*Yes, dork is slang for penis, so this is an amusing double entendre.
When I first started revising my novel I noticed that for a love story, my characters were pretty chaste. I mean, they weren’t, but I wasn’t showing any of their sexy times together. I was alluding to them. What was I avoiding?
Writing sex scenes
I was avoiding writing sex scenes. Perhaps this is quaint, considering this is the internet and all, but I really didn’t want to go there for any other reason than it seemed really, really, hard.
But I soldiered on.
Moving beyond the biological
At first, I was pretty tickled with myself. I was sitting on the sofa working on my laptop, my husband nearby reading some high brow literature. I was feeling mighty pleased with the way the scene was developing. There was tenderness, a few whispers and some joining of bodies. It was sweet, I decided. Really sweet.
Then I read it out loud to my husband and he laughed uproariously.
Embracing the dorky-ness
He was right. It was bad. Rather than be discouraged however, I found myself intrigued. What if that’s what I wanted to write after all? A tale of two getting it on without the fuzzy filter on the camera lens?
With some difficulty, she removed her sports bra, revealing pinched pink skin where the elastic had been. She put her hands on his bottom and squeezed tightly. “Ouch,” he said. “Not that hard.”
A few minutes later, during intercourse, she tried doing a sustained Kegel…
And so on.
Read dorky sex scenes in Bea’s Notes
I’m not a super smooth person. I use dorky language. I’ve had some awkward times. And I’m not alone.
Here’s an excerpt from Bea’s Notes, about the evening before having sex for the fourth time in her life. The story is now available on Amazon:
About an hour later, they got ready for bed. There had been some kissing, but not much because it turned out that burritos were really hard to digest. Bea would have been happy to fall asleep holding hands. She didn’t even feel like doing it that much anymore, but would soon have her period, which meant a whole week without doing it.
“I’m really full,” Peter said.
Bea agreed. She was growing slightly worried that she might have to use the bathroom in a big way, which she really didn’t want to do because Peter’s bathroom didn’t have a fan and it shared a wall with his bedroom. Bea tried to pray the urge away, even though as a biologist she didn’t believe in anyone or anything hearing her prayers. I’ll pray to probiotics, she thought, which didn’t make much sense.
Peter put on Miles Davis again and shut the door to his room. Bea sat on his bed, a king, which was a little crazy for a college student. He liked to spread out at night, he explained, when she first saw it. I sleep like a starfish, he had said.
“We have to do it,” Bea announced, when Peter sat down next to her.
“Okay,” he said, and pulled a condom out of his top dresser drawer. He opened a different drawer to find the lube that she had bought after the first time. He put them both on the nightstand, like a staging area. He also kept a white mug stained with coffee on the nightstand. There was a big blue whale on it, with a rainbow coming out of the waterspout.
“Sit down next to me,” Bea said.
Peter did as he was told. She leaned towards him and they began to kiss in that small, warm way that he had taught her. Bea felt her stomach settle and relax. She pushed into him with an urgency that surprised her. Their lips mashed together, like they were both looking for something. Bea reached around his head and tugged on his hair, moving her mouth from his lips to his cheeks to his ears to his neck. He had shaved that night and she could smell the crème he used, which smelled like a woodpile after rain, the kind of thing you’d smell at the lake house. She pushed Peter back onto the bed and pulled his shirt from his pants. It was so cute that he tucked in his shirt for their dates.
Buy Bea’s Notes on Amazon
Bea’s Notes is available now for Kindle.
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