“He arrived at the shower block, Body Space 8. Michel Houellebecq, The Elementary Particles (For those of you who are old enough, that’s a clever play on the famous 1972 book, The Joy of Sex). I also have to make a pitch for a nonfiction work that features some of the sex scenes in books below: The Joy of Writing Sex. As Steve Almond has recommended, if you want more insight into how to write sex, there’s no better text than the Song of Solomon. Writers, read these sex scenes in books and learn! Don’t fall into the trap of writing terrible sex scenes and earn yourself a nomination for the Bad Sex in Fiction award. In short, it’s more like the complexity of real life, which sometimes arouses you and sometimes depresses you. It’s always vagina-blowing, cock-swelling fantastic.īut in the excerpts below, sometimes the sex scenes don’t go as planned, or one of the partners wants something he is not getting. These are some damn fine love scenes in books.īefore we get there, a quick quiz: What is the difference between erotica and sex in literary novels? Writing that offers a number of pleasures to be had - psychological, word-play, beautiful descriptions. Writing that doesn’t make you cringe from bad prose. Just read the first couple of excerpts below and you’ll find steamy, romantic, arousing sex writing. But don’t run away! They’re really good sex and really good writing, and yes, those things can be combined. The sex scenes below are literary fiction. Lawrence, anyone?) that everyone knows and has already read. Offer sex passages from the classics (D.H.Feature novels with busty men or bodice-rippers on the cover.Give such a short love scene that you’re begging for more.And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled 50 Incredibly Written Sex Scenes in Books ‹ Back to blogĪrticles about sex scenes in books usually fail in one of 3 ways. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. But her loose fair hair was wet there was a wreath of roses on her head. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere-at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself-were flowers. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday-Trinity day. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window.
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