Heaving Bosoms & Throbbing…er…Whatchamacallits

I love romance.  I love to read it.  I love to write it.

Most of the time.

I love my heroes and my heroines.  I love getting inside their minds and hearing what they’re thinking.  Their emotional journey is satisfying.  I enjoy creating dialogue and I LOVE the sometimes zany secondary characters that appear out of nowhere on the page, and the unexpected twists and turns the story can take. 

I enjoy building the sexual tension.

And then . . .

It.  The sex scene.

I will tell you my dirty little secret.  One of my favorite things about reading romance novels is the sex. 

Unlike Billy Crystal’s character in WHEN HARRY MET SALLY, I do not read the last page first to see how the story ends.   But when I start reading a new romance, I ALWAYS thumb through the book, find the culminating moment, and make a note of it.  I don’t read it, mind you.  But I know what page it’s on.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know.  It’s supposed to be about the romance and the glorious, all-conquering, life-changing love between the H and H.  And that’s great too.

But I like a steaming hot sex scene.  And knowing where Tab A meets Slot B in the book gives me something to anticipate.

But WRITING a love scene?  Arggh! 

How to make it romantic and sensual but not purple?  You know what I’m talking about.  ‘His magnificent scepter’ or ‘her steaming tunnel of love.’

 

Ew.

It’s a quandary.  Euphemisms are tricky.  And as for the medical terms . . . If I were a guy, I’d be picketing Washington or NIH or wherever demanding a better word.  And I’m not crazy about the anatomically correct term for the girl part either.  Nothing romantic or hot about either one of those words.

So what’s a romance writing girl to do?  Sometimes you just have to call it what it is.  Or, rather, what you character would call it. 

And, ultimately, that’s what it’s all about:  Being true to you characters.

The last love scene I wrote took me the better part of four days to write.  It also required a big bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream and several glasses of wine.  But I did it.

Or, rather, THEY did it.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t hate writing sex scenes.  But I pull my hair out trying to get it right, because love scenes are important.

Evocative.

Emotionally satisfying.

And darn hard to write. 

What about you?  Do you prefer sweet or steamy sex scenes in the romances you read and/or write?  Share your thoughts for a chance to win a copy of book 2, Demon Hunting in the Deep South.   

Blurb for Demon Hunting In The Deep South:

Shy, self-conscious Evie Douglass tries to stay under the radar, especially when petite socialite Meredith Peterson, aka The Death Starr, is anywhere around. Meredith and her bitch posse of skinny girlfriends take great delight in tormenting Evie about her size, calling her names like The Whale and Thunder Thighs.

Unfortunately, it’s hard for a plus-sized gal to stay invisible in a small town like Hannah, Alabama.  And Evie has been The Death Starr’s favorite target since the seventh grade, when Meredith got ticked off at Evie for getting boobs first. 

It doesn’t help that Meredith’s husband is Evie’s boss.  More torture time for The Death Starr. 

And then Evie finds Meredith brutally murdered.  On Evie’s desk.  In her office at the mill, only a few days after a very public scene in which Meredith accused Evie of having an affair with her husband. 

Worse, a bloody knife is found in Evie’s car. 

Suddenly, awkward, timid Evie Douglass is the Number One suspect in a sensational murder case.  But Evie’s got bigger problems.  Hannah is infested with demons, soul sucking, body snatching creatures of evil.  And for some reason they want Evie.  The only thing standing between Evie and death or possible possession is a hunky blond demon slayer named Ansgar.  Ansgar is a Dalvahni warrior, a supernaturally gorgeous race whose sole purpose is to hunt down and capture rogue demons. 

Evie could swear, though, that Ansgar is interested in more than demons.  She could swear that he’s interested in her.  Ridiculous, of course, because he’s sex on two legs and she’s . . .  Well, she’s Whaley Douglass. 

To add to Evie’s troubles, Meredith doesn’t even have the decency to stay dead.  She shows up as a ghost to torment Evie and she’s more of a beyotch than ever.  And Meredith has deathnesia.  She can’t remember who killed her, which leaves Evie to solve this mystery herself, or go to jail for a murder she didn’t commit.