It is one am in the morning and dead quiet in my stuffy little room. Tonight is the night, the plot must move on and there can be no more excuses. The laptop sits on my thighs which are covered by a duvet. In that last sentence lies the problem, I blushed at writing thighs.
I have two characters, they are in love, it is imperative that they have sex. I have read my fair share of sex scenes. I have trouble writing one. It occurred to me once that the problem might be that I have not had earth-shattering, incinerating sex but I don’t think anyone really has. At least not the kind that is in books, if they were having sex like that they would not be trooping to book stores for the next fix of erotica. (Now I’m bristling because I’ve said sex too many times.)
In the dark of my room, the rest of the world has melted away, and I can focus. I can shed my insecurities, shame, drilled in modesty, and inherent shyness and get to it. Writing is about finding what makes you squirm and putting it out there for the world to see.
This is going to be a quiet love scene because dialogue is already a bitch and I cannot think about how people talk in real life and what they do to each other behind closed doors at the same time. Besides, I don’t like dirty talk. Too much pressure to say something in context and as good. They will strip and fall into bed a tangle of limbs each fighting for dominance. No, don’t like dominance. I will not make this a parody of the BDSM theme.
The best she has ever had. Must he have the monster sized equipment so that she is scared and excited at the prospect of taking it? Will it be like the little cap coming of a pressure cooker so that they ease into each other and laugh at the relief of it? I do not want it to be normal. But I do not want it to be some unreachable goal where he is a stallion and she is a dream. Why do I keep picturing them white? Have I really never read a sex scene between black people? How much variation can there really be from the usual sequence of events?
It is three am in the morning in my stuffy little room and I got nothing. I grasp onto my last idea and shrug in the darkness. There is a man on campus who I would give one of my fingers to be able to speak to. I play out a familiar scenario, in which I am not only capable of coherent speech but am also charming and sexy. He replaces the hero in my love story and the sex scene just writes itself.
It is six o’clock in the morning and I am coming off my high. Writing makes everything better. As I fall back to reality, the image of my campus crush fades and I’m suddenly sad. I will never be that girl. I am a scribbler, recording things on the sidelines while all the beautiful people go about their beautiful lives.