cajole the one fellow who could stand me into coming back to my place, which meant he got to watch me and Vanessa neck, poorly. So this was nice. I had myself a trophy. She dressed well and flirted like a champ and tolerated my anxiety, which I suspect she confused with ambition.
The problem was those tits. I couldn’t get past them. They were so big and so hard, so pushy for worship. But touching them sort of freaked me out. This wasn’t any sort of political issue, merely an intuitive, tactile objection. It felt wrong to be groping at something inorganic. I’m sure we could trace this back to the fact that I was never breast-fed as a baby. But the truth is I’ve never been much for tits. In the end, they are secondary sex characteristics that have been elevated to fetish objects by our motherless consumer culture.
Vanessa didn’t see it this way. She wanted me to regard her breasts with the reverence they deserved. They must have cost her (or someone) plenty, because I could never find any scars on the underside of them; I spent hours looking.
There were other problems. Conversation, for instance. Vanessa fancied herself something of a small-town rebel. She had all these ideas about herself. She was going to become a major magazine writer, head up to New York City. I was mixed up in all this—the restless Yankee novelist who would serve as her getaway driver. But the more she recited these dreams, the more hollow they sounded. Plus she had a flat ass and couldn’t give head worth a damn.
And what of me? I was convincingly furious, but not in any compelling way. I sucked in bed, too.
We began to bicker.
I would assail her with my pathetic little list of enemies and plunk my elbows on the table and Vanessa would lecture me about manners, how they were in place to help people feel more comfortable. She had the whole Southern passive-aggressive thing down to a science. She had a favorite saying, too: Fake it till you make it. All I could think about was her hooters.
Within a month, we had hit the skids. We needed booze to bear one another, and started meeting up late, after a few drinks. The term “fuck buddies” might apply, except that we weren’t buddies. Our physical relations took on a cruel velocity. I called her once, toward the end, stoned out of my mind during a snowstorm. She was drunk and I was such a gentleman that I made her drive to my place. A little later, Vanessa climbed on top of me and pretended to enjoy my cock. She smirked and stage-whispered her dirtytalk. Then she took my hands and placed them on her breasts and my palms met that strange buttressed flesh and I thought of the photos of her as a lithe teen, spinning on her toes, how lovely she had been, how unadorned, and snowflakes floated down past my window and she saw the disappointment in my eyes as I gripped those sad saline mounds.
It would take a few more weeks for us to exhaust our shame, and a few more weeks for her to take up with a classmate of mine, which is about what I deserved. In my single surviving photo of Vanessa—taken on one of those chilly winter evenings when we were still enamored—she is dressed in black, grinning gamely from beneath the brim of a bowler hat. Her rack looks great.
HOW TO WRITE SEX SCENES: THE 12-STEP PROGRAM
E very single time I go to a party, or, at least, like, once every fifty parties, someone will approach me and say, “You sure do write about sex a lot, Steve. Any advice?” I usually tell them that I don’t write about sex, I write about desire and heartbreak and I can’t believe someone as intelligent-looking as him/her would reduce my art to lurid gymnastics. Then I ask for money.
This never works.
Thus, in the general interest of preventing more bad sex writing from entering the cultural jetstream and absolutely free of charge, I offer my 12-Step Program for Writing Incredibly Hot Sex Scenes:
Step 1
Never compare a woman’s nipples to:
a) Cherries
b)
The problem was those tits. I couldn’t get past them. They were so big and so hard, so pushy for worship. But touching them sort of freaked me out. This wasn’t any sort of political issue, merely an intuitive, tactile objection. It felt wrong to be groping at something inorganic. I’m sure we could trace this back to the fact that I was never breast-fed as a baby. But the truth is I’ve never been much for tits. In the end, they are secondary sex characteristics that have been elevated to fetish objects by our motherless consumer culture.
Vanessa didn’t see it this way. She wanted me to regard her breasts with the reverence they deserved. They must have cost her (or someone) plenty, because I could never find any scars on the underside of them; I spent hours looking.
There were other problems. Conversation, for instance. Vanessa fancied herself something of a small-town rebel. She had all these ideas about herself. She was going to become a major magazine writer, head up to New York City. I was mixed up in all this—the restless Yankee novelist who would serve as her getaway driver. But the more she recited these dreams, the more hollow they sounded. Plus she had a flat ass and couldn’t give head worth a damn.
And what of me? I was convincingly furious, but not in any compelling way. I sucked in bed, too.
We began to bicker.
I would assail her with my pathetic little list of enemies and plunk my elbows on the table and Vanessa would lecture me about manners, how they were in place to help people feel more comfortable. She had the whole Southern passive-aggressive thing down to a science. She had a favorite saying, too: Fake it till you make it. All I could think about was her hooters.
Within a month, we had hit the skids. We needed booze to bear one another, and started meeting up late, after a few drinks. The term “fuck buddies” might apply, except that we weren’t buddies. Our physical relations took on a cruel velocity. I called her once, toward the end, stoned out of my mind during a snowstorm. She was drunk and I was such a gentleman that I made her drive to my place. A little later, Vanessa climbed on top of me and pretended to enjoy my cock. She smirked and stage-whispered her dirtytalk. Then she took my hands and placed them on her breasts and my palms met that strange buttressed flesh and I thought of the photos of her as a lithe teen, spinning on her toes, how lovely she had been, how unadorned, and snowflakes floated down past my window and she saw the disappointment in my eyes as I gripped those sad saline mounds.
It would take a few more weeks for us to exhaust our shame, and a few more weeks for her to take up with a classmate of mine, which is about what I deserved. In my single surviving photo of Vanessa—taken on one of those chilly winter evenings when we were still enamored—she is dressed in black, grinning gamely from beneath the brim of a bowler hat. Her rack looks great.
HOW TO WRITE SEX SCENES: THE 12-STEP PROGRAM
E very single time I go to a party, or, at least, like, once every fifty parties, someone will approach me and say, “You sure do write about sex a lot, Steve. Any advice?” I usually tell them that I don’t write about sex, I write about desire and heartbreak and I can’t believe someone as intelligent-looking as him/her would reduce my art to lurid gymnastics. Then I ask for money.
This never works.
Thus, in the general interest of preventing more bad sex writing from entering the cultural jetstream and absolutely free of charge, I offer my 12-Step Program for Writing Incredibly Hot Sex Scenes:
Step 1
Never compare a woman’s nipples to:
a) Cherries
b)
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