Cue the sighs. Cue the hair pulling. Cue the tantrum-throwing toddler in the back of my mind rolling around on the ground, fists pounding the pavement. "But I don't WANT to write about fucking!"
It's a chore. It always has been. It's the part of the story where, ultimately, creativity goes on a smoke break while Allie attempts to find new and innovative words to describe fleshy bits banging into each other. And I hate it. I hate it so very much. But I also know that I can't always avoid it. Sure, I could have them close the door and wind up with a book that would certainly make the prudes in the audience proud, but I also know that's copping out. Readers have certain expectations. Maybe they don't want an all out fuck-fest either. I'm pretty sure that's not why people pick up my stories, to read some sweat-filled sex romp. But I'm also pretty sure they expect that if I have two characters who are going to "go there," I should be delivering the goods, at least to a certain extent.
But I have to put it on the record, let it be known, that any sex scene of mine that you read was done under a certain measure of duress and obligation. I have no interest in analyzing why this is so. I can say that I'm comfortable with any large amounts of sexuality in my books. I like subtlety. And hell, I love sex. But in books, I particularly like the energy and the chemistry that ultimately leads to it. It's the stuff you don't see (more that you feel, that undertone of anticipation) that I find more exciting. The payoff, the actual fucking, always just feels like the big boot that snuffs out that ember.
It's just the way my brain is wired, I guess.
When it comes down to the art of elegantly sticking penises into things, I just don't got it.