Writing a Love Scene.

 

I started writing love scenes before I even knew what happened past a kiss. Instead of trying to figure out how to grope a boy's butt, I would write what (I thought) was flirtatious conversation. Naturally, it was really dreadful.

The world needs your truth. I want everyone of feel powerful and confident about writing sensuality, no matter the heat level. Joyous, consensual sex is under-represented in fiction. That goes double for representation of people of color, sexual minorities, or people with disabilities.

I go into deeper detail on how to write arousal and intimacy in The Arousal to Zipper Workbook. This series of newsletters share some the exercises found in that book.

Sex is about your characters saying, "Yes," if not "HELL, YES!". The world needs more fiction saying "HELL YES!" to their sexual experiences. This is a chance to think about the ways we can say yes. Does the scene call for a slow, measured pace, such as encouraging the less-verbal, less-assertive character to say what they want out loud?

How do your characters (especially in your work in progress) say, "Yes"?

Write me back and let me know! I'll post your answers up on my blog. :)

 

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What is the best that could happen?

Let's be honest. Right now, the world truly sucks. We are dealing with a global pandemic, the rise of fascism, and incompetent world leaders. We are anxious, exhausted, and consumed with fear. In order to find at least a tiny bit of cope, we must ask ourselves:

WHAT IS THE BEST THAT CAN HAPPEN?

"Covid-19 numbers infection rates go down."

"Nationwide, all police departments destroy the traces of white supremacy that foul the system."

Then, we ask:

HOW DO WE MAKE THAT HAPPEN?

"I can continue to wear a mask and social distance. It's really hard, but I've done hard things before."

"I will write and call and protest to the best of my ability. It is scary and feels small, but it is less scary than doing nothing."

We cannot make the best happen if we do not know what it is.

It's okay to hide under the covers (or your desk) sometimes.

It doesn't matter who you are or what you do, at some point, you will freak out about your job (yes, even if it's a job you love). At some point, you will want to hide under your covers.


This is the story of how I learned to embrace my hiding urge.

I was having a crap day writing. Every ounce of self-confidence I had painstakingly built over the years drained out of me, leaving me shaken, sad, and very, very scared.

I sat in front of my computer, my arms wrapped around myself, and I was whispering, "I can't do this. I can't. I just want to hide under my desk and make this go away."

As you can imagine, this went on for quite some time.

Finally, a little calm voice in my brain said, "Well, go ahead. No one else is here. You can hide under your desk for a little while. Why not?"

Why not, indeed? So I did.

I slid off my chair, grabbed a soft blanket, and sat on the floor under my desk.

I'd never seen my office from this perspective.  The floor was actually clean (miracle!). The bottom of my desk made a nice little roof, protecting me from the sky that had been falling in my imagination. Almost immediately, my anxiety eased.

I don't know how long I sat there. I'm sure there is research showing that small spaces make us feel comforted, maybe something going back to our primitive hind-brains. All I know is that it stopped the flood of fear into my body and gave me a few moments of much needed peace.

That's when I realized that it is okay to look like a weirdo. It's okay to stop and protect yourself. And it's okay to hide once in a while.

Take a little break. Your brain and body will thank you.

And don't be afraid of looking like a weirdo.

Steaming up your spring.

I have a saucy sequel to Vamping It Up in Mind, but it's still not quite right. Until I get it figured out, I think I'll tease you with some parts of it.

****

      Holly Barros loved Valentine’s Day. The hearts. The flowers. 
       The emphasis on oral sex.
       “Sit on my face and tell me that you love me.” Lincoln S. Jones, her head of security, clasped her thighs and rolled them over, settling her pussy right on his face. The sturdy table in the Vilnius University Library in Lithuania creaked underneath them, but held firm,
  Holly giggled, actually giggled, until his smart mouth latched onto her clitoris. She gasped and pinched her own nipples. Linc dug his fingers into her butt cheeks guiding her where he wanted her to be.
    

“Delicious,” he moaned around her hood. The vibrations sizzled her overwhelmed nerve endings.

“Harder.” She pushed down on him, forcing his mouth deeper into her wet folds.

       Like a good former Marine, he obeyed her order with enthusiasm and determination. His tongue flicked over her flesh faster than a vibrator. She had no idea how he could move so fast, but she loved it. Holly rode the crest, nearing her orgasm. He snaked a hand between them and shoved two fingers into her sheath. She needed it. She needed so bad she could barely breathe. 

Self-love and The Beauty Myth.

Naomi Wolf

I was doing some wandering in my old files and found these words of wisdom from Naomi Wolf, from The Beauty Myth.

***

            Can there be a pro-woman definition of beauty? Absolutely. What has been missing is play. The beauty myth is harmful and pompous and grave because so much, too much, depends on it. The pleasure of playfulness is that it doesn’t matter. Once you play for stakes of any amount, the game has become a war game, or compulsive gambling. In the myth, it has been a game for life, for questionable love, for desperate and dishonest sexuality, and without the choice not to play by alien rules.  No choice, no free will; no levity, no real game.

 

          But we can imagine, to save ourselves, a life in the body that is not value-laden; a masquerade, a voluntary theatricality that emerges from abundant self-love. A pro-woman redefinition of beauty reflects our redefinitions of what power is. Who says we need a hierarchy? Where I see beauty may not be where you do. Some people look more desirable to me than they do to you. So what? My perception has no authority over yours. Why should beauty be exclusive? 

Admiration can include so much. Why is rareness impressive? The high value of rareness is a masculine concept, having more to do with capitalism than with lust. What is the fun in wanting the most what cannot be found? Children, in contrast, are common as dirt, but they are highly valued and regarded as beautiful.

  

        How might women act beyond the myth? Who can say? Maybe we will let our bodies wax and wane, enjoying the variations on a theme, and avoid pain because when something hurts us it begins to look ugly to us. Maybe we will adorn ourselves with real delight, with the sense that we are gilding the lily. Maybe the less pain women inflict on their bodies, the more beautiful our bodies will look to us. Perhaps we will forget to elicit admiration from strangers, and find we don’t miss it; perhaps we will await our older faces with anticipations, and be unable to see our bodies as a mass of imperfections, since there is nothing on us that is not precious. Maybe we won’t want to be the “after” anymore.

      

 How to begin? Let’s be shameless. Be greedy. Pursue pleasure. Avoid pain. Wear and touch and eat and drink what we feel like. Tolerate other women’s choices. Seek out the sex we want and fight fiercely against the sex we do not want. Choose our own causes. And once we break through and change the rules so our sense of our own beauty cannot be shaken, sing that beauty and dress it up and flaunt it and revel in it: In a sensual politics, female is beautiful.

          A woman-loving definition of beauty supplants desperation with play, narcissism with self-love, dismemberment with wholeness, absence with presence, stillness with animation. It admits radiance: light coming out of the face and the body, rather than a spotlight on the body, dimming the self. It is sexual, various, and surprising. We will be able to see it in others and not be frightened, and able at last to see it in ourselves.

   

 

The Pleasure Center: Little Sexy Workbook #3

Are you ready to going on that revitalized sex life of yours? Are you ready for...WRITING A LOVE LETTER??

Think of what you like and what you want.

Non-demand touching*? Pillow fights? Giggling? Butt grabbing? 

And get ready!

A script for a love letter:

Hey,____(a)_______ .

I think you are the ___ (b)_______ I would love to have more ________(c)_________sessions with you.

I think we could manage a ____(d)_____ on _____(e)______. Where would this good time take place? _____(f)_______

 I want to_____(g)_______

I love, admire, and adore you, ___(h)______

Suggestions:

a. Use a pet name, like honey, lover, snickerdoodle, red hot hippo of love.

b.            What do you think they are? The bee’s knees? Hottie McHotterson? Sexiest person? The best kisser on the planet? Be specific.

c.             W hat do you want? Intercourse/make-out/kisses/cuddles and giggles? And throw in an adjective, like wild/hot/fun/silly.

d.            Give what you want a name, such as date night/weekend get-away/ quickie.

e.             Get it on the calendar. Make it soon.

f.              Give them a location so they can start fantasizing. How about our bedroom/a hotel/the laundry room?

g.             This is where you give a another reference to a specific act that pleasures both of you, like: lick your pussy/kiss you soul to soul/be so deep inside of you, I won’t know where your heart beat ends and mine starts.

h.            Your name or nickname here.
 

*According to Barry W. McCarthy, Phd, "Non-demand pleasuring involves affectionate, sensual, playful, and erotic touching both inside and outside the bedroom, which creates an empowering understanding that not all touching can or should lead to intercourse."

The Bohemian Life: Travel to Santa Barbara, CA

In my little world view, the basic necessity to live a Bohemian life is to travel. I never thought I would be able to travel as much as I have in the last five years. It is glorious, freeing, life-changing, and mind-expanding. I learn something no matter where I go, be it nearby or overseas.

My latest travel adventure took me to Santa Barbara, California, for the wedding of two dear friends. What better reason to travel than to celebrate love?

I loved this little fountain, tucked away in the property where the bride and groom stayed.

Overlooking the beach.

Sneaking away to clamber the cliffs.

Doing my best world traveler face.

Spring on the Harbor.

Hafiz Break!

During the winter, keeping a sense of perspective is all important. As such, here is Hafiz, the beloved fourteenth century Persian poet!

This poem was translated and interpreted by Daniel Ladinsky.

***

How does it feel to be a heart?

Once a young woman asked me,
 "How does it feel to be a man?"
And I replied,

"My dear,
I am not so sure."

Then she said,
"Well, aren't you a man?"

And this time I replied,


"I view gender
as a beautiful animal
That people often take for a walk on a leash
And might enter in some odd contest
To try to win strange prizes.

My dear,
A better question for Hafiz
Would have been,

"How does it feel to be a heart?"

For all I know is Love,
And I find my heart Infinite
And Everywhere."

Rewriting the past.

I recently read this question and it started a flood of thoughts.

So I thought I'd share the pain!

If you could sit down with your 15-year old self, what would you say?

I think I'd say, "You are going to live, live, LIVE like you want. You rock!"

And you?

Learning who you are.

I have had the honor and the pleasure of modeling with Michael Baxter, the genius of belly dance photography.

I never knew I had mystery inside.

Michael was gracious enough to experiment with me. The images he coaxed from me and his equipment showed me aspects of myself that I never knew existed.

If you asked me to describe myself, I would always say I was a little funny looking. I'm far from petite or graceful and - let's not mince words - overweight.

But Michael showed me a part of myself that was strong, passionate, and, yes, beautiful.  I learned a valuable lesson that day:

I no longer could justify my self-loathing.  

I wish everyone could have the experience of working with a gifted and empathic photographer. I wish you could discover the parts of yourself that you do not see.

A love letter to you.

I'm a big fan of Alexandra Franzen (over here).  She wrote this challenge on her website:

The premise: what if instead of writing a traditional “sales page” about your latest product, service, event, project, workshop or offering … you simply wrote your customer a Love Letter?

And this was what came out. :)

I want to live in a world where women are not shamed for what they read, what they watch, and their sexual choices.

I'm so tired of women's tastes being diminished and belittled.

I want you to have books that highlight women asking for what they want, and then being encouraged and supported by her relationships instead of struggling to be heard.

So I've created a series of sexually explicit, adventurous books filled with strong thoughtful men and powerful women.

Right now, I want to you click on the link to read a sample chapter of each book!

Dracula's Secret
Dracula's Desire
Dracula Unleashed

It all begins NOW.

With all my love,

Linda Mercury

Curses, foiled again!

The Charming Man just shot down my idea of turning the interior of the house into a bouncy castle.

I think my brain is going.

Men, women, and sex: It's not quid pro quo.

A long time ago, my mother told me that men traded love in order to have sex and that women traded sex in order to have love. In other words, men will put up with cuddling and speaking gentle words as long as the woman allows him access to her vagina. Likewise, she will tolerate his thrusting for what she really wants - companionship and warmth.

My mother was a wise and generous woman.  Throughout her far too short life, she had given me a great deal of stellar advice. In this case, though, I intuitively knew this was complete bull-pucky.

This belief turns a lover's trailing caress into a transaction, bought and paid for. Not a shared pleasure, not in invitation to play or share, but an exchange best for a brothel.  I could feel it in my teenaged bones - if you treat your partner like a prostitute, it will lead to resentment, anger, and the death of something that once was joyful and a source of delight.

Quite frankly, a real prostitute gets more respect from the open exchange of money than anyone involved in the hostile exchange described above.

A brothel picture from Pompeii.

The nastiest part of that saying? It's an insidious belief, one that is not spoken of directly. Instead, it lurks in our unspoken assumptions, leading us into a starvation economy of affection, touch, and attention.

I want lovers to come to each other for pleasure, a sharing of passion and excitement.  I'm doing my best to destroy this pernicious saying.

And I want you to help me. Tell me what stereotypes about love and relationships you want to eliminate.

Time for noms.

I think I will bake cookies this evening.

Why I fear description.

I do fear description. If I'm going to write a story that actually has plot and action, I tend to scrimp on setting. And I'll show you why. Here's a quick, off the top of my head snippet to show what happens when I describe.

In Champaign, Illinois, the main road through the University of Illinois campus is Green Street. On the north side of the street reside the engineers. To the south are liberal arts, ag, LIS, and the rest. And the cities of Urbana and Champaign had been built over a swamp that had been drained. So when it rains, the water table rises quickly and fiercely. The Boneyard Creek flows fast and hard and the streets flood (along with basements and sewers). On Green Street, when it rains, the water gathers and runs in the gutters, overspilling into the street turning this road into a fountain.

During the brutally hot summers we get here, the summer rains are a blessing and a curse. Sometimes they bring cool relief, sometimes they just bring more steam. But they bring flooding to the cities, too, dangerous, slippery. And they fill the streets with water, warm, inviting, cleansing. I have splashed in puddles as deep as my ankles and waded in ponds up to my hips on Green Street.

One very rainy day, my lover and I had walked to get food at AJ Wingers. This was a very special man. Of course, all of my lovers were wonderful but this one....Ah, words fail me. Skilled, compassionate, loving, passionate, uninhibited, no words can fully explain this one. Someone once tried to pin me down on his most wonderful trait. Stammering, I had replied that he was a good listener.

As we walked, the rain kept coming. We watched the rain fall as we ate and we kissed the sauce off of each other's faces. We began the walk back - giggling over our folly at not driving or taking the bus. The rain kept falling. Our shoes immediately drenched through, no matter how much we tried to avoid the puddles. Our jeans clung to our skin. We took off our shoes and splashed through parking lots, curbs, and streets. Cars would pass and splash water as high as our heads.

We got to his apartment, and shrieking with laughter at ourselves, we peeled our clothes off and draped them over chairs and doors. We wrung out our socks in the bathroom sink, and put our shoes over radiator vents. We eventually showered, embracing the heat and steam of this water as gleefully as we had embraced the rain. We kissed and kissed and kissed under the hissing showerhead. His hands, so large and competent, lathered my back and legs, rubbing circulation back into my feet and neck. I stroked soap into his chest and armpits, playing with his body hair. We kissed some more. For the rest of my life, I will see him like this, his head tilted under the streaming water, his hair slicked back, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open at the pleasure of taking a shower.

We dried off using his one towel (for all of his wonderful traits, sometimes he was almost a stereotypical single man), still kissing, still giggling. His kisses remain on my mind - so intense that the sensation of his lips blotted out the world and destroyed rational thought. How to describe it? He kissed like my mouth, my pleasure and his, were the only things that existed or ever will exist. He kissed as if kissing alone were the most divine pleasure ever given, not as a prelude or introduction, something perfunctorily done to satisfy protocol. He kissed me like my mouth was his Holy Grail and his True Cross combined. He kissed as though he meant it.

We shimmied under his covers and our bodies entwined, wrapping around each other. Sometimes I felt like our bodies were two pieces of rope, coming together in a knot. We kissed and touched and sucked. We made love.

Even now, my hips curl and my stomach clenches at the memory of that afternoon - at a lovemaking so profound, so powerful, so intense. It was the sum of my universe - it was slow and powerful, it was fast and fierce.

We were falling in love.

In a way we never had before, and never will again.

And our bodies betrayed it.

It's emotional and lovely and nothing happens. There is no plot, there is no conflict, there is no character development.

I was going for a little slice of life with this piece- I wanted to record a beautiful memory. I succeeded at that. Unfortunately, I can't use it anywhere else since it doesn't move any action forward.

Dammit!