On the Writings of the Filthy, Filthy Smuts (Patreon)

This month's sneak-peek is the promised piece on all the sexytimes stuff I write! And, um...wow, this turned out to be tougher than I expected. Even now I want to fuss with it and revise it more. But that's how these things go. If you wait for perfection, you'll never be done.

This month's story drop is coming along but will likely be a little late. I'll be honest: this week, this latest insane month, and recent weather have kicked my ass. But it's in progress and I don't think it'll be too long of a wait!

Thank you again as always for your support. Wow, did it mean a lot this month. Seriously.

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Find a sheet of paper. Regular notebook sized paper. Maybe a sheet from your printer, your power bill, your D&D character sheet, whatever. Hold it up.

This is what eleven inches looks like in real life.

Yes, it is possible for guys to be so endowed. It happens! If you turn that sheet of paper on its side you still have eight and a half inches and that is even more possible. And yet, is this what the writer wants us to imagine? Because hear me out here: we have lots of words to allude to size and endowment that allow readers to imagine what they think is cool without derailing them into questions of logistics and safety and physics. Wildly enough, it’s possible to describe women without listing their measurements, too!

Hi, I’m Elliot, and I have written a lot of smut. Or erotica. Or porn. My chosen label is smut because I try not to take myself too seriously. If you’ve ever had any behind-the-scenes questions about what or how I write, specifically for the sexy stuffs, here we are. I’m not pretending to be an expert, but I do have my goals, principles, and things I’ve learned along the way. If anyone finds this helpful with their own writing that’s awesome, but I also hope it’s taken loosely rather than read as rules. I’ve said a lot that most writing advice is bad advice. Most of the time it’s presented as rules or standards or expectations when the truth is mileage varies.

I’ve probably stopped and started this piece more than any other nonfic I’ve ever written. It’s difficult to organize my thoughts on this. It’s also easy to fall into issues that turn out to be less about the topic of sex-writing and more about society. SO MUCH of the challenges and hurdles in writing erotica/smut/sex isn’t about the writing, but rather about patriarchy and sexism, slut-shaming, abuse, male gaze, ugly racist and gender and ableist tropes, and other societal trash. Rather than delve into those myself, I’ll ask anyone who is writing sexy stuffs to care and to read and think about those things. Specifically, read about them from the people marginalized and targeted by those issues. They matter here. A lot.

I sourced supporters earlier for some questions. Some of those questions are answered in the main sections here, but I’ve done a little direct answering at the end, too.

Everything I’m talking about here is in the context of consent. I’m here for the happy and consenting sort of sex; non-consensual stuff is a whole different and uglier thing and I’m not into writing that.

Oddly enough, consent is the easiest and sexiest and also in one way the hardest aspect for me. I can make consent clear by dialogue and action and narration, and in general that’s one of my biggest components. My characters talk out their consent all the time. I love those conversations.

What always leaves me a little concerned is the notion that some reader somewhere will read a vastly different tone in those moments: pressure, manipulation, etc. You can’t control how each reader will read the subtext. It’s a thing, and it’s potentially a bigger thing in a series like mine where some characters are magically sexy. I don’t mean for that “magical attraction” to ever override consent and I try to make that clear over and over… and yet I’m always worried it isn’t clear enough.

That said, I also write all that consent stuff because I find it sexy. I think a little reluctance or nerves or hesitation is also sexy when the desire and consent are both still there. Ultimately, the hottest thing for me is when the more vulnerable character in the scene decides: oh yeah, this is happening. I want this.

What we find sexy as fantasy isn’t necessarily what we want in reality, and that’s okay. 

After reading Natural Consequences, Mom asked, “So are these your fantasies?” and I’m like “NO, NO OF COURSE NOT. OBVIOUSLY. GOSH, MOM. I write a lot of face punching and I definitely don’t want to get punched in the face, do I?”

Good Intentions and my other smutty stuff plays with some sex fantasy ideas I think are fun as fantasies, but I’m not looking for all that in reality. Like Alex, I’ve been in a polyamorous relationship. You may be shocked to hear it was nothing like his relationships… except for the whole “constantly negotiating and talking about being in a poly relationship,” because yeah, that part tracks.

Several things going on in the series really aren’t my real-life kinks. I’m not into sexy power dynamics, but I think they make for some cool sexy fantasies. I’m not rampantly promiscuous but I think that’s a fun fantasy, too…as long as nobody’s a dirtbag. (I have some real big “awful people shouldn’t get laid” feelings.) Threesomes sound cool until I start worrying about everyone’s feelings and logistics and oh god why am I like this? It’s okay for your fantasy interests and your real wants to be different.

A little behind the scenes note on my books: the “bond” with Alex and Lorelei was primarily so Lorelei didn’t just ghost Alex at the start. That was my main goal. But then I figured, hey this is Literotica and there’s a kink I can play with, maybe I should give it a shot? It’s one of the things I’d do differently if I wrote the story all over again. I like where their relationship went much more than where it started.

Fiction doesn’t have to match reality. Sometimes that’s the point. Almost all the smutty fun I ever write involves magic, fantasy, sci-fi, or other unrealistic elements. I like having that extra layer of suspension of disbelief. “Real” sex is often awkward, embarrassing, stops and starts, there’s a good chance somebody’s arm goes to sleep and oh god please never let me have another muscle cramp in my foot ever again.

Fiction generally waves that all away. Magical fiction can do that even more. I’m not saying that as a writing tip, but it is something that affects how and what I decide to write.

Lorelei isn’t meant to be realistic. Rachel isn’t meant to be realistic, either.

Alex is meant to be a good and considerate dude with realistic reactions to the unrealism of his relationships.

Mileage always varies. We all know this, but we often don’t really believe it. As a writer, I’ve seen this play out strongly in two areas: sex, and matters of military etiquette.

If I say some units are all, “Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir,” every day and others are like, “What’s up, Bob?” to every sergeant and there’s a spectrum in between, most of us will nod and say that’s human nature, right? Except when we see that difference in action, some folks will react with No, That’s Not How Things Are Done and deviating from that is Wrong. You get guys saying things like, “No officer would ever casually use a subordinate’s first name,” when I saw it all the time.

Sex and writing about sex are very much the same, especially because it’s deeply personal. We know what we like, and when we see the opposite of that it can be difficult to wrap our heads around that being arousing to others. I’m not sure it’s a problem that needs a solution, but it is a thing to be aware of. BUT! Here’s the good news: Those things you think are sexy are probably sexy to someone else, too! Maybe several someones! Even people of different genders from yours!

I wish I’d had more exposure to the concept of “male gaze” before I wrote Good Intentions, because once I chewed on that concept I saw several things I wished I had done differently. I hadn’t set out to write for a predominantly male audience. In truth, I hadn’t really considered those splits, and that lens, and I have regrets… and yet it’s not like my readers are all men and no women. Far from it, thankfully. Everyone’s got their tastes.

We also need to remember that not everyone’s bodies work the same. At the risk of Too Much Info, I’ve been with a woman who need lots of foreplay before sex—not just prefer, but like the body and brain need it or things won’t go well—and I’ve been with someone whose preference for foreplay ran like two minutes at most. These were both real people, but a lot of folks will look at one or another of those examples and have a gut reaction of, “Hahaha, no way” because that’s not their experience or how their bodies work. Men have similar differences, too. There’s no right or wrong here, but in dealing with fiction we want to make characters believable. An unfortunate aspect of erotica is how some readers will look at a scene and assume the writer either believes this is how sex works or how they want it to work, ignoring that the characters are individuals and we’re all a little different.

You’ve got to be ready to take some lumps in this genre. Some are fair. Some aren’t.

When and why do I write a full and explicit sex scene? There’s a dual answer here.

The first and obvious one is: because I’m writing for an audience who likes sex scenes and I like writing them. It’s hard to think of a situation where the sex scene is a requirement. Fiction is entertainment. If the sex scene entertains, go for it.

But as long the sex scene is here, I try to do something with it besides the act. Sex can tell us a lot about characters and their relationships. Is one more trusting than the other? What are they learning about each other, or about themselves and their dynamic? Are they different in bed than they are otherwise, and do they recognize that?

I try to make sure each sex scene does something a little new, or maybe show progression in the relationship. I also use them to set up (or pay off) story beats, or maybe get a character out of a room or otherwise busy for a scene. But let’s face it: I also write out the sex because those scenes are for readers who dig sex scenes. I like ‘em, too. I think they’re fun and compelling and they have the potential to put the reader (or me, the writer) in a happy emotional space.

And for all the rampant banging and cuddles that would otherwise slow down the pace of a novel… well, that’s one reason why I have this Patreon account.

Okay, but like… what do you do with a sex scene? How do you know how much to show? How do you choreograph it?

This is where I get silly but I’m serious, too: Have you ever watched pro wrestling?

Pro wrestling is scripted. Don’t call it “fake,” because the athleticism isn’t faked and a lot of the performance is improvised. It’s real skill. But it’s also a show, and a good match tells a story. Much of it is set up before the match, creating context. After that, they carry the story with physical action.

The wrestlers generally can’t be on a mic while wrestling, so there’s not much dialogue. They tell the story through their actions and the fight. It’s the story of competing through an injured leg, or the distraction outside the ring, or the chair or ladder or whatever weapon someone brought into the match. Good fight scenes in movies are often the same way: how often does a Jackie Chan fight scene suddenly become all about a hat, or a trash can, or a chair?

Sex scenes are much the same, although hopefully everyone likes each other and they want to share a good time. The choreography and the who-touches-what-how-and-when might show who is more experienced, or who is more comfortable with things, or how their relationship grows. (It can go in unpleasant directions, too, but I’m not into that.) Maybe somebody learns something about themselves. Maybe we see a completely different dynamic between players… or maybe it’s the same dynamic, but naked, and that makes it awesome.

As for what actually goes onto the page? Some of that is general writing technique. I’m a fan of over-writing and then editing and cutting down over three or four passes. I figure out a beginning and middle and ending. I’m more of a “pantser” than a “planner,” as in writing by the seat of my pants, so I’m happy to be surprised with what happens in a scene.

At a convention panel on sexy writing a few years back, a writer I can’t remember suggested the best POV for a sex scene is generally the partner who is most vulnerable or has the most to lose if things don’t work out. Sometimes that would require a jarring POV shift, so I skip it, but as a general principle I think that’s great advice. I also think it’s fun when that seemingly less-vulnerable character we think is in the driver’s seat turns out to be more vulnerable than they seem.

I think a good sex scene contains at least as much emotional description as physical. Probably more. For me, the headspace is way more interesting and compelling than the choreography, but if it’s done right the two blend and interact. Sex is emotional. A reader should be immersed in that. Turns out it’s another thing good sex scenes and fight scenes have in common.

Another bit of advice I picked up at a panel—one I was on, even—is to resist the notion that every sex scene has to involve penetration and that it has to go all the way to climax. Neither of these are true, and in fact the former leans into some of that heteronormativity and patriarchy stuff I mentioned earlier. There are lots of different ways people have sex. I probably show both more often than not, but it’s okay to go in different directions.

The English language sucks at sex. God, I hate the word “penis.” It sounds patronizing and kinda cringe-inducing on a phonetic level. Peeeenis. Ew. Not an arousing sound. “Vagina” isn’t much better. They’re both technical and kinda sterile.

Most other options are either flowery and therefore come off like nails on chalkboard, or they’re vulgar. Some of the vulgar is fine, but mileage varies. Most words for female sex organs are diminutive and insulting. Funny how that happens. Pretty sure there are words for that sort of phenomenon.

We all have words that excite us or make us happy, and of course that still comes down to the delivery. If I just randomly write “cock” it doesn’t have the same impact as a whole scene where it comes out of someone’s pants for a good time to be had by all. But that’s what a written sex scene is: a bunch of words strung together, hopefully in ways we want to see them.

So which ones do we use? Personal preference. That’s all I can say. I give it real thought, like with any other scene. Part of writing is pondering word choices. I feel like “pussy” is cringe-inducing, while to me “cunt” at least sounds a little better, but wow do those two words have different weight in our society and as a result I don’t use either very much. “Dick” and “cock” to me are almost interchangeable, but maybe one is better for shouting? Even if it’s only shouted passionately inside a fictional person’s brain?

A suggestion I once heard is to avoid using vulgar labels until the scene is good and hot and heavy, and then let them rip because the characters and hopefully the reader are in a headspace for it. I like that idea.

After a lot of this sort of writing, I have found it’s often easier to talk around the anatomy and let the verbs do the work. You can imply whatever is being licked or grabbed or penetrated and let context and the reader’s imagination fill in the rest. I like that technique a lot.

What I don’t recommend is pulling out the thesaurus and trying to get flowery with stand-in descriptors. Flower metaphors and purple prose take me right out. Crass and silly metaphors are every bit as dicey, too.

Bottom line: for my money, I say avoid using the cringier anatomical words, talk around it and let the verbs do the work for you, and then go in with the dirty talk.

On to some questions! I’m paraphrasing and editing a few of these. Hope that’s okay.

What tools/resources do you use? Where do you do your research?

I don’t have particular tools or sources other than Googling up topics. I’m generally curious about sex stuff and if something interesting crosses my path, I’ll probably read it. I listen to people when they talk openly about sex, even if it’s on vectors I don’t practice or an orientation that isn’t mine. And yeah, I read more than a little smut. Some of it’s good, some of it’s bad. At this point being a writer means I kinda tear apart and critique every bit of fiction I read on a craft level even if I don’t mean to. But I don’t have a bibliography to offer, unfortunately. Maybe I should!

As I noted above, if a convention has a panel on smutty writing, I’m almost certainly gonna go. I’m lucky enough to be a panelist sometimes myself. Just talking this stuff out with other writers can make a huge difference. The annual panel at Norwescon usually leaves me sore from laughing by the time it’s over.

I took a 400-level course in human sexuality in college, if that’s any kind of answer? My mid-term paper was on autoerotic asphyxiation. 

How do you learn about sex between lesbians? Do you research or watch videos for graphic information? More like how do you do for writing sex scenes in general? Do you study human anatomy? Sexology or psychology?

I wouldn’t say “study,” no. Some of it comes down to just considering what feels good to people and going with that. I will admit that when I was in my very early 20s I totally did watch a couple of porny instructional videos. They were all driven by women who had studied these things and, um… well, personal experience says there’s a huge difference between someone who at least makes an effort to learn what works and listens to their partners compared to a dude who just assumes he’s good at sex because obviously God made him a stud.

I’m lucky to have a good number of queer friends, including a number who regularly beta-read for me. They don’t read everything and I don’t run everything by them, but early on if I had done badly on the women-with-women sex, I had friends who would’ve called me on it.

Porn can be good inspiration, because porn is a fantasy and it’s fiction and we know it’s not supposed to be real. (Um, I hope we all know that.) Hell, pornstars will generally be up front about how the sex they have on camera isn’t at all reflective of their sex lives off-camera. A book can be the same way; it’s okay if things are crazy and athletic and magical because it’s fiction.

Realism isn’t necessarily your bar… but it should be remembered so you don’t shoot all the way beyond suspension of disbelief.

How do you approach writing something that's designed to leave the audience in a fog of lust without getting lost in that fog yourself as you're writing it? I find it hard to think and write clearly when I'm hot and bothered.

When you’re writing, it’s GOOD if you wind up feeling the emotions you want your readers to feel. I’ve made myself laugh and cry and all the rest. That’s a sign that you’re channeling emotions. Yes, it’s a bummer when you think something is funny or moving and nobody else feels it. But if you’re not feeling it at all as a writer, your readers definitely won’t.

So how do I not get lost in the fog, as it were?

Who says I don’t?

You don’t have to get it all done in one session. You aren’t doing it all wrong if you write too much or shoot off on tangents, either. That’s what editing and revisions are for. There have definitely been some scenes where I’m like, “Too much? Yeah. Too much.” That’s part of the process.

How do you integrate the sex scenes so seamlessly into the overall narrative, and is it something you do intentionally or more the result of your overall writing style?

I think with Good Intentions and the other erotica I’ve written, the sex IS the plot, or at least a big part of it. The sex fits because it’s a huge theme in what’s going on. It’s the difference between a story with a big romantic plot/subplot versus an ‘80s action flick where there’s a random topless scene just because the (male) director was like, “Why not, we’re getting an R-rating anyway.”

This is to say, yes, it’s intentional, but the question of whether I’ve really pulled it off seamlessly is up to the reader. Glad to know I’ve succeeded for some.

How do you decide when to make a love scene explicit vs. when to cut away? Also, how do you think about the narrative role of an explicit love scene? Is it typically a beat in the act structure or hero's journey or whatever? 

This kinda gets to the question of whether I have something ELSE to do with the scene besides the choreography and trying to make it hot. In a short story or something meant as erotica for its own sake, then the sex is what we all came for. But in a novel you still have to consider pacing and plot and all the rest.

In a novel, if the sex feels revelatory or plot-related, I’ll stick with it. If not, I fade to black. Good Intentions has sex as a major theme, so I show the sex. Poor Man’s Fight isn’t the same sort of book. I think it’d be fine if I had a sex scene there, but I feel like that’s not the main drive of the story so I tend to fade to black and/or skip to the pillow talk.

How do you choose who’s hooking up with whom in a specific story? Do you see what’s convenient to the plot or weave the plot around smut you have in mind?

Good Intentions is the sort of story where the smut IS the plot, or at least a good chunk of it. I feel like they go hand in hand. At this point, readers expect to see certain relationships in each book. It’s less a question of who and more a question of when it fits into the timeline and the plot. These people bang a lot. We don’t need to see every tryst, just the ones that matter to the current novel.

I also feel like it’s okay to cast different characters in a different light. From the start, Drew had no problem finding his own fun, but I also felt like maybe he was less ridiculous than Alex and so it was okay to leave his hook-ups off the page. Little less slapstick and a little more dignity. I really hope that was the right call and that I didn’t disappoint anyone. 

Is your writing on Literotica still available?

My author handle on Literotica is bashfullyshameless and most stuff is still there. I’d make the caveat that I’m not super proud of most of those stories. It’s not so much the sex that bothers me as the story elements that I later realized were harmful tropes.

“Morgan’s Genie” was meant to be my gender-flipped take on the “genie stories” as a staple of Lit’s SFF category… so I went right to it, doing ZERO research on the topic. The result is a total whitewash and appropriation of the djinn as a source concept. I feel bad about that. I don’t know that I want to delete it, but I do want to recognize it for the problematic stuff it is, and I’m never gonna try to sell it.

The other series have their own issues, too, and I don’t expect I’ll pick them up again. If you dig them, cool, but I’m saying up front not to expect an ending for them.