What Makes Good Sex Writing?

Tolly Moseley has theories

Dear Republic,

We’re continuing a discussion of sex writing with this stylish, thoughtful piece by Tolly Moseley, who writes

Submit Here

. Tolly is not the only writer in the series, by the way, to have gotten obsessed with Casey McQuiston.

-ROL

WHAT MAKES GOOD SEX WRITING?

Picture it: Austin, Texas, June 2020.

Picture it more:

My kindergartener stuck at home for the third month of Covid. My partner in the kitchen, stress-margarita-making. And me, doom-scrolling on the couch, consuming Instagram memes like they’re pamphlets from heaven, feeling the least baseline sane I have ever felt in my entire life. My phone lights up.

“Who wants a beach read?!” a friend asks the group thread. “Some of these look GOOD🔥”

I click the link, ready to scoff.

It’s a whole article about romance novels for people who don’t like romance novels. “Nice try,” I think, scrolling past a book actually titled Beach Read — oh how cheeky and self-aware! — but that’s when I see it.

The bubble gum pink cover of Red, White & Royal Blue.

Admit it, it’s adorable. Image credit Wall Street Journal.

The setting: an alternative universe where a Wendy Davis-type figure has won the 2016 presidency. The main characters (the ones leaning rakishly on either side of “Blue”): her bisexual son Alex, and a gay Prince of England, Prince Henry.

If nothing else, I buy it for the sheer escapism of a different U.S. administration.

Red, White & Royal Blue arrives in the mail, and I’m instantly hooked. But it’s not just the witty character banter — Casey McQuiston is the author, and now that I’ve read every Casey McQuiston book I know that all of their characters are, in fact, witty. It’s not just the glamorous settings, not just the shamelessly current pop culture references, not just the snappy rom-com dialogue…

It’s the sex.

Henry nods, so small that someone who didn’t know all his tics might miss it, but Alex knows exactly what it means, so he leans down and sucks Henry’s earlobe between his lips and calls him baby again, and Henry says, “Yes,” and, “Please,” and tugs his hair at the root.

I tear through it in days.

Reading Red, White & Royal Blue gives me a renewed appreciation for good sex writing. The book isn’t all sex (that would be boring), but when a spicy scene appears…it really hits. Each encounter feels believable, yet still sexily cinematic — the salt and pepper of every good sex scene. I’m writing this piece a few weeks after finishing Casey McQuiston’ latest (and IMO hottest) book, The Pairing, and my phone’s photo album is now littered with screenshots of choice sex descriptions. Part inspiration for my writing, part inspiration for my actual life.

So, what do I look for in good sex writing? I thought about this a lot while producing a sex positive storytelling show for years in Austin, and of course I think about it for my own Substack, Submit Here. Partially inspired by Casey — a true master of the form — here are three ideas.

A narrator who tells us what they’re thinking, while they’re having sex

Sex is psychological: we all know this. But whether it’s porn or religion, there’s a tendency to depict sex solely by its externals. This is how they looked naked, this is what that part looked like, this is how this part fit into that other part…

So dull.

Or rather, so dull if that’s all we get. Great sex writing has interiority, because sex is highly connected to the private self. Everything we crave in bed — every kinky or vanilla act on the planet — has emotional underpinnings. And those are the juicy secrets that power the sex, the ‘why’ to the ‘what.’ It’s why flatly drawn characters have less believable erotic interactions, because they don’t feel like real people yet.

But it’s also why sex scenes feel so satisfying when the characters feel like real folks. So I enjoy eavesdropping on a character’s thoughts while they’re having sex, like in this scene from The Pairing.

“God,” Theo groans. “You’re such a little slut sometimes.”

My heart clenches, a weak, grateful sound breaking loose.

“You like that?” they ask. “You like when I call you that?”

“Yeah, yes, fucking — love it. Feels good. Feels like — praise.”

“It is,” they say in the lowest, gentlest part of their voice. “You’re so good. So sweet. Such a perfect little slut for me.”

I let my mouth hang open so they can fuck all the sounds they want from me, one of my hands braced against the headboard to take it better. It’s so good like this, so good when it’s Theo, so good to be home in capable hands. Complex thoughts evaporate into sparkling firmament overhead, and far below, I bite the pillow and want only very simply things, to be held and fucked and told I’m pretty, to be good for the person I love.

That’s Kit narrating, and Kit is several things to Theo: childhood friend, ex-partner, love of the other’s life. But Kit is also kinky and submissive, and I love how his internal thoughts reveal his kink and his affection. The sweet familiarity of being back together (“it’s so good like this, so good when it’s Theo”), the blissed out subspace he’s clearly enjoying (“to be good for the person I love”).

I’m completely picturing the sex but interestingly, there aren’t a lot of descriptive, external details…and that’s great. I don’t need them actually, because when I’m inside the characters’ head I’m getting something much richer: the aboutness of the scene. This scene is about how well Theo knows how to fuck Kit. Sex is what happens, but it emotionally represents a homecoming. If I believe the feelings, my brain usually does a good job providing the visuals.

A basic knowledge of D/s power differentials

Another technique that Casey McQuiston uses is kinky power differentials: in the example above, we see the outlines of Dom/sub clearly. This works well on the page because it distinguishes characters from one another. But it also gives heat to the dialogue, even when no actual sex is happening.

I thought about this while watching a scene from Babygirl with Nicole Kidman and Harris Dickinson. Romy (Kidman, playing a high-powered CEO) is having a mentorship session with Samuel (Dickinson, playing an intern) at Romy’s company. Samuel has just asked her how it all began, her helming the company.

Romy: I wanted to automate repetitive tasks and give people their time back by limiting…

Samuel: Power hungry personalities?

Romy: You think that’s what I am?

Samuel: No, no. I think the opposite.

Romy: You think I don’t like power?

Samuel: I think you like being told what to do.

It’s an “I see you” moment that gets to the heart of Romy’s character, and tells us a lot about Samuel too.

Because in Babygirl, Romy is a high-achieving woman, spinning the plates of work / wife / mom in between Botox and anti-aging cryo chamber sessions. But Samuel, a natural caretaker, has picked up on Romy’s quiet competence, and has somehow also sensed her desperation. Maybe she doesn’t want all that power, actually; she’s a successful modern woman who’s been playing the game so well, getting straight A’s so often, and maybe she’s wrung out from all that… achieving.

Or maybe she just has a thing for being bossed around? Whatever the reason, the kink itself is less important than the fact that Samuel sees it. And, sees her.

Now, do all great sex scenes have to be kinky? No, of course not. But I get excited when I see characters playing with power differentials because these work extremely well in written form: they help shape the dialogue, they conveniently supply the characters with dirty talk, and — when convincing — they help me better understand why these two people have the chemistry they do.

Your sexual honesty

When writing sex, resist all temptation to render generally crowd-pleasing, “hot” scenes. Many scenes can become erotic if you’re able to access the emotional honesty inside of the characters, which is also the emotional honesty inside of you.

“Is the world ready to read at least 50,000 words of a they/them love interest?” McQuiston wondered aloud. “I have been so hungry for romance that is weird and not completely monogamous and messy and super horny and slutty and gender-fucky. I was like, ‘Okay, well, I will write it.’ If nothing else, I will read my own book.”

That’s Casey McQuiston talking about The Pairing. “I will read my own book” is good advice for any writing project, but I’m moved by the fact that they were hungry for this story — a story that may not be mainstream enough for the general public — but, fuck it.

Casey McQuiston

Because when you are clear on the type of sex you enjoy, it’s much easier to render it on the page, and the enthusiasm comes through. You don’t even have to start at sex itself; sometimes I like making bizarre little lists of random things that have turned me on lately, and those details make their way into my writing. Here’s one I wrote down yesterday:

“Chest hair after it’s been shaved and grown out about half an inch.”

I can’t tell you why I love chest hair stubble.

But, I can describe the way it feels underneath my fingers. A little soft, a little sharp.

I can tell you it makes me imagine the person touching their chest while shaving…careful not to graze the nipples.

I can tell you all sorts of things about this small, specific detail, and in so doing I might not arouse the whole world. But I’ll arouse myself.

And like Casey, my hunger will infuse my sex writing with honesty. That’s always what I’m looking for when I read sex stories — the ring of truth, which is usually a little strange, and very personal.

Sex writing can always be elevated, the question is: to where? Personally, I crave sex writing that connects the outsides to the insides. When I feel the pull of obsession — the ecstasy of a character getting exactly what they want — that’s so much more exciting than bodily descriptions. We’re all a swirling bundle of atoms, and when an author can reach inside and pluck out the genesis of a character’s attraction, or their insecurity, or their relief, that doesn’t just feel like responsible character development.

It feels like telling secrets.

It feels, actually, pretty sexy.

Tolly Moseley is creator of the Substack Submit Here: human-sized stories of sex and culture. She is a former mental health writer for The Atlantic, a producer and performer with Bedpost Confessions, and former head of editorial for the podcast Sex With Emily. You can submit your own sexual story anytime at her submission form.