A Note on Nakedness:
In my writing, bodies bend and fold; hands encircle hips, hold onto sheets; mouths make music or other arrhythmic sounds. Lovers, and those without love, lay and mesh. Limbs intertwine. We treat sex as sanctuary or merely sustenance. We undress for you in serif, black and white. All this to say: There is skin in these pages.
In the summer of 2023, I began to think about why writing sex matters. I felt some level of shame for the erotic writing I produced behind closed doors, but never bothered bringing to a workshop space. I was about to begin an MFA in Creative Writing program, and I had many lingering questions about my writing identity and my connection to the erotic. Deciding to share this work with peers, one specific question permeated: Why would I subject myself to this?
I could see it already: crimson creeping up my neck as my classmates read lines from the work aloud, as they critiqued descriptions of bare breasts and other body parts. I could have written other stories (truly, I tried), though time and time again, I returned to the erotic. Why?
I began to wonder, where did my fixation with writing sex originate? Had I fallen victim to the notion that sex sells, that for my work to be important it had to be provocative? Would my depictions of skin on skin on skin add something?
My questions outgrew me quickly, becoming lenses through which I looked outwards. Outside of my own writing, what role did the erotic play in dynamic storytelling? What were the ethics of depicting the erotic? Could sharing agentive sensuality counteract shame? We can only begin to graze the surface of these wonderings, but together, they tell a story of their own.
In my questioning, I came across a tweet (or whatever we’re calling them now that Twitter is “X,” rebranded by some baneful billionaire), sparking discussion on sex scenes in cinema. In on-screen storytelling, does sex serve a purpose? it asked. Or, are we striving only to make the theater an uncomfortable place for parents and their teenagers?
In the initial post, user @Viggie_Smalls writes, “Having sex completely changes the dynamics of character relationships, and yes seeing that sex informs… those dynamics.”
Another user, @MattZelinsky, replies, “There has never been a sex scene integral to the plot of any movie, it is enough to know what the characters are going to do without seeing that.”
What about other depictions of the body, I wondered? Are fight scenes necessary in action films, or is it enough to merely suggest that two characters (maybe more) are having a brawl? Are battle scenes necessary in war movies, or might we just see the aftermath? Blood and gore are often the making of a genre, so what about sex? Where do necessity and art overlap?
The replies ventured into a discussion on depicting sexual violence in film. It’s an important conversation, but not one we are here to take part in. Sexual violence is not erotic. In fact, for the sake of this discussion, let’s imagine a world where this violence does not exist.
Surely, you’ve heard it before: The notion of show, don’t tell. I remember my high school English teachers in small town Cedar Springs, Michigan, a primarily Christian and conservative population, reciting this overdone advice time and time again. When considering these questions, this writing rule came to mind, though imprinted on my brain for academic use.
Sex shows. I could tell you that my boyfriend at nineteen knew little about my body. Even I knew little of it then. Certainly, I could find the words to share the transactional nature of our sex. Or, I could show you the silence that often lingered between bare bodies. I could show you how he touched me like time was of the essence. How often, we fell into one another without fully removing our clothes.
I could tell you that the first woman I made love to made me feel anew. That under her hips, I felt like myself for the first time in years. Or, I could show you our moments of shared queer joy. I could show you the way she stood, purple strap-on erect with a shit-eating grin as we learned the ways two women love one another. If you listen, I could share the sound of our laughter echoing in her studio apartment. The cool sensation of lube, slick on skin.
I could tell you that my married, non-monogamous lovers taught me how sex should feel. That to share and be shared by them was the most natural intimacy ever felt. You may not understand, but I could tell you. Or, I could paint the afternoons and evenings we spent together in their king-sized bed, big enough for three bodies (maybe more). I could show you the way our skin stuck together; the way three figures formed triangles; the way four hands felt on flesh. I could show you the way my eyes watered, at peace between olive and ivory skin. How afterwords, we often shared mint-chocolate Milano cookies on their mattress, still undressed, before falling asleep as three. Which better depicts our dynamic?
If my high school English teachers knew I would use “show, don’t tell” to advocate for the erotic, I wonder what they would think.
When considering what it meant to write the erotic, I asked the aforementioned married lovers, now close friends, for their perspectives. The woman was the analytical type, always interested in new and complex questions. The man was a film buff with a degree and experience working in the film industry. Together, they were my perfect audience.
“Do you feel sex scenes are necessary in television/film? Are there movies or tv shows that come to mind where the sex feels particularly impactful, or where the sex shows us something important about our characters?” I asked over text.
The woman wrote back: “Personally, I feel sex scenes are often just indulgent, unless they reveal something meaningful to the audience. An example of a sex scene that does this is in the show Homeland, where a man returns from war and tries to be intimate with his wife, but it just doesn’t work. It really depends on the context and framing: Plot over arousal, characterization over objectification, consensual and respectful over voyeurism.”
Mostly, I agreed with her thoughts, but I wondered why we feel hesitant to write or produce sex scenes for the sake of arousal? In any case, the factors of perspective, objectification, voyeurism, and so on are important considerations. In film particularly, we cannot ignore the factors of actors’ consent and comfort, and the importance of ethical production practices. But, what’s so wrong with arousal?
In many ways, pleasure is our most natural expression. Fucking, quite literally, makes the world go round (well, the world might spin without us, but across species, ecosystems crumble under celibacy). For many years, we believed only humans and a few other species experienced pleasure with sex. While we know this not to be true now, I cannot help but reflect on the naive notion that we thought ourselves to be the only animals capable of orgasms, and still, created a culture of so much shame. So back to the question, what’s so wrong with arousal?
Pleasure has been given to us—is inherently ours—though forces have and are and will always try to take this away (from women and queer people especially). Physical pleasure can be a form of truth, though we may try to deceive clumsy lovers or cover up what truly pleases us.
While we are not the only animals capable of orgasms, we are the only animals able to transcribe the way we think and feel about fucking. Dolphins might whistle and click at one another, while spotted hyenas laugh at sensations of pleasure. But humans? We have words.
When I write the erotic, the goal is not to arouse an audience, but if the body of my work turns you on, who am I to interfere? In some ways, to write sex is to resist. Often, we have been told that we cannot love other queer bodies or that we should do so quietly. Our attraction to same-sex or non-binary lovers is either fetishized or forgotten. By writing sex scenes in which I have agency, in which I give and receive pleasure, I am crafting the erotic as a means of resistance. As a means of making meaning.
In response to my earlier question, the man wrote back: “For me, sex scenes aren’t really any different than action scenes. Action scenes don’t NEED to exist, but some people find them fun and will seek out movies that do them well. There are rules to action scenes that make them better. Ideally, they reveal something about how a character operates and views the world, while also exploring their dynamics with other characters under pressure.
“There are ways to film action scenes that can be like a dance, with interesting pacing and rhythms that elevate them to art. There’s nothing inherently wrong with a mindless action scene… but there are definitely ways to use them to explore deeper concepts, rather than just blowing things up to titillate an audience. All the same can be said for sex scenes.”
Note to reader: Do you see why I slept with them now?
I am better at questions than at answers, but there are two in particular we have yet to tackle. First: Could sharing agentive sensuality counteract shame? And if so, whose?
My sophomore year of high school, after a fight with my childhood best friend, she told her mother about my boyfriend and I’s PG-13 pastimes. As any good parent would, her mom called mine to tell all. When I woke up that morning, my Iphone 6 had been confiscated from my bedside table. My parents knew the password, and with her cup of coffee, my mother searched my text messages while I slept. In these messages, she found incriminating evidence. Even now, I write as though my adolescent expression of sexuality was a crime.
My father’s disappointment is forever etched in my mind. In the brown, cracked leather arm chairs of our living room, he and I sat side by side. Tears slid down his cheeks as my mother forced me to tell him what we’d done, pressing for every minute detail.
“Did he force you?” My father asked (though remember, that doesn’t happen here).
“No! I… I wanted to,” I said. My desire, perhaps the most embarrassing detail.
Sex in cinema, or the sharing of my own sensuality may not counteract your shame. It may not even begin to touch our deeply rooted, western culture of mortification. Slowly, however, it might begin to shift my mindset. And isn’t that enough?
Next time a lover lays their hands on me, I might feel more free. I might remember the way I did not keep quiet. With time, I might begin to replace the memories of uncertain hands with stories of those I begged to touch me. I might trace over the lines in my father’s forehead.
The body carries tension writers otherwise struggle to convey. Whether in fiction or nonfiction, on screen or on the page, the erotic can highlight the artful nature of intimacy; can show us important things about our characters—about ourselves. It may not always be necessary to bare all, but what is necessary, really? Sex is necessary, though it sustains and deteriorates our populations simultaneously. Don’t our reactions to the erotic show us something on their own?
My last, but never final question: Why was I subjecting myself to this? In Discipline and Punish, Michel Foucalt writes, “It has always been about the body.” He’s referring to the body as an instrument, though for retribution, rather than for pleasure: kings drawn and quartered, the spectacle of the scaffold. When considering this question, I thought back to Foucalt. I had learned about my body as an apparatus too, though for something else.
I am telling you now, which perhaps conflicts with my earlier points, but here I bare my skin: white and soft as the page. For the chance to ask these questions I will blush, bite my nails, be the spectacle. I will use this apparatus I’ve been given.
EROTIC CONTEST FINALIST, 2024
Kayleigh Boomgaard (she/her) is a poet and nonfiction writer from West Michigan. Currently, Kayleigh is an MFA in Creative Writing candidate at Northern Arizona University where she teaches Creative Nonfiction and serves as the Assistant Nonfiction Editor for Thin Air Magazine. This is her first publication.