On figuring out physical logistics (by writing porn)

This is the eighth in a series relating to how writing sex in fiction is beneficial to you as a writer. The previous post can be found here.

Something I hear a lot from writers — well, something I observe writers saying a lot — is that they have a lot of trouble with fight scenes. I’ve got good news for them! Writing porn can help develop those skills too.

The thing about fight scenes is that there’s a lot of moving parts, and they involve people moving in ways or using tools the average writer might not be personally familiar with. Then there’s the setting consideration, the weather, the location — it’s a lot to keep track of at once when you’re not used to it. When you’re thinking with images in your head, it can be hard to forget that what you’re describing is the heaviness of a physical body in a solid location, and all that entails.

The physical logistics of sex is similar to a fight scene, but like I’ve mentioned in other posts it’s essentially a pared-down form. You can start with the most basic formula (bed, man, woman, missionary position, ie man on top of woman face to face) and expand slowly as you come to grips with what, exactly, any given position entails, and what kinds of efforts might be needed for it. (Yes, this means researching sex positions eventually.)

The basic ‘missionary’ is a stereotype, and you might think it doesn’t require that much thought, but every person is different and that means logistics which seem fine in theory might be a problem in practice. Using the aforementioned formula, a woman with asthma might have discomfort breathing if she’s flat on her back while having sex. And where does she like to put her legs — around her partner’s waist, or curled up next to her hips? Is the latter because she likes being parted and stretched, or because she finds it uncomfortable to be penetrated with her legs down?

And so forth. That isn’t even delving into characters who might have more severe physical conditions, whether temporary, chronic or permanent, and which may require substantially more research from people in relevant situations. The point is that starting from a position of stereotype makes it easy to think about the small nuances, the reasons why your character might prefer something one way instead of another, and expand from there.

The good thing about that basic formula — one on top of the other, face to face — means that any writer lacking partner, sexual experience or sexual desire can easily go and flop on their bed and act it out. No one needs a partner for that kind of research: just a willingness to feel a little silly while they test out where their limbs might go under what circumstances, and how it feels to be in any given position. It’s a little more difficult to do that with a fight scene between a gunslinger and a martial artist.

The main thing to remember is that bodies are physical things. They are, unfortunately, subject to gravity as well as physiology. If you’re not sure whether a body bends the way you want it to, get up and try it out. You’ll find soon enough whether it’s possible at your level of fitness and physiological capability, and can therefore judge whether or not it would be possible at a different fitness or condition.

Now consider the bedroom. Starting with the bed. How many pillows? Headboard or none? Big bed or small? Nightstand? Drawer? Condoms and lube available? Breakables on top that are going to go down if someone doesn’t look where they’re reaching? If they’re going to get wild, are elbows going to be smashed? Anything convenient to tie anyone to? Is it light or is it dark? A familiar place, or is someone liable to stub their toe if they need to get up? Are there windows? Is a voyeur kink in play? How thin or thick are the walls?

Setting is a vital part of physical logistics because people don’t move around in a vacuum: they move around in a set and limited space. And that limited space is bounded by the limited space outside the room, too: depending on the situation and how much development you want to give the sex, you can well assume your characters might be noticed outside of their immediate visual area.

The good part about this, also, is that you can still use your bedroom as a medium. If you were going to have sex in there, what would be in the way? What would you want to be readily available? If your characters were going to have sex in there, what would they find in the way, or want to be readily available? Use the spaces you have to get a grasp of how the spaces you’re imagining might work.

And then extend that. Sex on the couch. Sex in an office. Sex in an elevator. Sex in the park. You don’t necessarily need to imagine people having sex in places you know, unless you’re feeling daring: just think about what ought to be found there. Tree bark is rough; grass smells. How annoying is it to have rain dripping off the leaves above you? How much more annoying is that for someone on their back beneath that tree being fucked in the rain? The world around you will also lend to the world in your head.

Learning how to contend with physical logistics by writing porn means you can use your body and your spaces as a reference point, without needing the martial or combat knowledge that fighters and soldiers do. That makes it easier to be aware of how bodies work, how they’re impacted by their surroundings, even if you yourself don’t have a lot of first-hand knowledge; and that, like most other things previously mentioned, will make it easier to bring that awareness to writing scenes outside of sex.

And then, once you’re solid on those nuances, you can start deciding when and where to gloss over or ignore those details for the sake of the cool factor (or titillation, if you’re still writing porn).