This week’s random winner is Kim, who asked if everything will get stranger when 50 Shades becomes a movie (almost certainly). Thanks to everyone who played along!
Good morning! Happy Friday! Are you buried under snow? I spent an hour shoveling this morning — an actual entire HOUR — so I am not. But my butt is still cold, even after showering, drinking a cup of hot tea, and eating two garlic knots. (Okay, so the garlic knots had nothing to do with anything. But ohhhh, they were good.)
So this morning, I was working on a seeeekrit thing that I can’t tell you about but is so wonderful to be working on, and I wrote — in one fast rush of tippity typiting — the world’s saddest 321-word sex scene. It’s actually kind of mysteriously hot, too, but also sad, and I am so pleased with myself. I feel like a real literary fiction author now, you know?
And that got me thinking about sad sex scenes in books and in movies, or just really depressingly awful ones, like there’s this one from a movie in the front seat of a car with a teenage girl and a man who’s old enough to be her father, and I can’t even remember now what the movie was but the scene is so soulless, I just wished I could un-see it, afterward. Likewise the virginity-loss scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Or this other one I saw once with Angelina Jolie and Antonio Banderas which was supposed to be sexy but he was just kind of robotically hammering away at her, and it made me glad not to be married to Antonio Banderas, even though I’d kind of had a crush on ever since that movie where his wife was alcoholic Melanie Griffith, and he was so nice to her, mostly.
And then that reminded me of various things I learned from novels — particularly literary fiction — about sex, very few of which were useful, and many of which were terrifying. Like, in The Color Purple, Celie compares the act of sex to being peed on by her husband. (Who is a right bastard, but that’s neither here nor there.) And also literary fiction generally for just being so darn obfuscating about sex. I mean, I’m a precocious ten-year-old, literary fiction! TELL ME WHAT GOES WHERE, EXACTLY.
Whereas, I have to say, the vast majority of things that romance novels have taught me about sex did turn out to be true, even if I have never exploded in fireworks mid-coitus. Yet.
So, yeah. That’s what I’m oversharing about this morning. You?
Usual Friday drill — comment to enter, and I’ll pick one name out of the hat tomorrow morning for a $10 gift certificate to Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or iTunes.