Warning: Mature Subject Matter with explicit content – Sex Scenes
Whether sublime or seductive, romantic or raunchy—it’s my contention as a novelist who writes in the genre of Contemporary Women’s fiction, to include sex scenes. Taking pride in branding my published works as “lit with grit,” fully-fleshed characters and realism define my storytelling.
Full steam ahead!
While making no apologies for the nature of my writing, I respect potential readers who prefer to forego the steam. Hence, I’ll include a disclaimer referencing mature subject matter or content some may find disturbing.
Mind you, I roll with the punch line, “there’s a time and place for everything”— vis-à-vis steam—expressed with finesse and, on occasion—graced with humor.
From Underlying Notes (First Printing – 2007; Second Printing – 2009) as narrated by Carla:
Joe puttered around in the barn, reorganizing his treasure troves of tools on the bench when I came up from behind, put my arms around his middle, and kissed his ear lobes and the back of his neck, dampened with sweat. Turned out, this gesture was the prelude to crude barn sex devoid of sentiment or foreplay, and consummated as I leaned back against the double stacked bags of fertilizer, grass seed, and bird feed.
With bottom outer and undergarments swimming at our ankles, Joe, fueled with high octane, straddled across my arched pelvis and thrust at full throttle in what amounted to a “short-go-round.” He bucked over me as though I were an untamed bronco in a “sudden death” rodeo championship, then sputtered like the prized John Deere tractor in the corner he rode to mow our lawn.
From An Enlightening Quiche (2016) as narrated by Augusta in reference to Gabe:
Time was of the essence—taking our time! Rather than treating our apparel as mutual trappings obstructing intimacy, or flirting with disaster by distorting fabric beyond repair from tugging, wrenching, tearing, and snagging, we transformed the act of disrobing into the sensual art of foreplay. Slowly and deliberately unbuttoning, unhooking, and unzipping, we kissed and stroked each newly revealed cross section before moving on to the next.
Devoid of concealment, we crossed the equator line, nibbling on each other’s lips before plunging the depths of French kissing, a conduit for channeling the conductive and convective flow of heat originating from the plexus of our blood vessels and nerves, radiating outward to sear our flesh from the fever and fervor of wantonness. Locked in position, our rhythmic motion rocked the blanketed turf beneath us, fracturing and fragmenting the landscape of my psyche as the release of sexual tension shook both of us to the core, shifting and displacing any preconceived notions I had about love before or since.
As for incorporating steamy sex scenes in books—“Sex is a part of nature. I go along with nature.” (Marilyn Monroe)
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