Killing the Good Girl: Interlude & Being Called a Slut for Writing Sex Scenes
Serialization & my editorial critique of my undergrad thesis novel 25 years later
If you’re just joining me for this crazy and fun experiment in reliving the Ghosts of Writings Past, read the intro for the ground rules and the previous installments.
A little change to the usual structure of the KTGG series: a bit of critique up front, but mostly a truth (not the truth you think) about this next chapter, because it wreaked some havoc in my life and it’s part of the story behind this story.
As I’ve mentioned, this story is not autobiographical and Leigh isn’t me, but I have used things from my life as writers always do. That said, none of the sexual encounters/experiences in the novel are mine. I know people like to think writers are always the main characters of their books, but that’s not the case.
If you’re a writer, you know we steal whatever we can without shame, which is what I did for this next chapter. One afternoon at work, around the time I was writing this novel, a small group of female staff were talking on a slow Friday, when it was just us in the office. We’d worked together for years and one of them was dating one of the guys in the office. The romance seemed to be cooling and she asked for advice. One of the women suggested changing things up in the bedroom and suddenly everyone was sharing stories of their best sexual experiences. It was funny (and informative!) and that’s where this “interlude” chapter comes from.
I wanted something that wasn’t a typical first sexual encounter (first meaning, between Martin and Leigh, not an actual first as in losing virginity) and instead the start of a sexual relationship that would ramp up throughout the story and one that would set the tone.
Chapter three is technically page 38 and by page 50, something’s got to turn, go off kilter, in big or small ways, set up by the inciting incident. Martin and Leigh have just met in chapter two, but I wanted to jar the reader and prep them for what was to come so I threw in a flash forward, which shows something that happens in the future (it should be a teaser). The opposite of a flashback.
I’m not a huge fan of these now, unless applied well, because too often they are used as a shortcut in writing—to create tension that isn’t earned, rather than do the necessary work in the beginning and first 50 pages (and beyond, of course!), to hook the reader and draw them into the story.
But I also believe in trying craft tools out and seeing what works. I think this flash forward still works (I may change my mind after I’ve reread/critiqued the whole novel).
And it’s arrived just in time. Any later and structurally it would have been jarring for another reason, seeming sloppy. The structure of a story is best set up at the start and if that structure is broken, it should have a purpose. If you’re constantly interrupting the story with structural shifts, you’re pulling your readers out and pointing at the scaffolding/architecture, making it about you. If the shifts reflect the character or narrative or theme in some way, it can work and create a three dimensional feel.
Now before you skip straight down to read a sex scene (because who doesn’t do that?), here’s the “my truth” part of this chapter:
In the late 2000s (prior to 2010), I dated these two guys, one after the other. I only went out a few times with the first guy and dated the second for 1 1/2 years (I wish it had just been a few times or never…). Both men asked to read my novel, which I was shopping to agents, and I was happy that they were taking an interest in me and my writing. I thought getting the male perspective would be helpful, so I shared it with them.
Right after giving it to Guy #1, I traveled to California to visit my best friend, and a few days into the trip I received a nasty email from him calling me a slut and a whore because he believed the experiences were real and writing about them for publication was “disgusting.” He couldn’t date someone like me and how dare I trick him into thinking I was a nice girl.
Talk about having the wind knocked out of me! I had to read the email a few times—it was so insane I couldn’t believe it. First of all, see above notes. The book is not autobiographical. It’s fiction.
Second, the book is not like Fifty Shades of Grey or anything (sorry to disappoint you if you thought it was) and even if it was, who cares? He clearly couldn’t take a woman being anything than adoring and subservient and existing for his gratification.
Third, true or not, not liking what he read didn’t give him the right to call me offensive, sexist names or judge me for writing it.
Though I was so shocked my hands and knees were shaking I wrote back (I still remember):
FUCK YOU. The book is fiction and you’re a misogynist and an asshole. Don’t ever contact or come near me again.
Then I blocked his email address. I was nearly 3,000 miles away, but I felt completely unsafe and kind of violated. He later mailed me a letter begging for forgiveness and I threw it away. We had a mutual friend and for two years (not kidding) he repeatedly tried to contact me through them (they didn’t know what had happened), and I finally had to threaten a restraining order for him to leave me alone.
A similar thing happened with Guy #2. He also thought the story was true, got jealous, and started a fight, demanding to know who I’d had these experiences with, and accusing me of sleeping with pretty much every male friend I had. No name calling at least….
We were in the last throes of a long dead relationship anyway, so this and also finding out he was cheating on me, did the trick. Classic gaslighting.
If I were a man those assholes would have asked me for tips. The sad thing is, the world hasn’t changed all that much.
Reader, I wanted to share this before you read the scene. If it picks up your pulse a bit then, great, I did my job well, but I also want you to remind you that it can take a lot for a writer to go out on their own personal limb in order to expand their writing skills and, for me at the time, this was that limb.
And, duh, the whole point of the book is redefining “good girl.”
Don’t read into what you read from any fiction writer.
After these two reactions, I went back into the novel and took the sex scenes up a notch wherever I could. Fuck them.
Happy reading,
Chris
Killing the Good Girl: Interlude (Chapter Three)
The first time, she and Martin had been at his apartment on a Sunday afternoon, in his office. There were towering shelves of books on all sides—books stacked on the floor, books on the long oak desk—a computer, wooden filing cabinets, scratched and leaning, and a wide, squat chair upholstered in brown corduroy. The room was cave-like and cool.
In the weak light of the desk lamp he'd pushed her gently into the chair, then sat on the edge of the desk opposite her. She hadn’t needed him to say anything to know how different he was from Will. He looked at her like he was calculating how to break her—where and how to make the first crack appear. She felt more than ready to be broken.
"Take off your shoes," he said, in a tone that made her want to do as he asked. She was wearing white ankle socks and her Keds, and she took these off slowly, taking her time untying the laces and sliding the sneakers off. She pushed the socks off as if she were rolling down a pair of thigh-high lace stockings, then held her feet out for his inspection. He grasped one in each hand, by the heel, lightly smoothed his palms up over her arch and toes. He traced the bones of her ankles. His hands were hot. Each small stroke of his fingers, each minute bit of pressure caused a shivering in some other hidden, expectant place. She had a fresh, hard mosquito bite on her right foot and he brushed it with his lips. The tingle of an unsatisfied itch caused a liquid ache all the way up her leg.
From his pocket he pulled a small, glass bottle and tossed it to her. Deep purple nail polish. "Put it on."
It was important that she want to do this as much as he did and though she knew this was a kind of test, his flushed skin and dark eyes said she affected him.
Her feet were the only part of her body bare to his focused gaze, but she felt more naked than if she had removed all her clothing and was standing under hard, fluorescent lights. She knew what he wanted without him telling her. What was more, she wanted to do it. She was enjoying this subtle exchange of power. Part of it was hers, so her movements were deliberate as she applied the polish to her toenails, being exact and careful, hiking up her skirt. He didn't move, didn't say a word, but he saw everything, which made this little performance of hers all the more erotic.
After polishing one foot, she reached out and nestled the other between his legs. He was hard, but his face betrayed nothing. She held out the bottle of polish and wiggled her bare toes.
He cupped her foot, took the bottle, dipped the brush, and began coating the nails, his hand steady. He was even more precise than she had been and, though he barely held her, merely a hand at her heel to keep her still, she could feel the heat of that hand spread over every inch of her skin. Stretching forward with her free foot, she rubbed him through his jeans in small circles and he set down the bottle and grabbed her ankles, pulling her forward until her feet braced against the desk, gripping his hips. The air between them crackled.
Standing over her, he unzipped his jeans and began masturbating. His eyes never left her face. Close but not close enough, he made no move to penetrate her but he didn’t have to, she could feel his tension coiling between her own legs. His other hand gripping her foot, stroking her skin, told her everything. She spread her legs wide and leaned back as if they fucked, eyes locked on his, rising with him. Knowing he wouldn’t let it go any further than this–not touching her or letting her touch herself–made her wild to throw him down on the desk, but she didn’t move, matching his restraint, only her breath racing.
His own breath caught as he came on her thigh, parted lips the only change in his face, leaving her high without him. He’d rubbed it into her skin as if they sealed a kind of contract.
Wow. And you're not wrong about men's reactions when it comes to the romance genre. I honestly feel like they react that way because they're intimidated and feel it's unrealistic. Unfortunately, what they're used to seeing is porn. And they see romance books as porn. WE know it's not, obvi, but, well, y'know... men! <SMH>. That's my take, anyway. But I agree with you: if you'd been a man, they DEFINITELY would've been asking for tips. Here's a tip: read a romance book. You might learn something. LOL.