Handling an Erotic Scene

In a previous post, I admitted that a writer--like this one, for example--can generate erotic moments purely for his own enjoyment. There's nothing illegal about it, but there is a certain amount of insult to the reader. There are some things I should do in the privacy of my own mind, right?

Next I asked myself whether to include erotic scenes at all. Many writers don't enter that pounding surf, so to speak. Without doubt, some readers are uncomfortable with the intrusion of a stranger's erotic descriptions, even if the writer is sincerely striving to advance the story. I decided that eliminating sexuality for that reason would be dishonest writing. Sexual longings (and attendant joy and anxiety) likely stands as humankind's most shared emotion, behind food, drink, and the desire to make things better for loved ones.

So I decided that Corbin characters might well ponder sexual situations and might explore the fruits, even unwisely if story relevant. This decision led naturally to the question of how graphically to write. While green as fictional grass, I thought that backing away from all grunts, groans, sweat, and body parts would also be dishonest writing. So I generated a few scenes that were serious eye-blinkers. Some readers enjoyed; some were okay; some were appalled, but some said, in effect, "Hey, buddy, that kind of detail is an insult to my imagination. I have a mind that will make your scene more erotic FOR ME than you can possibly write it."

Once I saw that truth, the writing became much more enjoyable, and much less likely to embarrass my mother, sister, or children. Here is a specific example from Accidental Soldiers. Darlene Forrester has returned from a trip and is spending the evening with her boyfriend. They've been apart too long:

She drank two glasses of wine, then another, though small. Shane slowly coaxed the one beer he allowed himself. As the credits rolled on their romantic comedy, she declared it time to execute a plan she had hatched while flying back from Boston. She slipped into the bedroom alone where she rummaged through his closet to find a sleeping bag. She unrolled the bag onto the bed, slipped out of all clothing, and tucked herself deep inside.

“Hey, Shane,” she called. “Come in here a minute.”

He walked through the door, his expression mixing frown and surprised half-grin. “What in the world are you doing?"

She decided, again, that she liked the way Shane looked: five-ten, a bit on the stocky side, with powerful arms and shoulders, short brown hair, intense brown eyes, and jutting jaw. A turned down mouth added to his aura of solemnity, but this moment had swept some seriousness out of his expression. She peeked over the curled up edge of the sleeping blanket, her eyes dancing. “Remember Manitoba?”

Now he grinned broadly. “Oh, yes. I remember Manitoba.”

She loved the memory: a wilderness camping trip, more his kind of adventure than hers, but she had tried, valiantly. She forded streams, hiked rough terrain, and learned to fly fish. She even helped clean their catch of rainbow trout, although mostly with her eyes shut. On the first night, in the near total darkness of their tent, she whispered, “Hey, Shane, I want to get in your sleeping bag with you."

“For a little Canadian passion?” came the return whisper.

“No. I’m freezing my ass off, and you’re like a furnace."

He helped her get warm. Later they shared some Canadian passion, although it involved something like a Chinese fire drill—in a single sleeping bag, in a pitch-black tent, trying to get out of clothes and find a place to put them. Afterward, they had snuggled for several warm, delicious minutes. He said, “Thanks for being here with me.”

“I love being with you.”
He said, “Thanks for helping me learn to laugh.”
She said, “Thanks for helping me learn to love.”

“Get me warm, Shane.”

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