We don’t need to have sex.
There, I said it. No sex. It is overrated for the situation. Now, don’t you get all pouty on me. It has to be this way. We have nothing to build upon or make it enjoyable for everyone. It would seem . . . so trite.
No, it’s not you (sort of.) I love your personality. Your storyline makes me laugh and cry. I loved your words from the very beginning with all the tiny faults. You know I will be with you always, even if no one else cares about you. BUT NO SEX.
I realize you are not a youngster, by no means. We will never classify you under the young adult or middle-grade reading section. Yet there is no romance among your pages. We never had dinner by candlelight. A box of Godiva chocolates has never rested on the pillow next to the whip cream and body lotion. And trust me when I say this; you are not the type to involve yourself in risqué bedroom behaviors. The genre of erotica does not suit you. Sure, we had our moments with the occasional pillow talk to further the plot. Yet the events changed. How was anybody supposed to know that the parole officer would hold the gun to your head and cop a feel? Then you had to bust his nose open with a can of paint thinner and kick him in the head. In my opinion, this kills any chance of a romantic interlude (although I have heard that the Pittsburgh Steelers could use a good punter for their football team.)
Wait. Do not start blaming things on me. I knew exactly what situation I was getting into from the very beginning. I had no problems with it nor am I suffering from any headache tonight. I have no functional disabilities when writing about sex. I had a great time in the previous relationship between the secretary and her married boss, as she would use their affair to blackmail him into silence while she sabotaged the work files to gain a promotion. Then there was the jealous wife setting up a romantic interlude for her husband because she believed he was drifting out of their relationship. They had a wild night of passion to rekindle their love, or at least keep the husband around until she got the insurance papers signed while hiding a gun in the couch.
Trust me when I say this: not every fiction story needs to have sex in it.
Oh, sure. You laugh now, but it is true. There is no point to have a sex scene if the plot will not support it. The situation would become . . . clunky, awkward, and slightly embarrassing. I have read stories with the strange connotations of snakes hiding in caves and spelunking in nether regions seeking warmth from the cold desolations of lustful abstinence. What irks me is that the story did not need the scene. It would have worked well without one. This is what I cannot stand the most. Forced sex.
Please, do not make me drive your storyline down this worn path. It would force me to rewrite everything from the very beginning and it would still add nothing to the plot. Nothing - whatsoever.
Yes, yes, I can admit there are times when a little sex does wonders to the story’s libido. I would expect to find it when concerning the genteel lord who has been absent from his waiting lady as he takes out his wallet and removes the key to her chastity belt. I would welcome it in a storyline like this:
Monique climbed on top of Jeff’s naked body while ignoring the strong odor of spilled Bacardi rum when he had stumbled into the drunk couple by the bar exit. She slid over his sweating waist, and then she slid down onto him to fill herself with his erection. Her motions sent shivers through his body, his back arching at each pleasurable rub, his eyes squeezing tight at every moan uttered from his gasping lips.
Monique’s lips remained closed. Silent. She felt nothing from this, although her body did tremble as much as Jeff’s did. Rage. It overcame her as Monique’s eyes threw a glare at the man underneath her before her sight focused on the liquor bottle on the dresser. Less than half-full with alcohol from his backwash as he had waited for Monique to pretty herself in the bathroom, the bottle felt comfortable in her grasp as she lifted it up. A crash sounded above Jeff’s moans as she broke open the glass bottle against the headboard. A gurgling scream filled the tiny apartment as she used the jagged edge to cut open his throat.
Monique knew exactly where to aim. She had seen the bleeding patient wheeled into the emergency room, a gunshot to the throat severing the jugular vein was what the paramedics had explained to the rushing doctors. Monique's hand pressed into Jeff’s chest, feeling the lub-dub of his beating heart as it slowed. Lub-dub . . . lub . . . dub . . . the movement reminded her of the beeps that the heart-monitor machine made in the patient’s room as Monique cried when the doctor turned off the life support. Nothing more they could do for her sister who had lost too much blood caused by the gun belonging to Jeff. Nothing more Monique could do for this man who bled to death on this bed; Jeff’s death was a foregone conclusion like the passing of her sister.
In fascination, Monique watched the blood rolling in waves down both sides of his neck. It started to cover over the black mark on his skin. Jeff’s brother had inked the tattoo at the parlor his family owned. His brother had created a circle with the first letter of Jeff’s name at the center. J.
Monique leaned in close. A circle with a letter P confronted her eyes: P standing for Paul. Jeff’s brother. His identical twin.
She had killed the wrong one.
When it concerns the section above, I have few problems with the steamy scenes whenever they further the storyline. Yet I do not want to read about sex when the fifty covert spies surround the house as the fleeing man and woman make love instead of pulling out all the cleaning chemicals from the pantry so they can construct dirty bombs. There will always be a time and a place for everything!
You are not like those stories. Your plot is complete without the sex. And now, if you will excuse me, I have to go take a shower.