Femminist criticizm of sex scenes

[Iain Sparrow]

Good post, Aunt Shecky.

Literature is at its best when it is dramatic, and the essence of drama (as an art form) is dialogue. In general, dialogue drives novels; description just sets the scene. Plenty of interesting dialogue goes on in bed -- but it's usually before or after the actual sex.

Dialogue before sex... oh yes, certainly... after though, no way.
After sex it's a token cuddle, then I just rollover and go to sleep.

I think every writer who believes they can pen a convincing sex scene, should first imagine their parents as the characters in the story. For those of us who had the unfortunate experience as kids to at one time or another burst in too early in the morning to wake mom up so she could make breakfast, only to see mom and dad grinding it out... sex is better left to the imagination, and not written on the pages of a book.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 8. The Talk Before Dawn:

Rossow slipped back into his room, too tense to sleep. So after a short time, he went out onto the balcony, ostensibly to think & reflect on what he had just seen.

The body on the bed inside stirred, and with casual abandon threw the inner thigh of one long dark leg onto what she had anticipated would be the adjacent body of her recent lover.

Realizing he was not there and awakened by the breeze of colder air from the open balcony door, she sat up. Seeing him outside, she slid into a pair of green satin briefs & joined him.

She sat in a chair opposite.

"How now?" she whispered.

Gary smiled inwardly. How to ever understand a woman! An hour ago with total abandon she was unashamedly, even perversely naked. Now, almost as if formally appropriate for the occasion, she had clothed her lower half and yet still exhibited like a proud banner her unadorned breasts across from where he sat.

Gary asked; "What makes you tick Mandy?"

"How do you mean?" she responded.

"You and your sister act like upper class whores and yet there must be something more?"

"You do not understand whores batouri." she flashed back with anger.

"If so you would never have asked such a question!"

Mandy leaned back contemptuously, stung by the suddenness of the earlier rebuke and a pulse beat in her throat, brown and supple in the moonlight. She was exquisite and deadly, and nothing would ever touch her.

"You do not know much about whores, baturi." she repeated.

"They are always most respectable. Except of course the very cheap ones."

There was a refinement and sharpness in her voice now. It intimated an impression of concealed intelligence that he had not perceived before; so effectively had she executed, with consummate felicity the role model of a compliant, almost submissive, African woman.

"I do not draw a sharp line between business and sex," she said evenly.

"And you cannot humiliate me. Sex is a net with which I catch fools. Some of these fools are useful and generous. Occasionally one is dangerous."

"Sex is a wonderful thing," Gary responded. "When you don't want to answer questions."

She sighed loosely; slowly half hooded her eyes, then put her hand up almost as a casual dismissive wave.

She gave her head a toss and swung the soft, loose, jet black hair around her cheeks and watched him to see how hard it hit home.

All the dark sheen from her face had gone now, but behind her eyes, something watched and waited.

She turned her head and looked at him squarely. She shook her head a little again. "Believe me, I'm not worth it - even to sleep with."

"No matter how many lovers a woman may have," she said softly, "There is always one she cannot bear to lose to another woman. I had one once who was the one."

"I must have men, but the man I loved is dead. I killed him. That man I would not share."

"Obi saved me from being caught and therefore I owe him. And family being family, that includes my sister in his debt as well."

Gary looked at her.

The edifice of resistance had crumbled slightly, and like a muted whisper, or the subtle awareness of a light breeze on the cheek, bits of this jigsaw were being coerced to assume their allotted positions; and thus to reveal to Rossow a flickering of the real composition he was determined to view.

[Pompey Bum]

I think every writer who believes they can pen a convincing sex scene, should first imagine their parents as the characters in the story.

I surrender.

[Pompey Bum]

Were you ever in the teaching profession?

Oh you know, research. ;-)

Actually when I looked at some of your comments, they opened up cracks in the edifice of my writing which were not initially apparent

I'm glad to hear it. I don't get the opportunity to open many cracks these days. Edie who?

“Randy Rossow rogered ruthlessly.”

Yes, and perhaps...

Randy Rossow rogered ruthlessly.

"Bravo! Bravo!" brayed bra-less Brandy, brashly brushing bronze breasts against the brawny brute.

"But maybe you're Mandy, you mammiferous minx!" murmured the martinet, manipulating the mammalia of her mammaform mounds and moaning like a manzello.

You have to keep these things out of the gutter you know.

whilst Brandy who had what 19th century writers referred to as “a fine neck,”

Oh yes, I'm familiar with the fine Victorian neck. That and the "noble carriage." Interestingly enough, Victorian gentlemen had "good legs," a term still in use (although it meant something different in those innocent times).

"rivulets' of sweat simmered and steamed like latent heat from a volcanic eruption on the indent of her spine.” Overkill?

For me, yes, but then I'm not a big fan of sweaty women. Still, in for a penny in for a pound:

The gaping geysers of her porous pores poured out florid floods of fluid, licking lava over lush loins, presently pooling prettily against pert portions of her proud pudendum.

You're a friend, so that's on the house (I know, I know: that's what she said ).

[WyattGwyon]

Dialogue before sex... oh yes, certainly... after though, no way.
After sex it's a token cuddle, then I just rollover and go to sleep.

I think every writer who believes they can pen a convincing sex scene, should first imagine their parents as the characters in the story. For those of us who had the unfortunate experience as kids to at one time or another burst in too early in the morning to wake mom up so she could make breakfast, only to see mom and dad grinding it out... sex is better left to the imagination, and not written on the pages of a book.

You are apparently reading the wrong authors. William Gaddis has written a handful of sex scenes in his novels. Every one is pitch perfect and either excruciating, excruciatingly funny, or both. The two in Carpenter's Gothic are particularly well done.

[MANICHAEAN]

Iain Sparrow:

I was tempted to reply immediately when I first saw your post, but thought it best to see what the responses of others were. Both Pompey Bum and WyattGwyon I think covered it adequately.

I honestly could not relate either to the phrase “grinding it out,” or to imagine ma and pa “at it,” prior to writing a sex scene. If such were the case, I believe therapy would be essential to recover.

Anyway, each to his own.

Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Well I’m still sitting here in the main office in Singapore waiting to get permission to get on site. But luckily I have Lit Net Forums and other sites to fill in the hours between 7.30am to 7pm.

So, although we might be moving away somewhat from the title of this thread, I will subject you to a daily chapter of “A Murder in Accra.” Chapters 1-8 as any avid readers might surmise have dealt mainly with sex. We now move into the realm of dirty deeds on an international perspective; involving various intelligence agencies, all of whom are complete fantasy concepts on my part.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapter 9. The Chinese Mirror:

Sam Tan was the smoothest-looking Chinaman that you had ever seen. He talked in a disparaging way like an Englishman and was dressed in a white suit with a silk shirt and black tie. Ostensibly, he was the missing, kidnapped night club owner from Accra, but to anyone who may have been present that evening, he was far removed from that adverse set of circumstances.

He was in a basement room in Kumasi, the door was secured and there were two other persons present. One was an exhausted looking British Ambassador named Rob Kretzler, who for the record was kidnapped. The other was a second Chinaman, except for the fact that he was a mirror image of the Ambassador. Plastic surgery had seen to that, and for now, the new Rob Kretzler was studying even closer, the original version to add further to his repertoire of acquired speech, gestures & mannerisms.

It was a forced dialogue that lay between them, like the breath of a jackal in the company of man. Sam Tan, who the Ambassador had thought was his friend, had betrayed him.

Sam himself, caring little for such sentiments endeavored to treat it all rather superficially.

“Rob, don’t be silly. Just see our point. We require your cooperation. Just talk to my colleague here”.

Betrayal is an ugly word. But then the Ambassador was pragmatic enough to realize that although you may not like evil, it should still be recognized. He was only too aware of his circumstances. He was a prisoner and a lot of work had been put into the unnerving caricature of himself that sat opposite; watching with an intense predatory focus, his very being.

[YesNo]

You are apparently reading the wrong authors. William Gaddis has written a handful of sex scenes in his novels. Every one is pitch perfect and either excruciating, excruciatingly funny, or both. The two in Carpenter's Gothic are particularly well done.

I'll see if I can find "Carpenter's Gothic". Does anyone have any other examples of both good and bad sex scenes.

Regarding seeing one's parents having sex, I suppose that could be as unnerving as catching one's children having sex. I remember on a vacation listening to the groans of a female in the condo above the one we were renting. It wasn't as loud as the noise I imagined Emelia made, but loud enough to recognize what was going on.

Now, what if she were my mother or daughter? I guess it wouldn't really matter as long as she's not my wife. It is not so much the age of those having sex as the relationships they are in. In the case of Emelia her relationships were not established which is why I thought having sex with Rossow was premature. It is sort of a waste of the character too early in the story.

I liked the phrase, "you may not like evil, it should still be recognized", in your latest chapter, Manichaean.

[Pompey Bum]

This has potential as a musical, Manichaean. Also, I would be remiss in my duties as an unpaid consultant if I didn't advise you to start writing towards a video game tie in. (A fellow's got to eat).

You are apparently reading the wrong authors. William Gaddis has written a handful of sex scenes in his novels. Every one is pitch perfect and either excruciating, excruciatingly funny, or both. The two in Carpenter's Gothic are particularly well done.

Richard Russo's hilarious Nobody's Fool includes one of the only realistic literary depictions of a sexual relationship that comes to mind in a modern American novel. I don't remember if it has explicit sexual scenes--sort of, I think, though not many. And it is only a sub-plot. The main character has had a long term sexual affair with the wife of an personal enemy, although as they have aged (he is in his 60s now), they haven't really kept it going. But they still get together from time to time for sex, and to give one another advice. But they clearly love each other. By calling it "realistic," I don't mean that it is meant to depict a typical sexual relationship, just that Russo's writing and dialogue make it seem believable--even mature. That's what missing from descriptions of sexual love in other many other authors: it all just seems a little far fetched.

[Pompey Bum]

Does anyone have any other examples of both good and bad sex scenes.

Here is the worst I've ever read. It's from Sheshenko, a novel by the otherwise outstanding historian, Simon Sebag Montefiore. It won an award for bad writing about sex. I'm not kidding.

Inside, the room was dark, lit only by the lurid scarlet of the electric stars atop each of the eight spires of the Kremlin outside the window. They backed on to a bed that sagged in the middle, the sheets rancid with what she later identified as old sperm and alcohol in a cocktail specially mixed for Soviet hotels. She wanted to struggle, to reprimand, to complain, but he grabbed her face and kissed her so forcefully that a lick of flame burned her to the core.

His hands pulled her dress off her shoulders and he buried his face in her neck, then her hair, scooping up between her legs. He pulled down her brassiere, cupping her breasts, sighing in bliss. 'The blue veins are divine,' he whispered. And in that moment, a lifetime of unease about this ugly feature of her body was replaced with satisfaction. He licked them, circling her nipples hungrily. Then he disappeared up her skirt.

She pushed him away from there, once, then twice. But he kept returning. She slapped his mouth, quite hard, but he didn't care.

'No, no, not there, come on, no thank you, no...' She cringed, closing her eyes bashfully.

'You're beautiful,' he said.

Could that be true? Yes, he insisted and he swiped her with his tongue. No one had ever done this to her before. She shivered, barely able to control herself.

'Lovely!' he said.

She was so ashamed she actually hid her face in her hands. 'Just don't!'

'See if you can pretend it isn't happening!' was his suggestion as he buried his face in her. When she finally looked down, he peered back at her, laughing. I've got a lover, she thought, incredulous. His irrepressible carnality enthralled her. It was like the first time with her husband, her only other lover - but then it was not like that at all. In fact, she reflected, this is me losing my real virginity at the hands of this infernal, lovable, Jewish clown who is so unlike any of the macho Bolsheviks in my life.

He's a madman, she thought as he made love to her again. Oh my God, after twenty years of being the most rational Bolshevik woman in Moscow, this goblin has driven me crazy!

He eased out of her again, showing himself.

'Look!' he whispered as she did. Was this really her? There he was between her legs again, doing the most absurd, lovely things to places behind her knees, the muscle at the very top of her thighs, her ears, the middle of her back. But the kissing, just the kissing, was heavenly [...] He made her forget she was a Communist [...]

[kiki1982]

I'm still laughing

I'm not sure what the problem is, the bit where 'he disappear[ed] up her skirt', the icky bits in between (swiped her with his tongue) or the Communist bit.

[Pompey Bum]

I'm still laughing

I'm not sure what the problem is, the bit where 'he disappear[ed] up her skirt', the icky bits in between (swiped her with his tongue) or the Communist bit.

Disappearing up her skirt was the funniest for me. I got the image of the Bolshevik lady turning around and around the sleazy hotel room, wondering where that boy could be. And his voice emanating from her skirt: "Thank you, thank you, and for my next trick..."

[MANICHAEAN]

Iain Sparrow:

Excuse me if my earlier response to the comments you made regards love and sex scenes was rather offhand. What I’m trying to get across, in an inexcusable cack handed manner might better be illustrated by one of my favourite authors, Lucius Apuleius Madaurensis in his “Apologia” ; basically a defence against accusations of using magic to gain the attentions (and fortune) of a wealthy widow in Roman times. Being a student of the Platonist philosophy in Athens, his take on take on love and sex was expostulated as of a higher and lower form as in the following extract:

“But I will forbear to enlarge upon those deep and holy mysteries of the Platonic philosophy, which, while they are revealed to but few of the pious, are totally unknown to the profane; how, that Venus is a twofold goddess, each of the pair producing a particular passion, and in different kinds of lovers. One of them is the "Vulgar", who is prompted by the ordinary passion of love, to stimulate not only the human feelings, but even those of cattle and wild beasts, to lust, and commit the enslaved bodies of beings thus smitten by her to immoderate and furious embraces. The other is the "Heavenly" Venus, who presides over the purest love, who cares for men alone and but few of them, and who influences her devotees by no stimulants or allurements to base desire”

Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Simon Sebag Montefiore. Sweet Lord, does this boy have talent!

If any more of this is read by me, I am in serious danger of losing my job through laughing.

Let me though just give you my own reactions:

“They backed on to a bed that sagged in the middle, the sheets rancid with what she later identified as old sperm and alcohol in a cocktail specially mixed for Soviet hotels.”

Potential elements of confusion here, which raise more questions than answers: Was she in the habit of having DNA samples taken of bed sheets she had been gone down on? / Was this a cocktail of sperm one part, (matured in barrels over many years) and Stolichnaya 3 parts with a twist of lemon, shaken not stirred? If so, I am unfamiliar with it, despite having indulged in many a vodka cocktail in Moscow.

“Kissed her so forcefully that a lick of flame burned her to the core.”

One can only surmise that the vodka from the Soviet hotel cocktail was self-combustible.

“His hands pulled her dress off her shoulders and he buried his face in her neck, then her hair, scooping up between her legs.”

He really comes across as a rather athletic proletariat Jewish goblin.

'The blue veins are divine,' he whispered.

Whatever turns you on baby!

“And in that moment, a lifetime of unease about this ugly feature of her body was replaced with satisfaction.”

And the wart on her nose?

“Then he disappeared up her skirt.”

Hello, hello, anybody home?

'No, no, not there, come on, no thank you, no...'

I’m not that sort of girl.

'You're beautiful,' he said.

He certainly had a way with words!

“He swiped her with his tongue.”

Thank God that was clarified. I thought for a minute, it might have been his American Express card.

'See if you can pretend it isn't happening!' was his suggestion as he buried his face in her.

Think of England, (Sorry, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics) Ok, Mother Russia then.

“This infernal, lovable, Jewish clown who is so unlike any of the macho Bolsheviks in my life.”

Outside on the Kremlin Square and despite the snow, Putin rode bare chested on a white charger. Inside Topol was contemplating a salt beef sandwich on rye when all this frolicking was over.

“Oh my God, after twenty years of being the most rational Bolshevik woman in Moscow, this goblin has driven me crazy!”

Behind the two way mirror the KGB operative made a mental note to make a gulag reservation for this broad once his shift was completed.

“He eased out of her again, showing himself.”

Ah ha. A flasher! This bit might have evoked suitable appreciation for any readers of a gay disposition.

“Doing the most absurd, lovely things to places behind her knees.”

Oh no, not again, my imagination is already at breaking point!!

“He made her forget she was a Communist.”

What a final punch line. Had she inclinations to join the Tea Party?

On a more serious note, I get the impression that poor old Simon was getting so worked up when writing this, that he did not realize the humour it contained. Which is exactly the point made by so many contributors to this most enjoyable thread. But then at the same time one does not want a clinical “bang bang, thank you mam” when dealing with this subject. By definition; there is lust, there is humour, and there are the most ridiculous and the most adventurous positions. Is it carnal? Yes, but if you have imagination and wit and enterprise by both participants, it is the very touch of Heaven itself. Vive L’amour.