Damn, now I'm gonna get a bunch of stupid crap mail because I said erotica.
Anyone who knows me for more than a few days will know that I get stupid when the topic of sex comes up. I'm stuck as that 12-year-old prepubescent girl at that party where all the kids were making out, and I freaked and called my mom to come get me. First, because it was gross to be listening to the slurping and groaning of a bunch of hormone-crazed 12- and 13-year-olds; second, because I was the only one who didn't have a partner staring at her un-chest (I didn't wear a bra until high school, and even that was only because the boys made it a game to run their hands down girls' backs and then make fun of them when there was no bra in place--that shit would NOT fly today. Can you IMAGINE? Do you know how many boys I could've sued--AND BEAT--for sexual harassment, starting in, like, fifth grade? YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. By the way, I have BOOBS now. They ain't huge, but they also don't sag to my knees like YOUR wife's 'cuz she's pushing 40 and those plump little fun pillows were great when you guys first got together, you rubbing your face in between 'em like they were kittens, and now she's pumped out a few kids, and HA! Her boobs sag. And I don't have neck and shoulder problems because of my size Z boobies, and they're not disgustingly wrinkled or stretchmarked like your wife's. Who gets the last laugh now, hey, bitches? *ahem* Sorry. Digression.); and third, no smoochy-smoochy for me because I was scared shitless that someone would look at my un-chest and then, out of desperation because all the best girls were already liplocked, he'd try to slip me the tongue or something. Boys that age wear braces. Braces attract food particles and bacteria. French kissing means tongues. Ergo, I'd be sucking that kid's lunch and dinner out of the metal patchwork in his mouth. I'm nothing if not a germaphobe. It makes me gag a little just to think about it, in fact.
|Your future is poking you in the face. And elsewhere.|
So, as a grown-up, miraculous as their conceptions may be, I have four children. Hence, I had sex four times. (That's the story we've given the kids, so let's just go with it, in case they ask you.) It's not that I don't like the S Word ... I just have other things I could be doing. Like laundry. Or writing. Or reading. Or writing. Or organizing my book collection. Or writing. Or answering one of Kendon's 4128 daily questions. (He's very clever, that boy. And he loves his penis. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm trying not to pass my neuroses onto him, so relax.) Last year, when I was clawing my way through the 18th draft of my book, one of my critique readers came back with the comment that there wasn't enough mushy love between the characters. Uh, they're teenagers who just met. I don't want them getting friggin' pregnant at 18. Been there, done that, screws everything up. (Love you, my boy. It's not your fault your dad said he only had one working testicle. Omigod, I smell a defamation lawsuit coming on.) ANYWAY, I did what every self-respecting young adult novelist would do: I put on my warmest coat and my fingerless gloves, took myself to the local Tim Horton's coffee shop parking lot (hey, Americans, Tim Horton's is Canada's answer to Starbucks + Dunkin Donuts ... DOUGHNUTS!!!), and I blushed through two pages of my main characters making out. I used the requisite love scene words--"warm, soft, full"--and Gemma and Henry macked on each other for a few minutes. I felt so NAUGHTY watching them, writing down their smoochy, touchy-gropey antics. It was, like, so voyeuristic.
That's why I don't write erotica. I can't. I'm not one of those gals who watches porn, not for any particular moral reason -- it just grosses me out. I've pretty much giggled through every example I've ever seen, always watching between squished fingers, laughing loudest in time with their groans and screeches. Yeah, real mature, I know, but ewww. No one has boobs that big, a wiener that long, or does It for so many unprotected, unfinished hours. Really? Really? It's almost as bad as telling girls they can have a stalker, bloodsucking boyfriend who will love and protect them for all eternity and all they have to do is act weak and pathetic, and then their futures will be full of fancy yellow Porsches and tuition to Dartmouth. ICK.
|This doll's mouth looks like a cervix. Seriously. It does.|
So, the Top Ten Reasons, beyond the ones I've already given you, that I will never be any good at writing a bona fide love scene:
10. I cannot say the "M" word. Say it in my presence, and I turn four shades of red and cram my fists into my ears. Don't tell me I've done it, and I'm just being immature because self-pleasure is the ideal form of safe sex. That's my business, not yours. But I can tell you, the amount of Purell involved will negate all the fun. (Besides, if God wanted me to pleasure myself, he would've made me a hermaphrodite.)
9. The church people when I was 8 told us that kissing and touching was very, very bad, and that God will always be watching. As such, my entire sexual life, I've envisioned a creepy, pervert God sitting in the corner of the room, flanked by nuns as they cluck their tongues at me. Yeah. Real romantic. THANKS, God.
8. I can't think of other words to use in place of the scientifically correct terminology. Nothing says romance like writing a hot, steamy love scene and then plugging science into it. That's why romance writers come up with words like "manhood" and "joy stick" and the aforementioned "fun pillows." (No serious writers really use that one. It's just funny.)
7. Again with the giggling. I don't know where it comes from, or why I giggle. But I do.
6. I have a hard time lying to readers, telling them something other than the absolute truth. And penises are funny looking, no matter what size/shape they're in. Omigod, I'm giggling again.
5. In line with the truth mentioned in #5, nothing spoils a love scene faster than the characters being interrupted by their 6-year-old who is thirstier than a Bedouin and who just had a dream the Reeks from Geonosis are invading his bedroom. (That reference will be useless unless you live with Star Wars geeks. Reeks are scary creatures with horns and slobber.) Talk about a buzz kill ...
4. You'll notice that romance writers never talk about the post-coital clean-up process. My love scenes would be so clinical: She rose from the bed, stuffed an Egyptian cotton towel between her finely shaved but moderately cellulite-puckered legs, and made her way into the rose-scented bathroom to tidy her girlie bits, to be sure to pee for at least ten seconds like the gynecologist advised so that she was sure to sterilize the area to avoid a bladder or yeast infection. ROMANTIC, huh? Yeah, you're hot now, aren't ya?
3. My DAUGHTER reads my work (and someday, my sons might, too). Think of your parents having sex. Once you're done retching, think about writing a sex scene and then handing the book to one of your kids and saying, "Here, honey, enjoy." Can't. Do. It.
2. I don't care how many times you say that "those shops" sell "marital aids," and "marital aids" are meant to spice up your love life, that "it's normal and indicative of a normal, healthy, loving relationship." Omigod, we are NOT spending money on THAT when there are plenty of good books I don't have yet. You were just kidding, right? Yeah, that's what I thought. Now get me to the bookstore.
1. Cynics make the worst lovers. "That's it? You want me to get excited about that? Oh, baby, baby, do me. Yeah, just like that. Okay, good. Satisfied? Now can I go have some ice cream cake?"
Save your comments about how I've obviously not met the right lover -- I've had my share, thanks (WHORE!) -- or that it's not the size of the hat but the magic in the rabbit. I know for a FACT that rabbits possess no magical abilities whatsoever. Neither do cats, dogs, llamas, goats, sheep, or bears, just for the record.
And don't feel too sorry for my husband. Remember ... I'm a writer. I earn money by making shit up. :o)