Warning - Risqué content. If you're offended by sexual content please skip to another blog post.
Okay, if you still reading be prepared to chuckle - at least that's what I did when I read this post "On the subject of penises ..."
As a writer, some scenes are just harder (oo er) too write than others. Here one authors talks about his trouble getting a love scene on the page, in a way that doesn't throw the reader out the the story by having them laugh at an inappropriate moment. The source of his difficulty - describing an erect penis.
Here are some snippets that reveal his dilemma ...
attempting to describe an erect penis is one.
"I am writing a sex scene and my hero is now crossing the room while
fully erect. So, basically, his stiff dick is bobbing like a demented
conductors baton as he crosses the room ... however, one cannot simply
write, 'He crossed the room, his stiff dick bobbing like ... ' and so
forth. Well, one could if one was writing that sort of scene (and one
was half plastered).
"To write anything referring to his 'turgid manhood' is also somewhat
tacky. Hell, just the term 'manhood' to describe the penis strikes me
as idiotic. A dick is no more one's 'manhood' than a hymen is one's
'maidenhood.' 'He strutted across the bedroom, his hard manhood
pointing the way' sounds somewhat he owns a badly named seeing-eye dog.
'Sit, Hard Manhood ... good boy.'
"Just describing the state of erection is tough. It is a simple matter
of erectile flesh and hydraulics, but damnably difficult to put into
terms romantic. 'His penis, reacting to his viewing her naked flesh,
achieved satisfactory erection, proving good vascular response and
socio/psychological adjustment." Oh, yeah ... baby, baby.
"And then there is the matter of size, shape, color and texture. Well,
he's the hero ... I suppose it should be heroic, but somewhat shy of
practical joke size. Shape, now, there's another difficulty ... as well
as color and texture. Hell, let's face it ... a dick is a fairly funny
looking, if not downright ugly, piece of equipment. Veins, bumps,
ridges and all that; a color that never matches the sheets, much less
the surrounding flesh (or any flesh, for that matter); an overall look
of a plum precariously balanced on a badly whittled rod. Let's not even
mention it and simply stick to the concept of a literary description of
my hero approaching the heroine.
"Okay, he's naked and fully aroused ... does he stride? Stalk? Strut?
Strikes me as a situation that calls for something more than 'walk,' but
something less than 'bound.' I could have the silly sod moonwalk across
the floor, but the resulting mental image ... damn, too late! Oh, well
.. another round of therapy. And what does the erect penis actually do
while he crosses the floor? Does it bounce against his belly, producing
it's own applause? Does it wave about in some sort of vague response to
his stride? Would it be feasible if I simply had him hang a towel from
the damn thing and skip the entire description?
"And what about the heroine? She is languidly reclining on the bed ...
and doing her level best to not bust a gut laughing, I suspect. Should
she stare? Gasp? Giggle? Ogle? Chant 'boingy, boingy, boingy' as he
approaches or whistle the 'Elephant Walk' in time to the swaying? This
is suppose to be a moment of strong passion and deep emotions ... but a
bouncing, throbbing, column of manhood slowly moonwalking forward ...
damn, gotta stop that image ... strutting towards her cannot be what
every woman dreams of in her fevered imagination. I want this scene to
be equally stirring to both men and women, but fear that this is
Some of the comments are pretty good too, including this one from the poster himself...
"Okay, this is the first time -- the very first time -- that I have found
my quirky sense of humor turned against me. Last night, I shut my computer
down, put the birds to bed, moved all the various cat people into the back
of the house (so the birds could actually sleep) and took a warm shower.
Dian, as usual, had already showered and I noticed she had used a little
Maja (an incredible perfume, I really recommend it to anyone who can find
it). Hot diggity, I knew what that meant and so did Squeeker. By the time
I left the bathroom, Squeeker was happily leading the way like a oddly
placed periscope on the sub of my body. I opened the bedroom door and Dian
was simply laying back on the bed, smiling. I grinned back and started
across the room.
"And she started chanting 'Boingy, boingy, boingy' and broke up laughing."
Sailor Jim drains his drink and requests a second. "Now, I have as good a
sense of humor as the next guy, even if the next guy happens to be Groucho
Marx, himself, but ... well, let's just say that it was a deflating moment
and leave the curtain drawn on the rest of the evening."
(He takes a deep swallow of his second drink and mumbles, "Nor did it help
matters when she commented, through her tears of laughter, that she finally
understood the phrase 'hoisted on his own petard!' ")
I struggle writing the more intimate moments myself, but I don't think I'm ever going to be able to start without thinking about this post :)
(full post in link at top).