How to Write Sizzling Sex Scenes Despite the Fear of Sizzling
By Guest | August 17, 2024 |
Please join us in welcoming guest Rebecca Anne Nguyen to WU today!
Rebecca Anne is an award-winning author, playwright and freelance writer. Her debut novel, The 23d Hero (August 13, 2024, Castle Bridge Media) was awarded the 2024 Readers’ Choice Book Awards Bronze medal. Her nonfiction book, Where War Ends: A Combat Veteran’s 2,700-Mile Journey to Heal, co-authored with Tom Voss, was the 2019 Foreword Indies Book of the Year Silver Award winner for Autobiography & Memoir.
Rebecca has published fiction, humor and nonfiction in many coveted outlets including The New York Times. Her short plays and one-acts have been produced in New York City, Los Angeles, and Miami.
Welcome, Rebecca!
As a reader, there’s nothing that hooks me faster than a great love story—especially if that love story is accompanied by a pitch-perfect sex scene. But as a writer working on my debut novel, crafting my own sex scene turned out to be more challenging than I could have predicted. I struggled so much, in fact, that I considered scrapping the sex altogether. There was just one teensy, tiny problem: without that scene, my plot would completely fall apart.
The sexual tension between my two main characters had been simmering for 200 pages and all roads—and every plot point—led to sex. I had to give them the night they’d both been longing for: their first moments alone, their first kiss, their first everything. If I didn’t let my lovers get that close, it wouldn’t be as gut-wrenching when I inevitably tore them apart.
Before I started drafting, I thought I knew exactly what should happen during The Sex Scene. How she’d let her dress fall to the floor. The way he’d look at her, almost pained, as if her beauty was more than he could bear to behold. I knew right where he would kiss her just as I knew the particular strain of ecstasy that would sweep through her body the longer he did. Theirs would be a culmination of ten years of longing and the most satisfying physical, psychosexual, spiritual experience of their lives!
But as soon as I got them in bed, I balked. I left them there—naked, on the cusp of a kiss—telling myself these characters deserved their privacy. On the next page, I began a new chapter: “The next morning…”
My beta readers were ready to strangle me.
“I wanted more!” my friend Heather scolded. “You left me hanging.”
The last thing I wanted was to leave the reader unsatisfied, so I swung in the polar opposite direction, writing down everything—and I mean everything—in graphic detail. The shape and heft of certain body parts. How those body parts interacted with other body parts. The viscosity that resulted from the interaction. I was blushing at my keyboard, and I had to take frequent writing breaks to let the blood rush back to my brain.
But when I thought about someone else reading what I wrote, I was filled with dread, embarrassment, even shame. There was nothing shameful in what my characters were doing, but had I gone too far in describing it so explicitly and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination? I consulted romance novels, literary love stories, anything and everything with a sex scene, and I concluded that even at my most graphic, what I had written was relatively tame. Had my love scene been available to stream on Netflix, I doubt it would have even earned an R rating. I worked up the nerve to let Heather read the revised scene, and she gave it two thumbs up. “Hot,” she said. “Yes.” So why was I still uncomfortable with the idea of sharing the scene with anyone else, let alone everyone who might someday read my novel?
It wasn’t writing about sex that scared me so much as being the writer of a sex scene. In the same way that writing a novel exposes the lens through which the author views the world—their tastes, fears, prejudices, and quirks—writing a sex scene exposes the writer’s sexuality, putting our most intimate sexual selves on display for anyone to read. The sex we write about might not be our personal preference but its polar opposite. It could be social commentary, satire, even repulsion at the act of love. But by including a sex scene, the writer naturally editorializes on the nature of the sex we describe, whether that’s to praise it, criticize it, or pine for it for ourselves.
In my novel, I wanted to write about the Best Sex Of All Time. What could be more subjective? I worried no one else would find it sexy. I feared it would read like I had created these characters as puppets to play out my personal fantasies on the page (not entirely untrue). Writing about bad sex—realistic sex—would have felt safer. But to write a love scene that would transport the reader into my own personal fantasy world required more courage than I thought I had.
That is, until I actually gave it a try and discovered that writing good sex scenes is less about ‘letting it all hang out’ and more about taking ownership of who I am as a writer and what kind of story I want to tell.
Accept (and express!) your unique sensibilities as a writer
My novel is a story about self love and self acceptance. As my heroine learns to accept and even celebrate those parts of herself she’s always loathed, I found myself on a similar journey, daring to accept and write about what I found sexy without ending the scene too soon or hiding behind shockingly graphic descriptions. My ideal love scenes looked nothing like the sex scenes I’d read in other novels. My depictions of sex weren’t “realistic,” in that they didn’t address the ways in which sex can be awkward, disappointing, even disturbing. But neither did my sex scenes include the typical tropes of bodice ripper romance novels, where the character’s body parts practically become characters themselves.
Instead, my sex scenes became an expression of my deepest romantic desires, selected from my psyche based on what made sense for my characters at particular moments in the story. For their first time together, I wanted to show how their physical desire is intrinsically linked to their ever-deepening emotional bond. Later on in the narrative, these characters use sex as a way to find each other again after being torn apart. The resulting scenes feel like a part of me laid bare, and my own vulnerability in sharing what I find sexy became my characters’ vulnerability on the page.
Use the sex scene to create narrative momentum
In addition to the type of sex I was depicting, I had to decide how much sex to include in the scenes. Solution: lots of (seriously sexy) research! In Esi Edugyan’s epic historical novel Washington Black, the author includes the reader in the beginning of the love scene between the formerly enslaved Wash and his forbidden love interest, Tanna. But Edugyan ends the scene as soon as Tanna’s dress hits the floor, and we only join the lovers again an hour later, in the aftermath of their love. On the other end of the spectrum, the sex scenes in Melissa Broder’s The Pisces invite the reader inside every erotic moment between Lucy, a human, and Theo, a merman, rendering the action in explicit physical and psychological detail. In the first example, the love story is not as thematically significant as Wash’s individual journey to physical and psychological freedom—we don’t need every detail of what the lovers do as much as we need to know that Tanna loves Wash for who he is. In Broder’s novel, Lucy’s on a journey to overcome an addiction to toxic relationships, so it makes sense for the reader to experience her sex scenes in extreme close-up—what better way to track whether she’s changing or backsliding?
After dozens of rounds of revisions, I realized my novel falls somewhere between the two extremes: the love story is a core component of the narrative, but it’s not as important as my heroine’s journey of self-love. I decided my sex scenes should make it crystal clear who was doing what to whom, how they were doing it, and how it was making the other person feel, all while leaving the most intimate anatomical details to the reader’s imagination. Ultimately, these choices were driven more by the themes and world of my story than by my hope of satisfying the reader or myself.
Own your creative choices without apology
In embracing what turned me on and what I found sexy, I took ownership of not only the sex scenes in my novel, but the novel itself. I learned to let my inner world come out within the constraints of my fictional universe and to think of my ideas, tastes, and desires as worthy and valid—even if they’re different from Heather’s and everyone else’s. I also learned that what makes sense for my story and my characters is more important than what anyone might think about me, their author. I hope there are readers who will find the love scenes in my novel as sexy and satisfying as I do. But if I’m alone in my tastes, it’s okay. I’m no longer afraid to be the only one sizzling.
Do you blush—or even cringe—when writing your own sizzling sex scenes? If so, how do you, well, push through to write more honestly and, erm, openly?
Many thanks to today’s guest.
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Writing a satisfying sex scene hinges less on anatomy and more on the raw emotions and revelations of the characters. Who that protagonist is having sex with and what that person means to them drives the tension, heightened emotion, and overall meaning and impact. The mechanics may be the same between a one-night stand and the person you’ve pined for over a decade, but the emotions expressed in every touch will be far different.
My comment will be brief, as the sex scene in one of my novels is. FOR THE READER, very often sex is about imagination. Depending on how sex is described on the page, it can be a BIG turnoff. Thus for me, reading and writing, LESS IS ALWAYS MORE.
Oh Rebecca! I so needed this. I have a sex scene, actually two scenes, in my novel about to launch in September. I struggled for months to get it dignified and yet just a little steamy. The added problem is this novel has magickal elements in it so the sex scene became sex magick. Honestly, my editors dug in ruthlessly to help me sort it out, which I am forever grateful. Getting feedback on sex scenes is critical. Yes, I blushed and cringed. But my characters took it in their stride. Wow, how did that happen? I look forward to reading your book!
You had me at SEX MAGICK! Excited for your forthcoming novel.
I really related to your comments, Rebecca! And I like your idea of making it fit the theme of your novel, reflecting her self-love journey as the key element. Thank you for this!
As a romance author, I felt this post *deeply,* and remember the nervousness I felt when my first spicy book went out into the world. Sex scenes, I realized, are great for anonymous readers but terrible when your parents insist on reading everything you write. (My dad once told me he’d “learned some new tricks.”)
At this point, I’ve written so many I can focus solely on what serves the story and not on what might make the neighbors whisper. If they ask, I always tell them not to worry. There’s nothing autobiographical. My husband and I aren’t nearly limber enough for half the scenes. : )
Omg, A.S., that comment from your Dad is enough to stymie any writer! 😅
Great idea to not focus on what makes the neighbors whisper.
Oy, your dad! LOL! I’m glad your parents are so supportive of your work, though!
Rebecca, thank you for this great post (and for being willing to put yourself in a place of vulnerability to share it). I, too, struggle with writing sex scenes. So far, as a mystery/suspense writer, I’ve been able to duck those scenes entirely. But now I’m working on a romantic suspense novel… Yikes!
The plan is to re-watch a Zoom workshop I attended a while back and found very helpful. (For those interested/equally awkward, it’s called How to Write Riveting Sex Scenes by Carol Despaux Fawcett, and it’s available as a recording.) I’ll save your post to re-read, too–I especially liked seeing how you developed your “ideal scenes.” Thank you for this!
Hello Rebecca. IMO, you’ve written very well about, well, writing about sex. When getting ready to fog up the laptop’s screen, writers need to remember your words:
“It wasn’t writing about sex that scared me so much as being the writer of a sex scene. In the same way that writing a novel exposes the lens through which the author views the world—their tastes, fears, prejudices, and quirks—writing a sex scene exposes the writer’s sexuality, putting our most intimate sexual selves on display for anyone to read.”
That’s exactly it. Whether it’s a sex scene or a narrated trip to Walmart, anyone who writes novels will be putting her true self on display. It’s unavoidable. The tens of thousands of words we serve up are going to tell two stories: a fiction, and an expose of self. This being inevitable, the writer does best to dive in and follow her or his own lights. As you say, you might as well embrace what you can’t help owning.
Thanks for your post
So well put, Barry! You’re articulating a phenomenon I haven’t been able to explain to myself since transitioning from nonfiction to fiction…why does writing fiction make me feel so much more vulnerable and exposed than writing what’s ‘real’? It must be that expose of self you mention— that feels so true to me. We talk about character and plot and structure, but it’s all US, in a sense. An expression of us with every word we write. It takes courage to write “fiction” when it’s no such thing.
Rebecca, thank you for writing so honestly about the difficulties of writing a sex scene. I write mostly for children so it doesn’t really come into play, though one time an editor rejected a manuscript about bellybuttons because she didn’t want kids to ask even more questions to parents who might not be ready to go deeper into how the baby gets there, lol. But everything we write exposes us, as Barry comments above.
As I’ve begun writing novels for both teens and adults, I cannot escape the reality of sex. In a first draft, I had an empty chapter because it was too frightening. In a second draft, I took baby steps but it was too embarrassing (What would my mother say? She’s been dead for nearly 40 yrs.) In another draft, I went the explicit route. It had no heart. So now I’m going just enough into the physical detail to chart the emotional lives of my characters. After all, the biggest sexual organ is the brain. But, dang, it’s hard!
I relate to everything you said, Vijaya! Especially about the explicit scenes lacking heart. I just read THE MINISTRY OF TIME by Kaliane Bradley and I thought she did a fantastic job finding the balance between what’s happening physically and the emotion and passion that drive that physicality.
Thanks for this insightful post, Rebecca. The first sex scene I wrote was an attempted rape, and that was soooo much easier than accessing the vulnerability required to bring two lovers together. This one’s a keeper. And I’ll be checking out your novel!
Thanks so much, Kathryn. You make a great point — definitely easier to depict a scene where the power dynamics are clearer, where it’s violence and not love. There is a sexual assault scene in my novel (in addition to the love scenes) and I also found that easier to depict but I hadn’t thought deeply about why until I read your comment— thank you!
the question of how much sex is too much–or not enough–is something to ponder. A close friend and former partner was disappointed in me when a main character/narrator of mine became very specific when describing a naked woman. I went out of my way to establish that this woman was abnormally cute and was playing our boy like a violin, even though he knew this woman to be a complete illusion. She was actually a female djinni, (although a male djinni could have pulled off the same trick.) Elsewhere in the book I described the djinni herself in her natural state: also naked. You couldn’t describe our hero’s descriptions as prurient, but I hoped to leave the reader with a strong picture of what he was seeing.
It was too much for my friend, whose favorite character in the book (and a previous book about the same characters) was the hero’s girlfriend. She was uncomfortable with the hero’s wandering eye, as it were,* and if it had been up to her the story would have been very different. I have to wonder how many of my readers agree; the girlfriend was very popular with everybody.
*And given our history I can’t help but wonder if she was projecting my MC’s feelings onto me.
What I know about writing sex scenes (different guidelines apply to Erotica, where sex is the whole point):
–Sex scenes are a conversation, with or without dialogue
–Sex scenes are about the exchange of emotions, not so much what the bodies are doing
–If you’re going to show the sex, or some of it, it needs to be important for the story. Something needs to change for at least one of the characters.
–If how the sex plays out doesn’t matter, don’t show it. The important parts might take place in the before or after.
–Avoid flowery descriptions and over-the-top euphemisms for body parts.
–Avoid getting too technical or play-by-play. Summary can be a good tool.
–There are only so many moves and techniques, but the sex scene should never feel generic. Whatever happens, emotionally and mentally, should be unique to those characters.
–Let the characters tell you how they want to go about it.
All that said…Rebecca, I totally get your mixed feelings about writing them and wondering how they’ll be received and whether the reader will make assumptions about you. One feels quite vulnerable. Thanks for coming here and sharing that.
As a romance writer who is firmly in the “high heat” end of the story-telling spectrum, I nodded my head at so much of this! The fear of revealing more of my inner self than intended, the anxiety of getting a sex scene emotionally (let alone physically) “right”. Figuring out what to include, how much to include, and why to include it is a discovery process with each new set of characters and conflicts I write and a challenge I enjoy (most days at least, lol).
I admit, though, that I was taken aback by the clause “the typical tropes of bodice ripper romance novels”.
First, can we please stop calling romance novels “bodice rippers”? The term is a bully club used to diminish and disrespect romance readers and writers. It lacks nuance and kindness and perpetuates a mindset of exclusion and superiority. I’m not a big fan of joy shaming, and whether a writer is using the term in deprecating self-defense about their own work (“I’ll claim it before you can hurt me with it”) or the phrase pops up a The New York Times book review, let’s not mistake the term for what it is: a power play.
Second, I guess I’d like to hear more about what you mean by “typical tropes.” I would argue that most genre fiction leans into tropes of one kind or another. And, absolutely, I would agree that romance writers in particular have developed a keen awareness of how best to use various tropes in service to the romance narrative. But there are soooo many tropes. So maybe I’m not understanding what you mean by tropes or by typical?
Sooo, I may have stockpiled a little baggage (ahem) over the years that has jack all to do with your main point, which I couldn’t agree with more: owning your creative choices without apology. Even when it’s hard. Even where there’s fear. Yes, yes, yes to that (sexy) embrace.
Thanks so much for this, Rebecca. I have been close to finishing my third novel, a romance story, for months now. The reason it’s not yet done: the sex scenes. I have written, re-written, deleted, and cut and pasted a ridiculous amount text several times in each one of them. Instinctively, I knew it was my own emotional baggage/insecurity that was causing me to do this but until I read this post, I had been telling myself it was because I wanted to make sure they were “right.” Knowing I’m not the only person who has struggled with this is very helpful.