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!) 

“The humour made Agent Chapel’s eyes intense in a way I’d never seen before. Maybe part of him had loosened with the removal of his tie. His top button was still firmly fastened, but baby steps, right? Already I trusted him less to fix my computer.” –From “Touched”, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Chronicles.

Any writer will tell you, character development is not only crucial, it’s also a fuckboat loaded to the gunwales with barrels of undistilled whoopie! (side note: I hear one can acquire tickets to the fuckboat for a Sunday afternoon sweep up the Welland Canal. Miiiiiight want to glance at THAT itinerary before signing up.) Even the most minor character in your story–be it a short story, novella or a novel–deserves the conscientious sweep of his or her creator’s attention.  Hey, that’s you! Why are you a writer, again? Right: you enjoy sweating from the eyeballs, pulling your hair out one strand at a time, peeling your face back a la Poltergeist, and talking to canned salmon in Aisle 4 of the grocery store while the stock boy with the cowlick gives you the crook-eye. Also: you might be borderline insane. Glad we’re in the same boat, here. Hold on … is this boat sailing toward the Canal? *panicked blink* 

(The author apologizes for being distracted by the prospect of screwing strangers on a boat and talking to canned fish … which is clearly ridiculous, as she doesn’t even like salmon)

If you’re going to put a person on the page (and make no mistake about it, unless you’re writing unpolished turds, you should be putting a person on the page) does that person not deserve moulding, fleshing, and sensitivity–mindful, loving strokes of the artist’s brush? That rough-hewn character, newly fashioned one day by the casual toss of your writerly hands, can only go as far as you take them. If you fling him in there and let him gamble about raw and unseasoned, he will be 2 dimensional … worse yet, he will come back to haunt you in the wee hours of the night, possibly wearing a ski mask (but not if you were so thoughtless as to never describe clothing, then he’s a naked angry character, and those are the worst), possibly driving your bedsheets up the crack of your ass in the most frightening cotton-to-ass disaster in history. No? OK, maybe he’ll just flounder around making your story crappy. But, which is worse?

Sacrifice a few hours to the quiet contemplation of one of your underfed characters this week … and yes I did say hours. Take your dog for a walk, but take your character with you. Do your shopping, and be cognizant of your character’s suggestions. (Would Agent Chapel eat bananas? I’m thinking a big ole yes! I hate bananas–what am I gonna do with three bunches? *shrugs and tosses them in her cart anyway*) Heed their wishes, their desires (oh yes, those too), listen to the quiet whisper of their requests. Why not let them write themselves? Sure beats folding them in two and cramming them around your designs. You’ll know when you get it wrong, because if you’ve trained yourself to hear them, they’ll tell you. The old saying goes, “give them an inch and they’ll take a mile”, but oh boy does that work in our favour, fellow writers, when it comes to character creation. 

*offers a hand, palm up, to her imagination* Does he swagger when he approaches, or is he a no-nonsense strutter? Is he accustomed to walking the halls of a court house, shoulders back, chin up, eyes scanning for the important people to whom he ought to nod? Does he hunker down behind a desk, massaging the fingers he uses more than any other part of his body? Does he dance like Fred Astaire in sock feet when he thinks no one’s watching, late at night, in the pale glow of the open fridge, while he’s trying to decide on a mixer for his rye, crooning beneath his breath? I sure hope so, cuz that’s friggin’ adorable, and makes me wanna squeeze his tushie. *gives a special someone the fluttery-eyelash routine, hoping she looks seductive, and not so much like she has a scratch on her cornea*

So give your character an inch; when he takes that mile, chase him down the street with a pen and paper (don’t mind your neighbour’s goggling stares–that just means you’re winning! Wheeee!) and mark down every detail. His unexpected flights of fancy.  Her grim determination. His unfortunate but familiar whinny of a laugh. The way her fingers never stop moving, even when they’re just making busy work of the empty gum wrapper in her pocket.  The aged-to-yellow bruise on his chin. It’s a lot more work, I will admit, and it tends to encourage your friends to discuss the pros and cons of institutionalizing you. And your work will be so much richer for it.

Even if you do have to publish from the Funny Farm.

(AJ Aalto is the author of Touched, Book One of the Marnie Baranuik Chronicles, launching summer 2011, and is currently wrangling toward completing the last draft of Death Rejoices, Book Two of the same series. Please note: AJ Aalto has never actually seen the fuckboat, but is confident that it exists, if only on the fetid sludge pool of her imagination.)

It’s been suggested by a dear friend that I should stop yammering on in endless blogs and begin introducing you to my actual writing. After I let said friend out of a textbook sleeper-hold, I revived her with smelling salts and demanded to know what the fuck she meant by that?

H:  Well your blogs are very cute, AJ, but … it’s not “real writing”.

That’s right, she went there: the double-whammy of cute and “not real writing”, peppered with audible air quotes. DREAD! HORROR! BIG OWIES! I blinked rapidly, wondering how many people could place me here today if it became a crime scene.

AJ *slow-spreading smile*: Hey, H? C’mere for a sec.

H: Holy shit, what moron gave you the garden claw?

AJ: I’m “weeding”. Ya, hear them air quotes? Suck real bad, don’t they?

But she was right, so I let her live to read for me another day. Miss H is entirely irreplaceable, in that her sometimes-stinging support drives me to do my best. Blogging is writing, but it isn’t what I do. I wouldn’t call myself a “blogger”. I am a “writer”. Blogging is not what I endeavour to master, nor is it what I spend most of my time working on.

Sooooo, once a month or so, I’ll pop up an excerpt of my current WIP (work in progress), or a short story, or poetry (ha! OK I tried to say that with a straight face, but you won’t see anything remotely poetic comin’ from these grey cells, no sir), or a wee flash fiction … starting today, with the horror short BOTTOMS UP. I hope you enjoy. Comments/criticism always welcome, and probably I won’t hit you with a shovel if your words cockslap me in the soul  (warning: fingers may or may not be crossed behind my back).

Hollywood-grade Klieg lights threw their carbon arcs into the sky … y’know, in my imagination.

When first I heard I’d won a Stylish Blogger Award, I thought: about fuckin’ time! No, wait … you didn’t hear that. That was my ego, a slippery little gremlin who (in 1998 on a sweltering night in late July–with the candle stick in the conservatory) murdered my shoulder-Angel & -Devil. My ego now squats by my right ear, combing his prissy little goatee, murmuring honeyed, sycophantic commentary and uttering the most lascivious–OW! I call him Cedric. *swats at the right side of her head* Cedric nibbles my earlobes, and bites when I sass him.

                        <My ego, “Cedric”, AKA Mephistopheles>

I was nominated for this lovely award by an equally lovely Canadian writer, Jack Flacco, to whom I am very thankful.

The rules associated with accepting the Stylish Blogger Award (just backspaced over Booger Award, which is something else entirely) are simple: sacrifice a goat to Belphegor, Great Demon Lord of Vanity and Sloth, and then–no? Oh. “Cedric” informs me this is the Old Way; in thanks for his swaying the judges, I can just offer up some 150 yr old whiskey, half a dozen chicken livers and a transient. Good news, cuz goats are expensive these days, and hard to slip past the neighbours. Waaaaait a minute …. *tries to give her shoulder passenger the hairy eyeball*

The Rules are actually as follows:

1. Thank and link to the blogger who nominated you.

2. Share 7 random facts about yourself.

3. Pass the award onto 5 new-found blogging buddies.

4. Contact the winners and congratulate them.

So, here are 7 things you never needed to know about AJ Aalto and will wish you hadn’t learned (wondering now if Mr. Flacco didn’t just nominate yours truly so he could dig up some dirt. But that may be “Cedric” talking again.)

1. I may write murder mysteries and horror novels, kinky paranormal thrillers full of detailed forensic goop (clinical term, verrrrrry scientific) and slice-n-dice monstery goodness … but I am, in person, about as deadly as an empty pillowcase. No, for realzies!

2. While I enjoy snuggin’ into dark, enclosed places (the opposite of claustrophobia … claustrophilia?) and have been known to sleep in a closet or under my bed, I do not (as of yet) own a coffin. I know, right? What’s up with that?  

<AJ’s future bed, minus the lady with the hammer and nails>

3. I got trapped in a Zellers department store once by clowns. And if that’s not the perfect synopsis for a horror story, I don’t know what is. See, as I approached the store, I hadn’t noticed 5 clowns in full make-up collecting for charity. When I glanced up and saw them,  my terrified brain kersploded into a mushy grey soup (a thick stew, more of a cassoulet cérébral) without telling my legs to stop pumping. So I continued past them into Zellers, promptly forgetting a) why I was there in the first place and b)how to do that thing, y’know, where you suck air into your lungs to sustain life? I wandered those aisles, lightheaded, my frantic heart clobbering my ribs, for a solid hour … before realizing the store had another exit. I’m cool like that.

4. My two favourite sounds are thunder http://bit.ly/m9TdmM  and a male lion’s territorial roar http://bit.ly/ljNnWS.   Guess my idea of heaven is the cat cages at the zoo during a storm. The sound I think is pretty much the worst ever in nature? This red fox call in the dark http://bit.ly/jrTD47 

5. When the sun goes down, I live by candle light. Candles in the kitchen, on the bathroom sink, in my bedroom. If the power went out, I might not notice … unless of course I was watching Firefly reruns. Then I’d be all “Mal, what the frak?” I’m a gal who needs her Fillion-Fix.

6. Every day I spoil myself terribly–(who can pamper you better than you, I ask?) I spend every cent, devour every passion, heed every urge, attend every temptation. I rarely deny myself anything, and aim to wallow in pleasure. (What’s that chortling–Cedric, hush, I can’t hear myself think with your sulphuric stink-breath wafting in my face) I am a dyed-in-the-wool hedonist, and 110% unapologetic about it. Want a Cheesecake-Ice-Cream-With-Skor-Bits cone at Marble Slab? Then why the fuck would you not have one?? You want it. That means: GET IT. GET IT NOW. GO NOW. No one’s gonna get it for you. Vault past the old lady, give the punk in the white leather jacket a flying-elbow to his pock-marked forehead, put the guy at the front of the line in a headlock, and scream at the startled ice cream scooper GIVE ME THE LARGE, MOTHERFUCKERRRR. (side note: it’s a medical mystery that I don’t weigh 897 pounds. Also: I should probably not be allowed out in public without a chaperone)

7. I have a degree in biology (no guff!) and enjoy manipulating science to explain how magic, monsters, demons, ghosties, zombies,  and other things that go boo-snarl-gnash could plausibly exist. Then I toss that science directly in the face of my main character, Marnie Baranuik, a “preternatural-biologist-slash-psychic-detective”. My favourite writing pastimes include: naming carrion insects, inventing scourge plagues, unnatural world building, and word-weaving a perfectly rotten description.

And at last, the best part:

 5 Nominations for Great Blog Reads and winners of the Stylish Blogger Award are as follows (Cedric, please! Pretty sure eardrums are not made for drum rolls *sigh*):

1. Al Boudraeu: supportive friend, brilliant man and author of the intensely paced thriller In Memory of Greed. Check his blog here:  http://alboudreau.wordpress.com/

2. Steve Umstead: whose novel Gabriel’s Redemption made me wish I could write sci-fi.  http://steveumstead.com/ If I ever do manage the genre, you’ll know “Mayor Steve” was the inspiration.

3. Everett Powers: tireless indie champion, and author of the Grant Starr thrillers, beginning with The Mighty T  http://everettpowers.blogspot.com/

4. Michael R. Hicks: an inordinately talented writer, author of the bestselling In Her Name series  http://authormichaelhicks.com/

5. Wendy Sparrow: whose light-hearted, goofy wit makes me LOL daily.  She’s a rare spirit, give her a look-see! http://ladybugsroar.blogspot.com/

(Author’s note: AJ Aalto is just plain silly. Anyone visiting this blog for serious matters is lost on Flapdoodle Trail, a dangerous downhill donkey path leading to the vast Valley of Ineptitude. Go back while you can and consider yourself warned.)