I’m not going to lie, I’m a big fan of sex. In point of fact, I owe my whole life to a sexual encounter, as do we all. So why is it so difficult to write about?
My first novel, Mayhem at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Express, didn’t have even a drop of sex in it. Some vague innuendo, yes, but no heart pounding, tantalizing love making. My second work in progress, The Cowboy and the Executive, though, is a different matter.
And while Cowboy isn’t inundated with sex scenes, it does have its moments. Last night, after rereading and tweaking one such scene for the 90th time in an effort to make it feel as hot and natural as I want it to be, I threw my hands in the air and told Studly that if my characters were riding bikes in a race instead of having a proper go at one another in the bedroom, I could easily describe their emotions and physical reactions—the act of pushing down on the pedals, the freedom of feeling the wind in their hair, the way the seat chafed their bottoms as they pushed through physical exhaustion to complete the race, the exultation at finishing first, or the despair of taking a spill.
After listening to my rant, Studly winked and said, “Maybe you just need to do more hands-on research.”
Personally I think he’s just angling for a special mention in the acknowledgements.