A reader posted a review of my literary novel Under Water, complaining that the sex scenes in the novel had too many details. If I replied to reviews, I might say, “You found it toe-curlingly unsettling to read? Imagine having to write it!” And, anyway, the deets were really all suggested, not baldly laid out. Not one single genital visual. But advice has been sent my way not to respond to reviews—and this one was actually positive, so quibbling might be a mistake.
I try to save quibbling, like I do sex, for my spouse.
I have to say that I greatly dislike gratuitous sex scenes in novels or in movies, streaming series, TV shows, etc. Not because of an objection to sex scenes, per se, but because they’re too often fillers in a less than fleshed-out script. They make me think, tsk, tsk, lazy writer! They’re technically a lot easier to think of and write than a strong storyline, than an emotion, than action.
Recently, in an otherwise stellar novel, unnamed to avoid negativity here, a sex scene between two women was repeated almost exactly, possibly close to word-for-word. The second one added nothing to the story—it had been obvious to me that the important first scene was coming, anyway, the one that made meaning of the characters’ actions and drove the plot forward—and, if meant to be titillating, the second scene wasn’t, because it felt repetitious and like filler. I thought nothing more than the urge to skim past, but to be fair now actually thought, Is this ‘cause you don’t bat for that team? No, I ultimately decided. No, the sex of the involved participants didn’t matter, nor did the description of the action, nor the topic. I’d find any repeated scene irksome, from sex to a battle to something prosaic as, say, making scrambled eggs. Throw in some chives this time, for goodness’ sake! Or don’t make eggs at all; they’re no good without bacon.
Some will say that sex, the bodily function, doesn’t need to be described. It can be hinted at, the scene starting with a kiss fading to black, or a character being led into a bedroom, or—employing a modest touch more imagination—the sweeping of files from a desk or food from a sturdy dining table, though that always makes me wonder who will pick everything up. (A nuance of thought of the long-term married!) Whatever, some say that’s all that is needed. I disagree. Sex is not like other bodily functions, like bathroom activities or coughing up phlegm or…. Ones that rarely add to a plot, though I could imagine someone having difficulty performing on the john, when, suddenly, the killer breaks in.
It makes a huge difference to the story if, say, the woman feels nothing, if she lies still, looking at a crack in the ceiling, or she feels reawakened ecstasy and actively reaches for her partner. …Yes, the author can say, “She felt nothing,” but that lacks the richness of words and has a dearth of depth.
Contrast that with a scene of lovemaking, of sex. First, that involves two people, so by that alone there is more opportunity for plot/action advancement and emotional depth of the story with emotional growth of the characters. For example, a scene where a sparring or estranged couple make love. It makes a huge difference to the story if, say, the woman feels nothing, if she lies still, looking at a crack in the ceiling, or she feels reawakened ecstasy and actively reaches for her partner. Or if her heart starts beating painfully with remembered sexual trauma—that can really make a major emotional turn in a story. Yes, the author can say, “She felt nothing,” but that lacks the richness of words and has a dearth of depth. A reader should move along with a character they’ve come to love, move step-by-step without going overboard.
In Under Water, the scenes I wrote needed their detail to illuminate the changing relationship between the characters. They really did. No matter what any reviewer said. I know this because I’m the writer. Those people, Iris and Benny in the today, Aiofe (pronounced ee-fuh), William, Thomas, and Lettie in the past, needed to be rich, full of life, and human. I thought the sex scenes were sexy, because of the emotional import they carried.
Of course, I’m taking the review with many grains of salt because someone also was upset that Iris gives their dog what my shepherd handles with elan and gratitude every day: an empty tuna can to lick out, and that’s not a euphemism.
Note: I originally published this as a guest post on Women Writers, Women’s Books.
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