Sensual writing is a pleasure to write and read. There are a lot of people who really know how to put sensory details together and craft silky, effortless sentences. When you read a paragraph by such writers, you are transported to an impossibly gorgeous world of hot smooth skin, steaming baths, forest-green eyes, roses and cream… you probably know what I’m talking about. But writing sensuously about sex is not the same as writing erotica.
Erotica is tension.
Erotica has nothing to do with the tactics of style, voice, or sensual prose, but the strategy of story tension — the tension of someone sexually wanting, but not immediately having. This tension builds up until it explodes in animal aggression, romantic passion, frenzied embarrassing fumbling, or whatever the story calls for. But what is erotic is not just the dirty deed — the release — but the tension and release.
And the conflict must be believable, at least somewhat. In a lot of good erotica, the conflict is internal and often mirrored by external barriers. A priest wants to have sex but can’t fulfill his desires; he also believes in the values of his faith. A bodyguard develops a passion for her client, but can’t act on it because she takes her job seriously and has to keep a clear head.
Learn from a master.
For some great examples of this, just take a look at any of Anais Nin’s stories in Delta of Venus or Little Birds — most of them focus on characters’ conflicted sexual desires. As one of my friends said, “She wrote about having sex with a corpse, and it was strangely hot!” Yes, her prose is sensual and often dreamlike, but even if you stripped that away, you’d be left with an inherently erotic core.
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