SexDeath, or It's Been a Long Time Coming...

🎶Let's talk about sex, bay-bee...🎶

Actually, I'd rather not, if that's okay, but I'm going to anyway. Talk about suffering for your art. After all, it's a subject that's been simmering away on my own little back burner for quite some time now, while I've tried to ignore it like an elephant in the room.

The problem is though, that sex, inescapable creature that it is, always raises its ugly head (no pun intended) at some point in the proceedings. So I've decided to finally have a go at my own vague take on the subject, to share a few of my thoughts on why it plays such an important role in so much genre fiction. I promise I won't take long (where have I heard that before?)

Okay, let's make something clear; I don't really enjoy writing about sex. Hell, a lot of the time I don't particularly enjoy reading about it either. Doing so strikes me as being the equivalent of how I'd imagine it would feel to settle down and watch a porno with your aunt, you know the one I mean, the prim, church-goer type, who tuts at you if she catches you chewing your Sunday roast with your mouth open. I'm not prudish, really I'm not. But there's something about the subject that makes writing about it just so fucking awkward (or should that be awkward fucking?). When used in a certain context, words such as thrusting and heaving are enough to make the toes curl, as descriptive as they are just by their sound. So without further ado, let's get down to it...

Whether we like it or not, sex is everywhere. Television, movies, advertising hoardings, the truth of things is that some form of sexual imagery can be found almost anywhere, if you look hard enough (see what I did there?), it's omnipresent. The old adage is true; sex sells, and people are usually more than willing to buy. It's something that can't be avoided, unless you've spent your whole life in a convent. Because everyone knows that nuns don't do that kind of thing. Just ask Jess Franco.

There is indeed a truth in the fact that sex sells things, the main reason being that it's just so damn relatable, being something that most people do or have done at some point in their life. This bolsters the idea that a bit of rumpy can sometimes help to ground a story in reality because, let's face it, nobody wants to read about someone doing their laundry or sitting in front of the box, transfixed by daytime television, do they? Which reminds me; why does Gogglebox even exist? That's a whole other story... 

Sex scenes are usually pretty difficult to write without any sort of cringe factor. Even so-called erotic fiction tends to come across as stilted and pretty awkward more often than not. If I'm honest, this is probably one of the reasons why I try to shy away from it. Not wanting to sound like a snob, the erotica subgenre has a tendency to harbour some pretty bad writing - some good, but a lot bad - peppered with nasty, squelchy-sounding adjectives and - oh, Jesus H Christ - the euphemisms!  Because they're so awkward to write, they are in turn awkward to read. The primary aim of most fiction is to elicit some sort of response from the reader, and my nature is such that I would much rather unsettle them than make them want to drop everything and nip off for a shag (or a crafty fiddle). Fact. Each to their own, but it's not for me, thanks.

But there is a flip side to this argument however, and it's one that it took me a little while to accept. If you're anything like me (and I would have to presume that to be the case, lucky you) then reading a graphic description of folks getting jiggy with it can go one of two ways: leading either to fits of uncontrollable laughter at a writer's reliance on badly-spelt words (I will always believe that 'cumming' should never be used outside of the reader's letters page of a porn magazine), or it can leave you feeling pretty uncomfortable, with a nasty taste in your mouth - no pun intended. This is exactly the same response desired by a writer of horror, yes? So there is a link, as tenuous as it may be. Sure there is. 

At a base level, the sex act involves the voluntary insertion of a part of yourself into someone else or conversely, allowing someone to insert a part of themselves into you. When phrased in that way it suddenly doesn't sound quite so appealing, does it? It sounds almost horrific in fact. On a more serious note, by its very nature, sex, or any form of intimacy, requires a degree of vulnerability, and it is when someone is vulnerable that they're most open to attack. I've written before about body horror and my own attitudes towards it and, when couched in the sort of terminology that I've used above, the sex act could almost slot quite well (sorry again) into that particular subgenre.

I really should stop now, shouldn't I?

Like I said earlier, I'm not overly keen on writing about sex. It isn't an easy thing to do (let's be honest here, a fair proportion of modern erotic - ahem - literature isn't that great, and social media things such as Men Writing Women exist for a reason), at least it isn't easy to do well. Perhaps there is a special kind of talent that allows a writer to construct a piece that manages  to make a reader feel both creeped out and horny at the same time. I have yet to discover the secret to this talent, as have a lot of other folk. Despite my wariness, I have realised, particularly of late, that it is necessary. Sex and horror go together well, you could almost say that they make pretty good bedfellows. Sex requires trust, and trust implies a degree of vulnerability. A vulnerable person is so susceptible to all manner of horrors. So with that in mind, I'll keep on trying to overcome my own sense of awkwardness, and keep telling myself that it's for the greater good. I'll just make sure to keep reminding myself that it could always be worse.

I've run right out of sex-related puns now, so on that note, I'll bid you adieu.

Oh, my...

- L