Writing Sex That Means Something
Desire as Revelation
There’s a quiet ache that lives in all of us—some call it longing, some call it shame. I write toward that ache. When I’m writing sex that means something, I’m not chasing choreography. Not really. Where the hand goes, who’s on top, which hole is filled—those things matter, yes. But only as echoes of something deeper.
I care more about what it feels like. What it unearths. What it changes in the person being touched.
Sex, for me, is a mirror. It reflects every hesitation, every hunger, every lie we’ve told ourselves about what we should want.
Which is why I don’t write “hot scenes.”
I write turning points.
Sex should tilt the world a little.
It should ruin something—or reveal something worth ruining.
The Breath That Breaks You
Take Elias, for example.
In His, Theirs, Enough, there’s a moment—barely described, really—where Elias is on his knees, forehead to the floor. His skin is marked by another man’s grip. There’s no elaborate litany of thrusts or moans. Just one breath. Sharp with salt and sweat and surrender.
He doesn’t cry out. He doesn’t beg.
He just yields.
And that’s the climax—not of the body, but of the psyche.
Because in that moment, Elias finally stops apologising for being who he is.
That’s what I mean when I say I’m writing sex that means something. Not for the pulse-pounding high, but for the quiet collapse. The revelation. The holy fucking ruin.
Inside the Ache: How I Write It
First, I get close.
Too close.
I write from inside the body, yes—but also the mind inside the body. What does the character notice? What do they try not to? Whose gaze are they performing for? And what would it mean to stop?
Then, I interrupt the rhythm. Slow it down. Or speed it up until it’s ragged. Let a hand hesitate. Let a thought intrude—
What am I doing?
Please don’t stop.
The best sex scenes aren’t seamless. They’re ruptured. Uneven. Human.
Like the people in them.
Sex That Leaves a Mark
Finally, I ask: What changes after this?
Because if nothing does, why write it?
In my stories, sex doesn’t resolve tension—it deepens it. It stains the sheets with unspoken things. It leaves bruises that bloom like secrets. Regret. Hope. Need.
Here’s the truth:
I don’t write sex to titillate.
I write it to expose.
Not just bodies—but truths.
Desires we didn’t dare name.
Shames we thought we’d buried.
Futures that shimmer on the edge of touch.
Writing sex that means something isn’t about resolution.
It’s about reverberation.
In the throat. In the dreams.
In the way a character can’t quite meet someone’s eyes the next morning.
If you read one of my scenes and feel a little ruined afterward—
then I’ve done what I came to do.
🔥 Quote from His, Theirs, Enough Draft (Elias, Book 1)
“He didn’t move when the pressure left his spine. He just stayed where he was—forehead to floor, salt in his mouth, skin remembering. Not a punishment. Not a reward. Just a knowing. That he could be held like this and still be whole.”
