with pen and pad in hand so they can ask the analyzing questions and take notes.
As for your question, I’m not sure if you mean sex in fiction, or the act of having it — or just sex in theory. Sex in theory aggravates me because I’d rather be having it. And sex in fiction usually reminds me of how great and how free I feel when I’m having it with someone who’s enjoying it with me.
I hear you. This three-weeks-gone, two-days-home schedule my husband is working has definitely put a hitch in our giddyup.
I think it’s the mind fuck that makes sex great. Sure, we may all say we want a safe partner who supports us, period, but remember the mind blowing sex when you didn’t know every hair on his body, when you were still unsure of his lifelong devotion? It was a power play, no matter how we try to deny it. We wanted pleasure, but we wanted to blow his mind. To exert our sexual power. The mind fuck isn’t necessarily bad. When my husband comes home after a trip, it’s all about teasing him and screwing with him. It’s fun. The mind play *is* foreplay. I want him to want me, I want to want him, and it’s about more than the act itself.
I have friends who complain about their sex life. They’ve tried every toy and nightie on the market to spice it up, but it never quite does the job long term. They’ve forgotten the spark isn’t only about having sex.
You’re right, reading about the mechanics can be boring unless you’ve tapped the psychology that goes with it. That is not an easy task, but one you do well.
ps – I don’t mean playing stupid head games. Jealousy and pouting are not sexy. Being your own woman seems to be. At least in my experience.
Your husband must LOVE coming home, Deb.
“They’ve tried every toy and nightie on the market to spice it up, but it never quite does the job long term. They’ve forgotten the spark isn’t only about having sex.”
That was really the point of this rant, if there was a point.
This photograph is fantastic. It makes me want to go up and play with my daughter’s Barbie’s. Problem (or maybe not) is that she has about 30 of them but no boys. Hmm…
Barbie looks kind of bored.
She’s totally thinking about something else. I always thought Ken looked like he’d be a snore in bed. Now my daughter’s Barbies dated GI Joe.
I don’t see how you can trivialize sex without trivializing life. One woman told me that sex was like a “refreshing swim” for her. Ick.
I think you manage to capture some of the dark power of not just the sex act, but the raw kernel of sexual relationships in your writing, Averil. It’s relationship, to whatever the degree it manifests, that excites me. The deeper the relationship, the more layers of interest unfolding. Two bodies going through the motions, however expertly, gets old fast.
I agree of course, though I wonder if this is the chick point of view we’re sharing. Guys are pretty good at trivializing sex, when they want to be. I once had a date or two with some guy I met at a bar. We were hanging out at my place, watching a movie I thought, when without preamble this stranger stripped down and started leering at me, as if the sight of his skinny naked body was going to be persuasion enough. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I was still debating whether to step up to the plate and the dude was already trying to steal home.
No relationship, no mind fuck? Nothing doing, Charlie.
So what happened?
I asked him very politely to put on his clothes, and then I asked him to leave. Which he did.
Men–young, inexperienced men–sometimes have the idea we’ll react to their nudity the same way they’d react to ours. A naked woman in the room is going to get a man’s undivided attention, but I couldn’t even look at this guy while I was gathering up his clothes. I remember that my face was flaming hot, which pissed me off because it seemed to amuse him.
He probably owns a trenchcoat or two, now that I think about it.
A friend in one of my writers groups writes man-on-man hardcore erotica. She’s got two books out. In her genre, the sex must be explicit and frequent, but the build up is often gratuitous, if there even is one. We don’t even bother to critique the sex when she submits to us. At this point some of us actually find it boring. We’d rather have the mental tension.
So what is her feeling on adding more tension to the work?
Sorry, just saw this reply. My friend is all for it, but the requirements of her genre sometimes preclude attempts at better writing. There is a fairly strict formula regarding the frequency of sex in her books. Fortunately she gets to write other stuff for pay sometimes.
Now I’m wondering what sex blogs you visited. In the old days of early blogging, I used to read sub blogs, but they still focused on the act rather than the build up or the mind fuck.
In my experience, the best sex came from the most toxic relationship and I know that what was going on in my head was the reason for the intensity.
In life that isn’t sustainable, but for those of us who appreciate a good psych-sex drama, reading about it is the next best thing. Write on, Averil.
They’re lovely writers and deservedly successful. But I’m with you–give me toxicity in fiction. In life, give me peace.
Congratulatios on the new doggie!
I have friends who write smutty stuff and they don’t blog about it. A 1,000 word blog post is 1/10th of a short story that could go on Amazon and earn money.
If you’re blogging to have some fun and stay in touch with your writer friends, then own it. That’s fine too! Sanity is important!
So is smut. And that Barbie pic brings back A LOT of memories.
I don’t even wanna know all the hijinks you got up to with Barbie and Ken. That smutty blonde.