During the discussion on our Lexicon of Eeeeeeevil, some of our readers pointed out quite rightly that outlawing all of the suggested words from sex scenes would create some problems, namely: what kind of language and what words do you use when you’re writing a historical romance, and the scene is from the perspective of a charming naif who is so protected, so innocent, so pure, that she barely even knows she has legs, much less the existence of the heavenly portal nestled between said legs like a shy, furry woodland creature—one of the cute ones without claws or antlers, please. Also, no fleas or intestinal parasites, because damn, talk about a mood-killer.
Ooops, sorry, this is supposed to provide an instructional guide on how to do things right, instead of poking merciless fun at the way things can go horribly awry.
So first things first: For sex scene guidance in general, I can’t recommend Sara Donati’s series of posts on the subject highly enough.
But we’re talking about a more specific problem, to wit: how to refer to assorted twiddly bits without resorting to oft-ridiculed words like “nubbin” (rhymes with rubbin’!) and “pleasure center” when the heroine has never been taught the proper lexicon?
I have some thoughts on this. OF COURSE I do. But keep in mind I’m no kind of professional writer, just a reader and a hack who occasionally writes some fiction for fun and who really, really, really, really, really, really, really enjoys thinking about sex in her free time. Which means my opinion is definitive and 100% correct, and anyone who disagrees is immediately a LOSAR—but then y’all knew that already, right?
My take on it, is to use describe what the heroine discovers and feels in plain language. It might help to think back to the days when you yourself Discovered New Terrain (though I realize some of us do it at a much younger age than others) but didn’t know any of the terminology.
For example, when I first found it, I thought of my clitoris as a very odd bump. Almost like a beesting, but not painful to the touch. Later, when I read formal descriptions in textbooks that described it as a pea-sized bit of flesh, a lightbulb went off it in my head.
Bumps and beestings aren’t particularly sexy, but they’re honest reactions, and c’mon, y’all are professional writers; I’m sure you can cobble up something even better. Just avoid verbose, flowery language. Unless the girl is excessively romantic and pretentious, I doubt she’d describe any part of herself as the portal to anything, much less a weeping one to paradise.
Some other thoughts that popped in my head as I wrote my first sex scene featuring a virgin who had no idea which bits existed, much less that Tab A went into Slot B:
– Is she wet? Would she accept this with equanimity, or would she be alarmed, pleased, concerned, curious? If the hero is with her, would she be bold enough to ask him questions about it, or would she worry about him finding the wetness, or is she so turned on that she doesn’t care?
– If she’s the one who discovers the clitoris (unlikely, since masturbation scenes are uncommon in historicals, much less historicals featuring virgin heroines): what would it feel like to her fingers? What kinds of words come to mind? A few off the top of my head include knot, lump, bump, firmness, sensitivity, pleasure, shock, peak, nub (yes, yes, I know). Again, I personally value honesty and emotional impact over flowery language and comparisons that try too hard to be clever.
– If the hero is the one who touches her clitoris for the first time (MUCH more likely for a conventional historical): what did it feel like to have that part touched? I mean, if nothing else, she’d be able to tell that it was part of her body that was, well, raised from the surrounding area.
– There’s no shame in having the extra-virginal heroine refer to her bits in very vague terms, such as “it” or “there” or “that place.” If nothing else, it sounds and feels honest and convincing.
So there you have it—a complete amateur’s take on a very specific aspect of writing love scenes. All of you who do this for a living, feel free to pile on in the comments and give more advice, refine on the points I’ve made, or point out how retarded I am.
Candy, you GODDESS! Thanks for the link to Sara Donati’s site. What a great series. And I think I’ve just become a Jennifer Crusie convert! I’ve never read anything by her, and now I’m going to HAVE to get some books.
*GRIN*
Ditto here.
I can’t post anything about what you said Candy, because I’m too busy reading Sara’s posts.
Oh yeah, and trying to track down someone to lend me season two of Farscape because I only ever managed to see season one.
I still refer to my whole area down there as … well … “down there.”
Damn you, Candy.
I think I’ve just spent over an hour reading Sara’s posts when I should have been doing other things like, say, actually looking after my son instead of turning on Baby Einstein.
(I say ‘think’ because I’m trying to convert time zones in my head and failing.)
I really liked what Sara and her readers had to say about keeping the terminology correct to the character. Surely if the words match the character the story should flow and the reader won’t really notice.
I wonder if the problem is that because of social taboos we don’t actually use words to describe these various body parts out loud. So if an author is coming along to say “how will so-and-so refer to this”, there’s a good chance so-and-so has avoided doing anything of the sort.
I know I’m happy using words like penis, vagina, cock, whatever in my head, but I had to admit to be not nearly so good at using them out loud. (Writing them down in a public place seems kind of odd too.)
Because on the whole we don’t use the words with any ease in society, they aren’t used with an ease on the page either.
Don’t know, just rambling here. And I’m going to stop now because my two year old is sitting on my arm, which makes typing very difficult.
I can’t really remember the time before I knew the terminology for all the bits and pieces, but these seem realistic, logical, doable tips for authors to consider and incorporate for those characters where lack of knowledge is the case.
Another idea I’ve had is that romance authors could take a few lessons from books and authors in other genres. Of course I can’t think of any specific ideas now that I’ve laid that idea out there, but I’m sure people can think of scenes they’ve read in books in other genres that have been creative and have used different, but effective, euphemisms from the ones constantly repeated in romance stories.
Now it’s my turn to go read Sara’s post – maybe I’ll be back to say more once I’m done over there.
Tonda, if you’ve never read Crusie, you’re in for a treat! I’ve still got all her old category romances tucked away on a back shelf, and now they’re being reissued so you won’t have to haunt the used bookstores like I did.
As far as language goes, I’m with the school of thought that says anything can work if it’s appropriate to the character and situation. It’s up to the writer to figure out what’s best. And I also agree that if the sex scene isn’t advancing the story, it doesn’t belong in the novel.
Damn you, Candy! From about this minute until 10 o’clock tonight I’m completely busy with all kinds of commitments, so I can’t spend the time I’m dying to spend reading Sara’s articles!! Way to mess with my mind.
As for your suggestions, very interesting points you’ve brought up. A heroine who doesn’t know the names of parts – and for that matter, how many heroes (even contemporary ones) know all the correct names – would think about things in relatively simple and descriptive terms. Too, there are so many aspects about sex that get ignored in favor of all of that shooting into the velvety expanse of space where stars explode in rainbows of pure rapturous sensations. Stuff like you said – the oh my god, did I just pee my pants because I’m all wet. Or how about the dreaded icy cold wet spot when it’s all said and done, assuming we ignore condom usage for a sec. Or if we don’t ignore it, what about the dreaded condom disposal situation? Does he have to get out of bed and cross the room to the wastebasket, or does he just let it slide off to get lost amongst the sheets only to pop up when one of the kids crawls into bed to watch cartoons next morning?
I think entire novels could be spent on the realities of sex that would avoid all of the flowery crap, because real sex is kind of messy. Not really flowery at all.
I guess the young naif is stuck with the immortal words of the BEP’s: My Humps, My Humps, My Lovely Lady Lumps – check it out!
I think it’s worth remembering that not every woman’s clitoris is a small pea-sized thing. I checked on Wikipedia and it said: ‘there is considerable variation among women with regard to how much of the clitoris protrudes from the hood and how much is covered by it, ranging from complete, covered invisibility to full, protruding visibility.’ The Wikipedia page has pictures – thought I should warn those who wouldn’t like to see them.
It’s the same with the hymen (and Wikipedia has illustrations of those too). Some are a lot bigger than others, some women never have one at all. So not every woman, not even a naive virgin, will necessarily have that first sharp pain and bleeding that’s so often described in the first-sex-with-a-virgin scene.
If a naïve virginal heroine has not had an occasion to discuss matters “down there” or verbalise her own sexual feelings, she may not actually have a name for it until someone provides one, even if she’s aware of its existence. Embarrassment or repression might make her shy away from naming it, even in her own mind.
Also, different degrees of sensitivity mean that for some women the bump-which-dare-not-speak-its-name may be so sensitive that warm and fuzzy feelings connect to a slightly different area. She may think of her anatomy differently and in a less nuts-and-bolts kind of way (press here for instant orgasm).
Really enjoyed reading Sara’s posts. Everytime you send me over there I kick myself for not visiting more regularly.
I knew I had an artist on my hands when my daughter came to me and told me all about her Twinkleberry.
After I hauled myself off the floor, I realized that was probably the best description of a clitoris I’d ever hear in my life.
~Ann, who usually lurks but just had to join this convo!
Twinkleberry!! I love it.
As to terminology, both my Husband & my father are medical professionals & so I’ve always been surrounded by ‘proper’ anatomical terms even as a young child. I don’t remember being too shy to ask what things were & what their functions are.
I wish I’d time to read all of Sara Donati’s entries, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.
I absolutely remember being MORTIFIED by the sudden wetness and it was really all I could think about as my boyfriend rounded third base the first time. I wrote this into my very first (read: crappy) historical and I haven’t had the chance to use it since, but I WILL!
And, by God, I wish I’d had a twinkleberry when I was a little girl.
Twinkleberry – isn’t the that the gay teletubbie?
Ann – your daughter rocks for coming up with that on her own. As for myself, that whole area was known as a “crotch” until I was about 9, and I didn’t even know there was another word for boobs until I was like 12.
As for the “wetness” discussion – I remember in a Doreen Desalvo historical novella (as part of an Ellora’s Cave anthology) where, in the heat of the moment the heroine sort of nervously says “I’m wet. Why am I wet?” It doesn’t sound like it as I’m describing it, but that scene is so incredbly sexy. She really captured that freaked out “what’s happening to me” moment, along with that moment of being so psyched and just going along with it.
As for the clitoris, does anyone remember Deenie, by Judy Blume? there was this whole thing where she rubbed her “special spot” that was soft, and it made her feel good. I didn’t figure that out until years later. Yeah, I know it’s not historical, but it’s an example of being a little too vague (at least for a 9 year old).
Twinkleberry
Brilliant! A friend’s three year-old calls hers her popette (god knows why) and now half of us do too. LOL! Nothing like a bunch of drunk adults making snarky comments about how the last fuckwit we slept with couldn’t find our popette if it had had a landing strip that led right to it.
thanks for the plug, Candy. I keep thinking I need to write a follow up to that series. Anything to keep me from WORKING ON THIS FRIGGING NOVEL.
Which is due at the end of the month.
Eeeeek.
My daughter did name hers, but when she was about 2 she wanted to know what went into the hole down there.
One of my mother’s friends taught her daughter to use all the “correct” terms for her body parts. She was also very big on the Montessori idea of letting children figure things out for themselves. When Misha asked what the strap was called that held her into her stroller. Her mom said, “What do you think it’s called?” Misha thought about it for a moment and announced, “A Clitoris strap!” I thought the old lady at the next table was going to die.
Gosh, these kids are smart. When I was a preteen, both genders’ private parts were known as the “thing.”
“If I win truth or dare, I get to see your thing
,” for example.
In our house we told the boys their parts were their genitals, which got corrupted to “gentles” by Micah, a name I always thought rather sweet. And Raphael told me quite seriously when he was two that he had a penis, but his friend Katie had a “pogina”.
my daughter, age three: Mama, you got a penis? Me: nope, no penis here. Daughter: I don’t got a penis either. I just got a butt.