That Sex Scene

 

Mike Bodnar hops into bed with authors who've struggled with sex scenes...

Lust in the lab, courtesy of AI

If you've read the article before last on how I sent the first draft of my latest novel to a group of beta readers, you’ll know I was somewhat nervous about the feedback I’d get. I was right to be anxious, because when I did get it, I was confused by the lack of consensus over what needed ‘fixing.’

Some readers were diametrically opposed in their opinions on plot, characters, and so on, while some were in general agreement. Where there was consensus, I had a clear steer on what needed attention, but where reviewers disagreed, I had to make my own call.

That’s okay, I’ve coped with it and have completed draft number two (read: seven). But one comment in the feedback threw me for a while, and that was about sex. Or, in this case, the lack of it.

Just as an aide-mémoire, the novel is called Settlement, and is a split-timeline story, flip-flopping between 1839 New Zealand and present-day England. In the New Zealand part of the narrative I have two key characters, Lucien and Kitty, who become ‘partners’ in Lucien’s secretive mission, but they soon also become romantically involved with each other. So far, so steamy.

I thought I’d hinted sufficiently that they'd probably had sex - where in a makeshift laboratory Kitty suggests they ‘make magic’ - but apparently that wasn’t enough, and the reader’s imagination failed to fill the gap.

So I sat down at the keyboard, tried to get into ‘the zone,’ and… froze. Complete impotence. Just couldn’t perform. Why? Because there’s an award for bad sex writing, and I didn’t want to win it. 

Hopefully not a contender...

Bad Sex: The General Thrust

It’s called The Bad Sex in Fiction Award, and is an annual British literary prize awarded by the Literary Review magazine. It is, as you might guess, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, and aims to mock the year's most awkward, embarrassing, or mortifying sexual description in novels.

Here’s an example, from a novel called Pax by John Harvey (a joint winner one particular year):

She was burning hot and the heat was in him. He looked down on her perfect black slenderness. Her eyes were ravenous. Like his own they were fire and desire. More than torrid, more than tropical: they two were riding the Equator. They embraced as if with violent holding they could weld the two of them one.

And here’s a runner-up, an excerpt from The River Capture by Mary Costello:

He clung to her, crying, and then made love to her and went far inside her and she begged him to go deeper and, no longer afraid of injuring her, he went deep in mind and body, among crowded organ cavities, past the contours of her lungs and liver, and, shimmying past her heart, he felt her perfection

I’m not here to pass judgement on these literary indiscretions; all I’m saying is I didn’t want to be accused of writing a bad sex scene. So, how could I give myself some, er, protection?

A Bit of Slap and Tickle

By way of explanation, a ‘bit of slap and tickle’ is a somewhat risqué British phrase that refers obliquely to the act of sex, or at least some sort of naughtiness. And obliqueness (obliquety?) was what I needed.

I absolutely did not want to write a word-for-word, pant-for-pant or gasp-for-gasp sex scene. Bodice-ripping and heaving bosoms were out of the question. I wanted to hint, refer, suggest - all those things we do when we’re flirting, for example - rather than coming right out with saying “Fancy sex?”

Read into this what you will,
and blame AI

And so, here it is. Cover your eyes, and maybe your ears. The scene is in Lucien’s temporary laboratory (for want of a better word), a place which is the equivalent of a photographic darkroom, except photography has only really just been invented. The point is, the confined space is pitch black…

In the darkness she said, “So, Lucien. Shall we make magic?”

They did, but it did not immediately involve iodine, or bromine; the chemistry that came into play at that moment was purely biological, an overwhelming concoction of craving, passion, lust. In the pitch black, their hearts took over, their lips found each other; whispers, fumblings, urges – all competed for dominance in the dark, and triumphed completely and utterly over rational thought. The only chemistry at that moment was that generated by their own desires.

“I want you, Lucien. I’ve wanted you for the entirety of the voyage here” whispered Kitty hoarsely.

“You have me, my love. You have me…”

Eew. I’m actually cringing at it even now, and I’m not convinced at all that it’s what’s required. I'm not sure it really works, as the actress said to the bishop. But, surely it leaves nothing to the imagination.

Post-coitus

I’m exhausted. I heave myself off the subject and collapse in a sweaty heap beside my keyboard, reaching blindly for a cigarette. Only problem is, I don’t smoke.

I will almost certainly rewrite that scene. Twice, three times. I’ll be a machine, unstoppable, insatiable. Because I absolutely do not want to get into bed with the Bad Sex in Fiction Award judges.

Maybe I just need to practice more.