Look, I’m as fond of a good slap-and-tickle as the next gal. When done correctly, it is fun, it is both mentally and physically healthy, and it can promote bonding between two adults. Once you are past the ever-ready stage of your teen years, however, there is this thing called “time and place.” It applies to life; and it applies to story.
And like life, I believe that a lot of determining time and place depends a great deal on the current events and the current population. Sitting at a bar with a few girlfriends and some frilly, umbrella-embellished adult beverages could be an appropriate time to discuss the skill level required for truly mind-blowing fellatio. Sitting at the Sunday dinner table with my daughter and her new boyfriend, not so much. At work in the cafeteria with my boss, perhaps even less so. Time and place; it really does make all the difference.
The first litmus test I’m going to apply to including sexual situations is plot. Does the fact that John’s Tab A was inserted into Jane’s Slot B matter to the story? This applies especially when considering the sheet tango between secondary characters. Is the plot going to fall apart if we don’t know about these goings-on? And if we must know they did the deed; could we get by with knowing it happened without the actual mechanics applied?
There is an addendum to this little litmus, and that involves the romance genre. The quickest way to get your editor to pull their hair out over a romance novel is to politely close the door for the main couple to consummate in private. But notice that this still aligns with the question of importance to the plot? In a romance novel, guy-meets-girl is the point, and so their love connection is definitely relevant. And the mechanics are vicariously important to the reader.
The next test is just that: Your audience. How much “mushy stuff” does your audience want to know about? The level is going to be rather high for your romance and western genres, but not so much your spy thriller or robot science fiction. I’m not saying that sex doesn’t get involved in these other types of stories. I’m saying the level of involvement is different. A romance novel wants to know every gory detail from the first fight, to the roses of apology, to which hand he puts on which knee when he makes his move. A spy novel is likely more a quick drink, a fancy locale, a passionate kiss, and then pan to the woman all mussed and wrapped in a bed sheet as the man straightens his cuff links and leaves to save the world. It’s about expectation. If you buy a ticket for a slasher-flick horror movie, you don’t want to see When Harry Met Sally.
And the final test is you, the writer. How comfortable do you feel talking about sex? How comfortable do you feel having someone know you wrote about sex? Say you’re on the bus coming home from work, and while chatting up someone you find they have read the book you wrote. Can you handle hearing, “Hey, that one scene in the bedroom—that was hot!”
It’s okay to feel a little uncomfortable about it; that goes back to the whole time and place thing. And it’s unrealistic to think you will never have to talk about people having sex—unless you write children’s books. People have sex, so it’s probably going to come up somewhere in your story. The point is you don’t have to sell it out for cheap thrills. Make it matter, and make it appropriate to your story, your audience, and you.
