September 26, 2022
How to Write Sex Scenes: Why It’s Hard and How to Do It
Yes, there are many puns to be made about sex, so I couldn’t resist one with the title – a low-hanging fruit, really. However, the truth is that sex scenes in fiction are a very serious thing. For reasons we’ll speculate about in this post, even experienced writers can make a total cock-up of sex scenes (uh-oh, another pun). More importantly, I’ll offer you some ideas on how to write sex scenes for your novel in a way that does justice to the narrative.
Here’s an early disclaimer: Sex in fiction is as diverse as sex in real life, with the added complexity genre brings into the picture. In other words, you would write sex scenes in romance fiction in an entirely different way compared to literary fiction. I’m certainly not an authority in the former; I can’t stand it.
Ultimately, as with every other writing-tips post I’ve written, this is a set of ideas. Some of them might be something you find useful, others less so. You are the authority on your work, so approach what you find here with the proper skepticism and use it to your benefit.
Establish Priorities When You Write Sex Scenes
An ideal narrative has exactly the number of words it needs to properly tell the story. This means, every single word should ideally be there for a specific purpose.
Of course, we don’t live in an ideal world. Our descriptions can be verbose, our characters might not be realistic, and our endings not really optimal. To put it simply, we might write stuff that the narrative can live without, so to speak.
However, when it comes to sex scenes in particular, some caution is needed.
A writer is an intruder – indeed, a voyeur: Writers invade into homes, bedrooms, and people’s minds. They dissect our deepest fears, our most personal, unconfessed desires. Because sexuality is absurd, inherently paradoxical and contradicting – both bodily and emotional, both conspicuous and clandestine, both terrifying and beautiful – it is very easy for a writer to accidentally write sex scenes that inspire a very different reaction from the intended one.
Have you noticed how we have plenty of “worst sex scenes in fiction” lists and… awards, but few – none that I’m aware of – talking about the “worst action scenes in fiction”?
Sex is easy to lose control of, as a writer.
“What Will It Feel Like?”
As a result, to write sex scenes in a way that does justice to the narrative, the writer must have very clear priorities about including the sex scene. “What will it feel like?” is a question that is meant – besides as another mini pun – to help you ponder on the repercussions involved. This, in turn, will inform your priorities.
Of course, as I noted earlier in the post, these priorities depend to some extent on genre. To put it bluntly, most romance fiction readers will expect sex scenes, and indeed sex scenes offered in particular, stereotyped ways.
But beyond such special cases, before you write sex scenes in your novel, you should have a clear understanding of why the narrative requires them. Again, the specifics will vary greatly, but here are some questions to ask yourself:
- Does the narrative work without this sex scene?
- What is the possible affective impact of including the sex scene? What is the impact of leaving it out?
- What kinds of concepts are invoked in this scene?
- Is this sex scene consistent with the characters’ motivations and overall presence in the narrative?
Such questions are meant to help you decide whether you need such a scene or not in the first place. Many times, “less is more” will apply here as well. But assuming you’ve decided your novel needs you to write sex scenes, let’s see how you should do that.
How to Write Sex Scenes that Are Respectful to the Narrative
To write sex scenes that are successful – here defined as being evocative, inspiring affect, and certainly not being cringe-worthy – you must be respectful to your narrative. Here, by “respect” we essentially mean authenticity. In turn, this refers to narrative inevitability.
In other words, a sex scene involving a woman in a fragile emotional state, perhaps a woman taken advantage of by a devious, manipulative man, is certainly not respectful to her. However, if in this imaginary scenario it is narratively inevitable (here implied so by her emotional state, though of course the wider context would be important), then such a sex scene would definitely be on solid ground.
That’s not enough, obviously.
Attention to the Register
Another important aspect – indeed, in my opinion the chief reason why most narratives fail at sex scene descriptions – is the register involved.
You might remember the term “register” from the post on symbolism, but briefly, “register” refers to the style, vocabulary, syntax, etc. of a particular excerpt.
Notice these two examples:
The voices seem familiar. I don’t know whose voices they are, but I know that I know these people. The thought feels bizarre somehow, but I don’t have the mind to think about such things right now.
The voices are known to me. I am unaware of whose voices they are, but I have deducted that I know the identity of these people. The concept feels self-contradictory in some way, but I currently lack the concentration required to properly resolve the quandary.
As you can see, there are more than one ways of saying the same thing. But the register you use can have a dramatic effect on what emotional response it inspires.
A Little Exercise
Here’s a little exercise for you, that should help you realize why register can be a crucial matter in learning how to write sex scenes in fiction.
Notice the two short excerpts and then identify the discrepancy involved – both in terms of internal discrepancy (employing different registers in the same excerpt), but also in terms of presenting a clinical image of what should have been an emotional scene. Both excerpts are from “23 worst sex scenes in fiction – ever”, also linked to earlier in this post.
He runs his tongue and lips over my breasts, the back of my neck, my toes, my stomach, the countless treasures between my legs, oh the sheer ecstasy of lips and tongues on genitals, either simultaneously or in alternation, never will I tire of that silvery fluidity, my sex swimming in joy like a fish in water.
I was burning to lay this body down on the bed and spread its legs, to bury my nose in that moist vulva like a sow nuzzling for a nest of black truffles, then to turn the body over on its stomach, spread its buttocks with both hands to contemplate the purplish rosette of the anus blinking gently like an eye, put my nose to it, and breathe in.
I wish I could say it can’t get much more cringe-worthy than that, but I’m afraid it can. Just check the other examples on the page, and you’ll see what I mean.
Again, notice the disconnect here. Badly written sex scenes are bad because they are like mixed metaphors. That is to say, they have a completely unintended humorous effect because of their internal inconsistency.
Subtlety Can Be Your Friend
As is often the case in literature, over-explaining can be your worst enemy. Conversely, subtlety can be your friend. This doesn’t mean you can’t be explicit if you need to. But the trick here is to know when you need to be explicit.
In most cases, when unsure, it’s best to be subtle and let the reader’s imagination supply the missing details. As Mark Twain (supposedly) said, “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt”.
If you know you need to be explicit, you likely already know why – and therefore, what to do with it. So, the advice above, about registry use, is what you should keep an eye on.
A Quick Checklist
Having checklists is probably among the last things you should do when it comes to sex, but it’s useful when it comes to writing sex scenes. So let’s summarize the post with such a list.
- Understand why the narrative requires you to write a sex scene, at that particular point in the story. If you can’t offer a clear answer (other than “it’d be cool”), then you are not ready to write it.
- What kind of feelings, thoughts, and states of mind are involved? What kinds of concepts? How will this sex scene impact your characters and the plot progression. What kind of paths will it lead to?
- What would be an appropriate level of explicitness? More crucially, what would be an appropriate level of disclosure? A sex scene can be very explicit, but leaving most to imagination; or, it can be very subtle in terms of vocabulary, but very descriptive.
- Ultimately, what is the narrative impact of the scene? This isn’t quite the same as the requirement (described above, in point 1) – a strong requirement might lead to feeble impact (which suggests something other than a sex scene is required to resolve it).
- Ultimately: What will the audience feel reading the scene?
The Impact of Writing Sex Scenes that Are Authentic
When you write sex scenes in an authentic, narratively inevitable way, you’re helping your narrative advance. Not in terms of plot – though of course that can happen too – but mostly in terms of character relatability.
Most of us have grown in puritan, petite-bourgeois, unfree societies, that control people’s minds and bodies alike – especially women’s. No wonder sex is so difficult to talk about. Indeed, most people can’t even talk about it with their partner – and there is a certain paradox in being unable to talk about something you’re able to nevertheless do.
Yet, despite this paradox, there is also some explanation behind it. The more one talks about something, the more some of its magic is removed. This is self-evidently pertinent for the topic of this post. In other words, to be able to write sex scenes in a way that does justice to the narrative, the writer needs to strike a balance.
In the end, it’s about impact: What do you want your audience to feel reading a sex scene?
4 Comments
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Don’t know if it’s weird to discuss here. But have you ever read any erotica? I mean the difference between erotica literature and normal literature is that erotica is almost filled with sex scenes. So what is the difference between how people write sex scene in erotica and normal literature?
I have ready very little; I can only recall one example, which I read because I had to provide feedback. I’m certainly not a literary specialist in the genre. Having said that, as a reader I consider myself an experienced one. I also feel confident in saying that the example I read was representative (the way having read one romance fiction pulp novel is like having read any of them).
And so, with this in mind, I must confess I see few literary qualities in it. Perhaps the parallel is unfair, but reading erotica seems to be placed in a similar framework as reading gory horror: It offers little-to-no literary merit, and is instead predicated on some sort of vicarious (I’m tempted to say “voyeuristic”) experiencing of the act in hand: sex in erotica, mindless violence in gory horror.
Thanks for your comment!
The greatest paradox in this situation is to realize that perhaps one does not want the audience to be excited by the sexual narrative. Rather, perhaps the affective impact of the sex scene demands other emotional responses from the audience, such as disgust, anger, pity, melancholy, etc.
Excellent post. It’s been a while since I read such a good writing tip.
It reminds me that writing a sex scene involves a lot of pacing: it is impossible to write an authentic, high quality scene without an intuition of the proper rhythm. Rhythm is everywhere as in the sex act itself: the words chosen, their phonetics, their semantic field and what associations they evoke in the imagination, the length of sentences and how they manage the reader’s (mental) breath, the use of punctuation and connectives and how they pace the reading (and (mental) breathing), the amount of distinct images and with what agility they exchange, etc. Even the importance of the scene itself, just as some sexes are more important than others in our lives. As we submit our own lives to the structure of a plot in order to make it intelligible, so it is in fiction (from where we learn to rethink our lives).
Excellent observation! So apt, I might have to edit the post at some point, to add a reference to this comment. Yes, it’s precisely that: sex in fiction is about what’s around it, rather than the act itself. It’s about what kind of dynamics it creates, what kind of directions it sends the characters in, what kind of what-ifs it forces on the reader. And precisely because this is the ultimate goal, too much excitement (I would dare to add: too much explicitness) takes away from the symbolic/indirect possibilities.