Remember all those times you thought something was missing from a story, and you realized that something was sex, then the author surprised you and threw some in, but it turned out to be really really bad? Like “I want to plant my baby-seeds in your hose-soaked lady garden” bad? No? Apparently, you and I are not reading the same books. *checks the title* Sorry … Landscaping For Dummies.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good sex scene in a novel—if it makes sense for the characters to be doin’ it, and if it’s very well written. I’m gonna say that again. Listen for it closely:

 If it makes sense for the characters to be doin’ it.

And if it’s very well written.

 And. Not or.

Very. Not sorta. Not kinda.

Sex is a funny thing. Not  funny ha-ha, but funny strange … unless you’re unfortunate enough to be doin’ it with me; sex with yours truly could pass for an episode of the Stooges, complete with head-bonking and eye-poking.

<Ah, I see you’ve chosen to bed AJ. Good luck with alllll that>

 I will admit, arousal can crop up at odd times. Like when you’re waiting for an oil change, for example, and the guy in the waiting area beside you smells wholly fantastic, and you sneak a peek at his hands—those big, strong, powerful hands that could probably reduce a woman to a quivering pile of helplessness in under ten seconds—and you wonder what they’d feel like if you just inched your fingers over and … *ahem* For example. That never happened. I never get my oil changed. Though it’s sounding like maybe I should, cuz while that may not be the most ideal situation in which to become aroused, at least it makes  sense.                                                                                                    

On the other hand, if you’re on a runaway barge going 89 mph down some white water rapids, ducking behind a battered suitcase, which is your only protection against the bullets zinging past your head, almost certainly getting laid is not your primary focus. If it is, relax: you’re probably a guy. No woman in this situation would even remember she has a vagina, save to fleetingly wonder if she could hide in it (No? Just me, then? Righty-O). Which is why a straight sex scene in the midst of battle/attack or the inevitable “everyone’s dyin’ all around us, but let’s pause for some bowchickawowow” in the horror novel/movie is, in my opinion, not realistic . The exception to that is: if you’re under attack and you’re holed-up safely in a bunker. Then, bring it on! Oh hell yes, bunker sex is a go!

When the time is right for two characters, the decision comes down to: how much do I show? How far do I take this?

Do I begin it, and do the tasteful fade to black? Do I shut the door? Sure, that’s a perfectly fair option, and a lot of the time, the story doesn’t require further detail. Sometimes, knowing they bonded in an intimate fashion was the point, and having been implied, that’s enough. It can be done classy. Yeah, that’s right … I’m a classy, classy bitch, I could do sophisticated if I wanted to (probably?).

The alternative to the fade-to-black is an interesting menu of options. Do I go full-out? Wellll, maybe … if you’re careful not to sound like a crack whore slapping her fanny at a slow-trollin’ car at the corner of Geneva St. and Welland Ave at 4 o’clock in the morning (Johns and/or arresting officers in the St. Catharines area looking for action: you. are. welcome). I prefer reading a little sex, as opposed to a hint and then the classic literary door-slam. But that’s just me. I’m nosy: I like to know everything about a character. I happen to be of the opinion that sex is a fascinating window into people’s personalities; you can learn an enormous amount from how a person reacts under the duress of an unexpected seduction, or in the pursuit of their desires, or in mutual mad monkey-lust. And I have said this before: you’re putting a fully-rounded person on the page when you write a character, and every person–from sex addict to coldest fish–has some sort of sexual personality traits. Even the complete lack of sexuality is, in itself, a sexuality trait.

Say you’re like me (caution: one should never say that). Say you think it’s important to include an actual sex scene in your novel, during which you will actually show something. Writing sex is not for the faint of heart: it’s for the brave, and the foolhardy perhaps, or for those with little or no shame (guess which one I am? Wrong–I’m all three). So, how do you write good sex?

First of all, you have some. Honey, you ain’t writing no convincing sex if all you’ve got on a Friday night is aFleshlight and a tube of Super Lube (side note: I’m not making that up, there’s a fake vagina in a can called a Fleshlight. It’s hilarious–but I’m not linking it). Grab a partner and do some hands-on research.  If you don’t have a partner, go to your local Starbucks, order the most pretentious beverage on the menu, add random uber-specific boosts and shots and powders, then ask the irritated barista if you can make it up to him/her by practicing tantric sex moves with them … no, it willwork: just ask that blond barista with the goatee at the mall–ooooh, I’ve said too much. OK, maybe propositioning strange coffee shop employees isn’t your thing, for whatever reason *rolls her eyes grandly at your prudishness* though I can’t for the life of me imagine why not. What are some alternatives?

Well, you read some. Other writers have mastered the art of writing sex. Better yet, some write it poorly; it’s out there to read, and you should, if only to get a feeling for what not to do. You want to read a whole lot of it, to see what sounds right to you and what makes you laugh so hard that tears pour down your cheeks (for example, you don’t ever wanna write that he “filled every crevice” because that makes the average reader go, “EVERY crevice? REALLY? Wait, d’ya mean …*scratching forehead* between her toes, too? Behind her ears? Is a nose a “crevice”? Dude, that’s a lot of man-spackle”). Go ahead, pull up yer superhero Underoos, sally forth and infiltrate your local book store, and buy some erotica. Research, my valiant friend, is not going to kill you. The politely-controlled “I’m pretending not to notice you’re buying paper porn, nor am I looking you in the face” stare of the book store cashier isn’t going to kill you either, though depending upon your personality, it may feel like a part of you is dying.

Some of you are saying, “but AJ, I can get erotica online. Easily. And for free.” Yes, I reply tersely, but then you will have denied me the opportunity of causing you personal discomfort. Hello? Have we met?

“Also,” you tell me, rather cheekily, “I don’t need to read. My sex life is research enough. It’s spice-ay.”  That’s wonderful, I congratulate. But it can always be improved-upon, no matter how spice-ay it may be (and btw you sound like a lying dillhole when you say it like that, cuz if it were truly spicy, you’d be too exhausted from multiple orgasms to stretch the word to spice-ay… in point of fact, you’d clip the word. It’d be spi–zzzzzzzzz.)

Experiment, read, think about what’s logical for both the male character and the female character (or if a gay scene, what makes sense for whom), consider the personalities that you’ve already laid-out (ha! I said laid) . Push a few boundaries but cautiously, or you’ll end up making your readers spit their tea–and no, that’s not a coy euphemism. Test things out! When you’re reading erotica and a certain word tickles your hoo-hah unexpectedly–and it will–jot it down.  Make a list of what turned you on, and what didn’t. Think about that list from one of your character’s perspectives. Now, apply a cool damp wash cloth to the back of your neck, breathe deeply, and do it again. And again. Again. More … more! More! Oh God, baby soon ohyespleasepleasePLEASEDON’TSTOP–*gasp* sorry.  What were we talking about? It couldn’t possibly have been … it was? Shit, what was I thinking? Well, I blame you; that’ll work nicely for me.

Mimic reality, then make it one notch better: that’s your job, after all, whether you’re a horror writer or any other kind or writer, and whether or not you write a sex scene. And before you rush out in the name of research and buy a Drilldo (I’m not making that up either, there is a product called the Drilldo, and it’s exactly what you think it is) you should probably note that your sex life does not necessarily suck if it in no way resembles something you’ve read in erotica, seen in porn, or in the Saw movie franchise, or that strange amalgamation: Porn Saw.

I hope I made that up just now.  

I very much hope Porn Saw’s not a thing.

This is me refusing to Google it to find out.

Please, oh please, do not tell me what you find if you do.

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto does write sex scenes in her novels; if she didn’t, there would be NO excuse for the MASSIVELY RIDICULOUS amount of time she spends staring off into space fantasizing various unlikely scenarios, up to and including her post-apocalyptic duty to trade her hoarded SPF900 sunscreen supply for orgasms with the hunky-yet-tragically-shirtless male survivors, and the sci-fi variation: AJ waiting for her transport home from the Farload Quadrant on Space Station Delta V-69, stuck with a platoon of  horny space cowboys with a whoooole lotta time on their hands. Wait–is a group of space cowboys a “platoon” or a “pride” or a “troop” or … WHAT? I might need to know!) 

It’s almost spring; Finally, forest season–don’t get me started about the forest in a Canadian winter–and so begins a series of long walks through the woods at the cottage or at Short Hills Provincial Park, swatting bloodsuckers (mosquitoes, not vampires) and going off the path to investigate strange sounds or furtive movement in the boscage and undergrowth (see also: the adventures of getting back on the path after thigh-high plunges into fetid muddy ditches). I’m fearless in the forest (read: stupid) and I’ll check out anything,  adopting that wary half-crouch half-slink of a B-movie actor slated as “Victim 3, Ditz In Woods”. If I’m hiking alone, I like to run full-out in short bursts as if something or someone is in pursuit with cold intent … but as I’ve clearly stated before, I’m not normal. Sadly, nothing ever IS chasing me, except that one bloodsucker who just won’t quit (vampire, not mosquito).

There’s a lot of room for what-if in a forest. Shade and shadows hip-hop, shimmy and rock behind the trees like they’re auditioning for Dancing With the Stars. Gusting winds thrust limbs against one another, holding them overhead in submissive bondage. A dischordant click-squeal to your left, and pretty soon your imagination is flooding with possibilities. Especially if you walk at nightfall … what horror writer doesn’t do this? What self-respecting horror writer passes up the opportunity to think what the hell made that noise?? So much to see, hear and fear. (See: weirdass white fungus in picture above–alien lifeform? I vote yes!) A good forest is pregnant with what-ifs that may or may not lead to oh-shits.

I wonder if writers are oversensitive to such things, if we pick up cues and blips and snatches of sensory input that normal people overlook? Do we go looking for the unseen? Are we all prone to hypersensuality? And if so, is that a blessing or a liability?

A handy alternative to the forest, for this little writer, is the long, familiar stretch of the Welland Canal between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario; now that it’s spring, I don’t have to keep the car running to stay warm. I’ve known this area my whole life. If I was a nutcase, (“if”, heh heh) this would be my hunting ground. Hrm. Probably I should backspace over that; with my luck they’ll turn up mutilated bodies in the canal’s sullen murk and my name will get slapped on a suspect list. Hell, why pass up an opportunity to get tackled by cops? *drool, pant*

 This is my spot by the canal. It’s an ideal place to write (if by “ideal”, one means “risky” and “slightly moronic”). I type merrily away, waiting (hoping, let’s not bullshit, here) for a figure to slink past my rearview mirror, or the creeping shuffle-crunch of a carefully-placed boot on the gravel just beyond my blind spot. Anticipation of fear is nearly as sensual a ride as the fear itself. Any minute now, something eldritch and feral, something lazily letcherous, something slithering between human and other will give my poor heart a reason to buck into a hammering joyride … annnnny minute now. No?

*crickets* Pffft. Psychos and monsters: always popping out of the friggin’ barn when you least expect them, but when you really need one, where are they? Right, down at the damn carnival licking clown sweat off the seltzer nozzles. Don’t they know I’m impatient for some shuddersome company?

Until the mud clears off the backwoods jogging paths, and the dangers of the canal crank up, I suppose I shall have to satisfy my need for inspiration by hanging out here in the back yard under your window. That new lamp looks great, by the way. No, no … no need to turn it on.

I can see you just fine in the dark.

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto is an unrepentant liar, a devourer of raw cookie dough and human hearts,  a creator of falsehoods, and a creepy ratfuck. She’s only pretending not to actually stalk you, and might be planning on eating that leftover meatloaf in your fridge, though she’s heartily disappointed in your no-name condiments. AJ Aalto has booked her next haircut to coincide with yours; she’ll be the one smiling behind her Vogue Paris. When you’re ready to go, she’ll be in the parking lot. If she can take you, she will.)

Day 1

Early morning, and everything is calm. The ocean is sibilant against yielding white sand, and there is but the softest of breezes rustling the palm fronds. I lift my head from my scribbling long enough to sip a banana daiquiri and frown.

AJ: Wait, did you say magnets, or maggots?

Heather (removing chocolate muffin from her mouth with a grimace): Please stop writing horror.

I consider this through a fog of travel weariness and booze. It’s never going to happen, me not writing horror: I may venture into other genres for a bit, but I will always return to my first love.

Aj: I could try writing romance? I do a decent sex scene.

Heather: Indeed you do, however you write violence better. On a completely unrelated note, how’s your marriage? 

Aj: Violently romantic?

Heather: Is that a thing?

Aj: If it’s not, it should be.  And anyway, how do you figure I’m not romantic?

Heather slaps the page she’s editing for me.

Heather: Right here! She wrenched the pen out of his ruined forehead and sent it in a bloody arch across the asphalt. How is that romantic?

Aj: Well, would it be more romantic if she left it in?

Heather: Hun, you can’t kill off half your characters in a romance novel. They frown on that.

Aj: I’m flexible. I could totally write a book where no one dies.

We face off, unblinkingly, over a pile of beach towels, snorkeling gear and mutual disbelief, both slack-jawed with shock that I even suggested such a thing. Later that night, over red caviar, shrimp and white wine, she imitates my injured croak under her breath; yet again, we laugh and laugh and laugh.

Day 2, hot afternoon

Heather: That parasailing looks like a lot of fun.

Aj: Pretty sure that’s the most fun you can legally have.

Heather: No, that’s the most fun you can legally have.

I peer over my sunglasses to follow her gaze to the cresting waves, where a half-naked Frenchman (I’m assuming, only because of the hotness factor, and the cigar still nonchalantly–and soggily–clenched by a perfectly vulpine smirk, as though by his sheer fiery Frenchness he can deny the ocean its ability to de-smokify him) has surfaced from the ocean in a black speedo, his glorious bronzed body slick and perfect. If he claimed to be a spy working for Covert Op: Brain Melt, I wouldn’t doubt him for a heartbeat. He pauses in rinsing sand off his chiseled midriff to grin at us.

I casually lean over, pluck the remains of my melted brain out of the sand, give it a kneading-dough squeeze, and shove it back into my ear where it belongs.

Aj: We’re supposed to be working.

Heather: I’m working real hard at not running over there and tackling him into the surf.

Aj: At writing. Although, I will admit: my hands are shaking too hard to write actual words at the moment. Shouldn’t it be illegal for him to walk around like that?

Heather: Like what?

Aj: Assaulting innocent brain cells with his hotness. He’s going to be shimmying those narrow hips and cut abs in my dreams tonight, against my wishes I might add. Why, that’s tantamount to dream thievery.

Heather: That’s not a thing.

Aj: Then it’s fantasy invasion!

Heather: That’s pretty thin, too, but nice try. Have another drink. You need to loosen up, have some fun.

Aj: I had fun this morning.

Heather: When you broke the sliding door and got stuck in the bathroom?

Aj: Before that.

Heather: When you tried to high-five the breakfast waiter and slapped him in the nose?

Aj: After that.

Heather: When the peacock ambushed you from the tree?

Aj: That was kinda epic, wasn’t it?

Heather: It really was.

We clink our plastic glasses together; she returns to editing, and I bury my nose in the outline of book 3.

2 hours later:

Aj (running full-out, flapping my hands over my head): Gaaaaaah! The egret! The egret!

Heather: Awww. You’re making friends.

Aj: Waaaaahalp!

Heather:  See? I knew you could loosen up and have fun!

Day 3, late night, watching TV

Heather: You’re scowling at the commercial. Whatcha thinking?

Aj: If the Dyson guy made vibrators, would they be see-through with tornado action?

Heather: I should really never ask you what you’re thinking.

Aj: You learn great things from me. And you are welcome.

Day 4, over dinner

Heather: You’re quiet … whatcha thinking about?

My pencil breaks.

Aj: Balls.

Heather: Well, then. Not sure the women at the next table need to hear your obsession with–

Aj: No, not balls, you ninny. (I turn to the women at the next table, to assure them) I’m not talking about testicles.

Heather: That was nice of you.

Aj: I was thinking about how I missed my husband, you know? How he could be sharing this with us. I wish he was here.

Five minutes of amicable silence pass, while we enjoy our steak and watch the flamingos in the pond. The waiter fills our wine, and Heather eyeballs me suspiciously over the rim of her glass.

Heather: Just to clarify … you’re not thinking about your husband’s balls?

Aj: Well, now I am.

Day 5, on the patio over coffee

Heather: There’s a serious frown on your face, what are you thinking?

Aj: What if Megatron and Smurfette had a filthy night of passion?

Heather(deadpan): Uncanny … I was thinking the same exact thing.

Aj: Their baby would be a giant evil blue robot who would fuck Gargamel’s shit up.

Heather: Or a very tiny blue robot who would drive Azreael bonkers.

Aj: Have you learned nothing from me, grasshopper?

Heather: I learned more than I ever wanted to know about glory holes.

Aj: And you are welcome.

Day 6, early am

Aj: Are you going to help me out of the bathroom or not?

Heather: You’re almost tragically retarded, aren’t you?

Aj: You can hold a telethon for me later. Put the goddamned camera down and help me!

All in all, I would have to conclude that two writers unsupervised on a beach in Punta Cana might not lead to disaster per se, but it certainly offers fodder for the creative process. At least, that’s what I’m claiming on my T4.