The Literary Review in the UK runs an annual Bad Sex in Fiction Award, for which every author dreads being nominated. There have been some high-profile winners over the years, including Tom Wolfe, Ben Okri, and Paul Theroux. The majority of nominees are men who have tried for a lyrical, poetic way of describing the sex act, using metaphors involving riding and saddles, or hot-blooded, panting lions, or elfin grottoes. It can easily stray into clichéd bravado without adding much to the narrative, and that’s what the prize aims to mock.
The truth is that detailed descriptions of sex are seldom necessary in fiction, unless you are writing erotica. We all know what goes into which orifice, and what that can feel like, without a technical “he did this/she did that” commentary, no matter how poetically written.
So why include sex at all? Why not let fictional protagonists close the bedroom door behind them, as in a 1940s Hays Code-approved movie?
Some novels don’t need fornication because the plot has a different focus, but if you are writing a character-driven story in which two of your characters hook up, the way they approach it is a powerful indicator of their personalities. Are they comfortable or self-conscious in their own skin? Are they experienced and adventurous, or shy and anxious?
I write historical novels in which my protagonists tend to fall in love, get hurt, and fall out of love again, just as in contemporary romance – but they do it in a different era, when the religious and moral taboos were stronger. The way they approach sex, whether extra-marital or not, reveals truths about them, and that’s why I usually include a brief description of the first time a new couple gets between the sheets. I’m primarily interested in their emotions and what they are thinking, rather than the physical sensations or any innovative gymnastic positions.
What sex scenes can you remember from novels you’ve read? In my opinion, the most memorable are unusual, character-based situations rather than hot, sweaty pumping sessions. Marcel masturbating while he watches Albertine sleep in Proust’s Á la Recherche du Temps Perdu. The maid, Sue, teaching her mistress what to expect from marital sex in Sarah Water’s Fingersmith. The newly married couple in Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach who can’t get sex to work. All of these avoid cliché and reveal character.
First-person or close third-person narration means the author can tell us their character’s thoughts during the act. Are they wondering if they’re making too much noise? Worried about getting pregnant? Or planning what to cook for dinner?
A good sex scene is one that illuminates character, and gives the reader a hint about whether the relationship has a future. It can be taken beyond cliché by a single telling detail, and can often be more memorable if you write about what goes wrong rather than what goes right. Throbbing members, thrusting stallions, and swelling breasts are out; honest emotion is key.
Gill Paul’s novel The Manhattan Girls, about Dorothy Parker and three female friends in 1920s New York City, is published by William Morrow.