A Touchy Subject: Integrating Eroticism In Your Writing

I am afraid of what others will think of me, of being judged, or of disappointing people who thought I was a certain kind of person, and now finding out that I have these other, possibly surprising thoughts, feelings, and experiences that simply don’t fit into their image of me. I’m also afraid of inadvertently misrepresenting myself as appearing overly interested in or focused on sex.

The truth is, I am very shy about discussing sex, and would find it difficult to actually say many of the things that I have no problem writing about. Writing gives me a place to explore parts of myself that I don’t feel comfortable sharing in my day-to-day interactions. And writing about sex doesn’t make it all of who I am all the time. It simply clears the way for it to be a part of who I am, just like it is a part of who everyone is. I continue to write about sex, love and relationships because this is what moves me; these are often the experiences in my life that are the most charged and that I am the most awake to; when I feel the most free or confused or nervous or alive—whatever the emotion may be, there is always intensity there.

In my everyday life, I censor myself, worry, and sometimes find myself, despite my best efforts, trying to adjust to be what I think others want of me—to be more likeable, to make myself ever more acceptable in this world. So I try really hard not to do this in my writing, and in not doing so, to hopefully create a space where others feel that they have permission to do the same.

If you want to begin or continue to embrace this part of yourself – your erotic and sexual nature – in your writing, how and where do you start? While some women enjoy writing full-out-brazen-in-your-face eroticism, this may not be right for everyone. Some prefer quieter, more subtle variations on this theme. In her book Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg suggests simply starting where you are. In the chapter “A Big Topic: Eroticism” she writes:

 “Always begin with yourself and let that carry you. Eroticism is a big word. If you are nervous, look around the room. Begin with something small and concrete—your tea cup in its saucer, the thin slice of an apple, an Oreo cookie crumb on your red lips. Sometimes you have to begin far away from the answer and then down-spiral back to it. Writing is the act of discovery. You want to discover your relationship with a topic, not the dictionary definition.” (Goldberg, p. 105)

Writing about eroticism needn’t be filled with panting and pornography; it can be simple and sweet, and just as powerful. I suggest beginning with that feeling right before your first kiss with someone new, or remembering back to the first kiss with your current someone. It is so specific and everyone knows this feeling well; it is filled with hope and possibility, and desire, but at the same time, innocence. One of my favorite pieces from The Erotica Project addresses that exact moment:

“I pulled the belt loops of his painter’s pants toward me, and we hovered our mouths over each other’s for seconds, minutes—then hours—as we wanted to make the moment before the first kiss last all night long. He’d asked me to come over to play Scrabble with him. We made big words, flirted, and drank tall boys on his bed in the West Village.” (Cressida Wilson, p. 23)

Integrating sexuality and eroticism in your writing can be incredibly scary, and it can feel vulnerable and even dangerous to tap into and unleash that part of yourself, especially when that part has been suppressed for a long time. But the payoff is that it’s a wonderful way to dive into and feel your own power, vitality, freedom and wholeness; to release shame and feel right about yourself, your entire self.