This is the way I write sexy: I sit at my computer. I realize, horrified, that my characters are about to get naked, and I cover my eyes. Then I look around to see if anyone saw me. Next, I type, "INSERT S.S. HERE." I like to use code, you see, because no one will EVER figure out that S.S. stands for sex scene (they will probably think Social Security, right? Right?), and thus, I will be spared from the embarrassment.
I write the rest of the book. As I do, I think about that scene (or two or four).
Then I have three glasses of wine, put something sexy on the iPod, hold my arms out without looking, and write the scene. (I'm exaggerating. Obviously. But honestly? Not by much.)
You'd think, wouldn't you, that I'm not a good sex writer? That's what I'd think, too. But I hear, over and over, that people enjoy my sex scenes. A lot. Ahem. I get grateful email from women about it, and I got one grateful email from a guy who had profited from his wife's reading.
In fact, after reading my last (straight) romance, my wife asked me, while driving through San Francisco, "Is there something... anything... you want to talk to me about?"
"You know, those sex scenes were really hot."
"No, really hot. Like, um. Is there... anything... you're missing?"
I nearly laughed myself out of the car. Then I reassured her. Then I patted myself on the back. Dude, you would, too. It was my second favorite compliment so far.
My first favorite? A reader came up to say hello at a yarn convention back east. We chatted, and I was thrilled she liked the book.
Then she said, "You know, I lost the book for a while."
"Found it under my thirteen year old son's mattress."
She said she'd told him to give it back when he was done and he said, "I'll make my own bed from now on, Mom."
And you know what I love the most about this story? Someday, that thirteen year old will be a man. And he'll be in a bar, or on the subway, and he'll see a pretty knitter and think to himself, "DAMN, she's SMOKIN'," and he'll never know why he can't resist a knitter's charms.