SEX SCENES FOR BLUSHERS

Do I like writing sex scenes? Yes. But only because I’ve developed some rules that keep me blush-free. I thought I’d share these with any new novelists out there getting their knickers in a twist.

1. NO BODY PARTS

There are simply no names for the relevant bits that don’t evoke an element of smut, comedy or memories of pre-teen dictionary-searching. Besides, we already know what condition the parts have to be in and what (usually) goes where; that’s just biology, we can do better than that.

Also to be avoided are unedifying descriptions such as ‘randy’; the ‘show rather than tell’ rule of writing is more important than ever in the bedroom (or wherever). And while a woman describing herself as ‘horny’ sounds a bit cheap, I think we can all sympathise with one who says:

I’d gone into a stupor, my brain taken over by a primal need to be as entwined with him as possible on a large soft surface; it was just a question of how to get there.

                                                                                                (Flamenco Baby)

2. NO PUPPETS

Concentrate on the sensuality rather than the sexuality. Let’s have a multisensory experience while we’re at it! Visual description alone will just give you something like the hilarious (but highly recommended) puppet sex scene from the filmTeam America: World Police.

Sometimes I think humour is the sixth sense. Here’s a couple getting inspiration from that very scene in Team America:

‘And you want see marioneta sex again?’

Of course I did. More laughter, but holding back a little; aware that we could hardly act this one out. Or at least I was. Because he then lay back, his head on the arm of the sofa, and acted the hero.

‘I can’t help it, this feels so right and I don’t want anything mess it up,’ he said, with a hopelessly inadequate American accent.

 ‘Shh, mustn’t talk Gary,’ I whispered seductively, pointing with the guffaw-inducing vague puppet finger that misses his mouth and pokes him in the eye, ‘there’s not a thing in the world that can mess this up.’

Then we made explosion noises and tossed the cushions into the air, shaking and wheezing with laughter. Perhaps he moved the shoulder I was leaning on to keep my balance – perhaps deliberately, come to think of it – but suddenly I fell on top of him, our faces an inch apart.

‘Oh! That was close – I nearly head-butted you!’ I said, laughing again and trying to get myself up. But his arm came round me.

‘No, stay,’ he said, twisting his body slightly and his leg pushing on mine until I no longer had a foot on the floor, so that all of me was lying on top of him. It was suddenly very quiet in the room. I was sort of trapped and I couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, so I tucked my head under his chin and let myself melt into his warm, firm body. Just for a moment, I told myself. Just a bit longer. Oh God.

‘Is so nice, no?’ he said. Gently. The softness of his voice lowering my defences, lulling me into receptivity, an acceptance of the inevitable. After all, I could hear myself thinking, it’s going to happen sooner or later. Late or soon.

His hand slid under my blouse, stroked my back, tickling my sides deliciously. He started to kiss me. Then all of a sudden he needed to be in control: he turned me over and was swiftly undoing the buttons, kissing my tummy, his hand coming up under my skirt, murmuring something in Spanish that I couldn’t quite catch... 

                                                                                                (Men Dancing)

3. SEX = DIALOGUE

Think of sex as just another form of dialogue between the characters; it’s a great way of showing what’s going on between them. For example, look what this usually gentle chap does when he’s feeling threatened:

He led me into the bedroom without bothering with the light, and started to undo his jeans. No first clearing up and getting ready for bed tonight then, I thought, a flutter of excitement shooting through me. But when he pushed me down onto the bed before I could take my top off I realised there wasn’t going to be much else first either. Then he yanked down my jeans and knickers and was on top of me, pushing in hard then just lying there, silent, his face in darkness.

‘Javi?’ I put my arms round him, stroked his t-shirted back and waited for the Javi I knew to come back. I could hardly breathe. I wriggled underneath him.

He put a hand to my cheek. ‘Is where I want to be. Te quiero tanto.’ He wanted or loved me so much. Perhaps both. ‘Es problema.’

‘No es problema.’

                                                                                                            (Flamenco Baby)

And conversely, dialogue can be enticing, even if one of the characters appears to be declining…

‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong idea but…’ I wouldn’t sleep with you again if you were the very last man on earth. That’s what I thought. Then, too weary to come up with anything else, said it.

His smile faded. ‘Qué?’

‘Well, I don’t think I can make it much clearer than that.’

‘No entiendo. In Spanish.’

I gave him a subjunctive-free rendition. ‘It’s an expression.’

He laughed. ‘Is stupid expression. Woman wants a baby.’

‘What?’

‘If one man in world. And any-way, why is so bad, if we sleep before…’

‘Sleep? That’s hardly the word! You just buggered off, scarpered, desapareciste in the night. Not a note or a phone number, nada.’ I started to feel shaky.

He breathed out heavily and shook his head. ‘Yoli, I have explained before, I try to make more easy for you.’

I sipped my drink. Damn it, I thought, if he knows I’m in love with him – if that’s what I am – he could at least have the grace to pretend he hasn’t noticed.

(Flamenco Baby)

Hm. Perhaps I should reassure you that my heroines do occasionally fall for non-hispanics…

But there you are. Just concentrate on ‘how’ rather than ‘what’, listen to what they’re saying, and enjoy it!

 

http://www.cherryradford.co.uk/

Men Dancing

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Men-Dancing-Cherry-Radford/dp/1780032021/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1357226142&sr=1-1

Flamenco Baby

(15^th February 2013, available for pre-order)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Flamenco-Baby-Cherry-Radford/dp/1780035268/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1358194175&sr=1-1

ADTWENTURES IN TWITTERLAND

‘Twitter? I’ve got a rifle aimed…’ I emailed to my publisher. ‘It keeps saying Cannot send a message, how crap is that? Sorry, Facebook yes, but I’m just not doing this.’

An emergency meeting. An impossibly young thing from Marketing, an illustrated hand-out. Sipping tea while watching myself christened @CherryRad and assigned a ‘profile’ that would surely make the Twitterworld think I was the sassy salsera on my book cover – was that a good idea? Thanks, thanks but no thanks.

Although a flutter of interest when a handsome ballet dancer suddenly popped up and ‘followed’ me – perhaps thinking Men Dancing was a technique book. Next came a grinning fellow author woman from Texas with whom I was a perfect match with regards to genre, piano playing and chocolate. I was allowed home once I’d been seen graciously reciprocating their fan-ship.

The idea, I’d been told, was to attract Followers. Before my novel was even out. Utterly ludicrous. But I set to, feverishly clicking Follow next to every woman claiming to be an avid reader and/or Strictly Come Dancing fan. Tweets: 0, Following: 83, Followers: 7 (but including my publisher and the local pizza take-away). Occasionally pausing to reward myself with some non-productive following of top flamenco artists, marvelling at their real-time exchanges about a show or a plate of tapitas.

But I’d forgotten something. An email from Impossibly Young said well done, but now Tweet. Meaning create clever <140 character sentences designed to sell the book, you-are-a-writer-after-all. I deliberated. Pithy one-liners not a strength. Selling not a strength. I nervously put out thoughts about the usual things I bang on about – writing, Spanish, dance and chocolate.

Something happened. A host of characters started to emerge – I felt like I’d fallen down a hole and entered an extraordinary new world. Yes, people do say what they’ve had for breakfast. Yes, I’m ‘followed’ by individuals with inexplicable motives (war veterans, hot rod racers and female porn stars), and a stream of people shouting about their novel or steadily working their way through a book of quotes. Can’t like everyone; worlds are like that. But I now enjoy the company of some wonderful human beings with whom I’ve got much more in common than many of the people I call friends. They’ve taken over my instruction; questions about Retweets and #hashtags prompted a flurry of helping hands. We share our passions and humour, good days and bad. I’m now Tweets: 589, Following: 347, Followers: 400. Books Sold: who cares.  Oh, and I’m swapping languages with my favourite flamenco artist in the vaulted Direct Messaging area. #Whowouldhavethought.

HOW COME YOU'VE SUDDENLY GOT A... BOOK?

Like many people, I always thought I’d write a novel one day; I just needed to be older, wiser and a lot less busy. But a few years ago I was visited by an idea that came crashing in and didn’t care about these things – or the fact that I was supposed to be concentrating at a work conference abroad. But perhaps I’d seen it coming, because in the bag with the cures for unexpected afflictions I’d packed a little notebook-with-an-attached-pen.

      Suddenly everything other than writing was unbearably irksome. I never doubted that I’d reach the end; it wasn’t a case of hard work or self-discipline, I just had to follow the natural course of the thing. It took only six months. Elation.

      But then depression; I needed another idea, quickly. And I needed to get MEN DANCING published, so I’d have a chance of being able to afford to spend more of my week writing. So after experiences with literary consultancies that ranged from bad (don’t ask) to invaluable (Cornerstones), I bought the Writer’s Handbook and started sending submissions to literary agents.

      A lot of them. In retrospect it was crazy of me to have put myself through this so many times, but among the standard rejections there were positive remarks that kept giving me hope. Anyway, by then I had the welcome distraction of researching and starting my second novel. Then it happened: two literary agencies asked to read the full manuscript, and there were four agonizing months… and two more ‘no’s, even if one wants to read my second novel...

      I’d had enough. Sod the agents, I thought, you don’t need one for independent publishers. Although they are also neck-high in submissions… Then just when I was considering self-publishing, two independents offered to publish my novel. As I believe is common for these smaller publishers, they offered no advance but a generous percentage of the sales.
      I chose Indepenpress; I’d liked them at the London Book Fair, and by coincidence they’re based in Brighton so it’s easy for me to pop in and see them. I’ve been delighted with the friendly and helpful attention I’ve received – and their tolerance of my occasional wobbles about one thing or another. I don’t know how I would have coped with a big publisher for whom I was just an expendable Grand National horse; I’ve heard awful stories about lack of involvement in the cover design and inadequate marketing. Okay, my independent can’t afford to buy me on to the 3-for-2 table, or put up huge posters at all the London stations. But at least I’ve been involved in everything and don’t have to live with a book cover showing a male ballet dancer’s buttocks.