Earlier in the month, I had the dubious pleasure of forwarding the rough final draft of the manuscript for Death Rejoices to my editor (AKA Bossyboots McMeaniepants) and my publisher, at which point I basically did this…

<meep!>

…for about a week and a half, waiting for feedback. The editor’s feedback was (and continues to be) a constant barrage of ego-knocking queries and general knuckle rapping. (Boy, it’s a good thing I spelled that with two p’s.) The publisher, who is a big fan of the first book in the Marnie Baranuik series, had a few easily-juggled suggestions, but one major problem with the second book:

NEEDS MORE SEX.

Nooooo problem, said I, with a twinkle in my eye. Sex, I can do. Sex, I can EASILY add. After all, I’m the Writerghoulie, your genial purveyor of filth, smut, and chocolate-covered nip-slips. (Just kidding! I prefer honey.)

Besides, I said, I know exactly where to stick it. Wait. I meant, I know where to put the–oh, nevermind, you knew what I meant.

So, I flipped open my trusty laptop, skimmed through the manuscript to find the perfect spot (not there, nope, just a little bit lowerrrrrrr–THERE! *ahem*) and, cracking my knuckles as all serious writerly types are wont to do, I settled my fingers on the keyboard, took a deep, cleansing breath, and…

Hrrmmm. *frown* Okay, nothing happened. I read again the scene as it unfolded sans hubba-hubba-dick-smack. Wait, what?! That’s the worst euphemism for sex I’ve ever heard. Probably, you should never smack a dick unless you’re sure that’s what he’s into. Please do not quote me on that, though. Some Aaltos have incredible architecture to their credit; I don’t want THIS Aalto to have a quote about dick-smacking follow me to the grave and beyond.

Where was I? Right, dick-smacking. NO! Sex scenes. It occurred to me that if I came up with a list of sexy words, words that generally pop off the page and make your tingly bits throb (like tingle and throb, for example, or stroke, lick, and tease…), then I’d have a running start at this scene. I made some tea, poured it down the sink, dumped two cups of Fireball whiskey in my mug, and attempted some brainstorming. The whiskey, in retrospect, might be to blame for the resulting unfortunate phone call.

Me: Hey, um, what’s a sexier word for chubby?

Heather: Hello to you, too. Jeee-zus.

Me: Not fat. I mean chubby as in ye olde blue-veined gobstuffer.

Heather: Are you high? What are you talking about?

Me: Cock.

Heather: *chokes on her Dr. Pepper* Woman, I’m in class, here. I can’t discuss… *lowers her voice* I can’t discuss Wee Willy Winkie.

Me: Nope, that’s too polite. Also, no self-respecting woman leans in close to her lover and asks for his Wee Willy Winkie. Not if she doesn’t wanna get cuffed upside the head.

Heather: Can’t we text this?

Me: No.

Heather: Why the hell not?

Me: Tell me which of these words makes you wet…

Heather: I need new friends.

Me: Prick, dick, tube-steak, wiener, meat-whistle, one-eyed trouser snake, crack-hunter–boy, these are all terrible–skin flute, todger, bahookie…

Heather: Stop saying words, now.

Me: What’s the problem? Dong, schlong, beard-splitter, snatch-tickler…

Heather: Snatch-tickler?!

Me: Problem?

Heather: Uh, YEAH, I just yelled “snatch-tickler” and now everyone’s staring at me.

Me: What about Captain Hornington?

Heather: That’s not a thing. Or if it is, it shouldn’t be.

Me: Not sexy? Hmm…Bald-headed bandit, woody, pecker…

Heather: I’m begging you.

Me: Oh, see, I got you begging. Am I turning you on? Root, boner, stiffy, love-muscle…Oh wait! Fucknozzle!

Heather: Gee, Al, I’d love just one day where you don’t yell fucknozzle in my ear.

Me: Fine, let’s skip penis for now. Let’s move on to other body parts.

Heather: Might as well, you just made me say “fucknozzle” in class.

Me: Fuzzburger is probably not hot, right? But what about squishmitten?

Heather: Oh, God.

Me: And cooch is certainly not working for me…

Heather: I’m thirsty. Is it safe for me to take a sip, or are you still talking?

Me: OH! OH!

Heather: *alarmed* Whatever it is, just no.

Me: I think I’ve got a great sentence for this scene.

Heather: I’m willing to bet when you sober up you’ll delete it.

Me: He slid his throbbing lance into her cock-locker.

Heather: Noooooooo he didn’t. Tell me you’re not typing that.

Me: You’re right, it should be dripping cock-locker.

Heather: I HEAR KEY STROKES.

Me: Of course you do. If I add a dollop of glistening man-spackle to that sentence, it’s GOLD.

Heather: It’s really not.

Me: Can you think of a better sentence?

Heather: Almost any sentence is better than that one. Seriously, didn’t you write a blog about how to write sex scenes?

Me: Pretty sure I said man-spackle in that blog, too.

Heather: My point is: why don’t you go back and take your own damn advice?

Me: Well, I’ve got a weird problem. I’m trying to write a sex scene with a male character that I’m not currently being aroused by. And I can’t seem to see him in that way right now. All I can think about is–well, other characters.

Heather: Aha. So instead of throwing ridiculous slang at the problem, why don’t you revisit the times you DID see that character as sexy? What made him so hot the first time?

Me: *thinking hard* Well, he’s dangerous. But safe.

Heather: Mmhmm.

Me: And sorta…predatory. Slow, cautious, a real hunter. He plays hard to get, but not because he’s shy. He wants you to earn it. He knows he’s worth your making an effort. He wants to see how much you want him. And when he finally decides to make you his…

Heather: Okay, good. *gulp* That’s enough. You got it…

Me: His approach is confident. He takes his time. He lingers, letting his hands explore, tasting every inch of his prey, savoring her every quiver and gasp…

Heather: *whimper* I’m hanging up now!

Me: Oh, hey! *nipples harden* I think I felt him enter my brain, just now. *closes eyes* Yep. Those powerful arms, those massive shoulders, his soft, flicking tongue…unf.

Well, hello, my Harry.

(Editor’s note: AJ would like to thank her chief Beta Reader for reminding her that the words are less important than the images they invoke. Sometimes I forget that. Forest for trees, or something like that. This week is sex scene week, which is why I’m horizontal. Looks like Harry Dreppenstedt and I will be spending a lot of time together. Humina humina hell yes!)