Queen Lion

by Amanda Earl

If there's one thing that burns my ass, it's euphemisms about sex in fiction. Spare me the velvet chambers, the peaches, the slippery poles and all that dainty milquetoast jazz. Don't turn body parts into flora or fauna or machines. A cunt is not a flower or a piece of fruit; a cock is not a snake or a jackhammer. Just get to the point. Make it plain: cunt, cock, asshole, tits, fucking. Yes, I like the vulgarity of sex. It's one of the things about it that turns me on.

To be able to write whatever I want in whatever way I want and have people actually read my work is empowering for me. Not to say that I won't adjust my language depending on a character's personality and the tone of the work or play with language in an inventive way if the work calls for it. I will do whatever is necessary to serve the work. Does that mean using euphemisms? Sure, but so far, mostly in parody.

I worry about a society that speaks in code, that places manners ahead of information, uses euphemisms and double speak to mask homophobia, racism, misogyny and sex negativity, tries to depersonalize the bloody tortures and meaningless deaths of war with doublespeak to make war more palatable to society. Propaganda is alive and well in the 21st Century. One of the reasons I'm a writer at all is to get closer to the meaning of words and their nuances, to make people question the implications of the words we hear, read, write and speak.

I consider all of these issues in my diction; however, what I want most as a writer is to tell a compelling story with characters readers will love or loathe. I want my stories to leave readers breathless, to make them laugh, to bring them to tears, to get their neurons firing, to cause them to grab vibes, body parts and lovers for a fucking frenzy. I don't think I can do any of that with euphemistic language that pussy-foots around.

And while we're on the subject of feline analogies, I loathe the word pussy for cunt. It sounds childish to me, diminutive. My cunt is no baby cat, it's a lioness.

ps-the words my MS WORD spellchecker marks in red are precum, polyamorous,  doms and submissives. [WORD is fine with the adjective submissive, but persnickety about the use of what it considers to be an adjective as a noun.]  I don't bother to update my WORD dictionary; I like to be reminded that polite society has issues with such words, such ideas. Those red marks are little fuck you flags spread out all over the screen.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

by Giselle Renarde

If readers assessed me based solely on my posts here at Oh Get A Grip, I'm not sure they'd realize what dirty, filthy smut I write.  I don't tend to talk about erotica here, do I?

But today I will.  Today I'll delve into the nitty gritty of word choice in erotic fiction.  Lisabet already talked cocks (pricks, actually) earlier in the week.  I'm more interested in cum.  Or come?  Jizz. Ejaculate.

Maybe I should clarify: cum is not a personal interest of mine.  I'm just talking about words, here.  When I saw the topic "Dirty Words I've Taught the Computer," I didn't think I'd taught my computer anything.  I'd planned on talking about how writing erotica professionally made me a better person, but I've written that post a billion times times already already.  So when I was tip-tap-typing away this week and the autocorrect turned "jizz" into "jazz" I was like... EUREKA!

JIZZ

Am I the only person who uses this word?  I remember reading a post on Alison Tyler's blog that said something along the lines of "Don't send me submissions containing the word jizz."  Why not?  I like it.  Reminds me of Jiz Lee, who is soooo cool and smart and stuff.  Gush, gush, gush.

Are there connotations I'm missing?  I like the way it sounds.  Jizz, like fizz.  Is that gross?  It's got a streamy, streaking feeling to it.

CUM

This is my go-to word for describing ejaculate as a noun.  The rule I go by is cum as a noun, come as a verb.  Turns out a lot of anthology editors and publishing houses don't share this rule.  Come is always come.  Many of my cums become comes, but that's okay.  I'm not married to cum.

Wow, you've drained me.  What other synonyms do I use?  Oh, "cream" sometimes.  "Hot cream." I don't tend to go on and on about cum, but it's best to have a solid vocabulary.

In the interest of building my sexual word-power, I asked my girlfriend to shoot me a couple words for cum.  Here's her response:

jizz, juice, milk, man juice, nectar, ejaculate

Haha... "man juice."

But there must be more than that.  Must be...

Right?

A Prick by Any Other Name?

By Lisabet Sarai

When it comes to sexual vocabulary, I'm agnostic. I will use whatever word seems to fit in a particular situation. Some authors I know are uncomfortable using terms that are particularly graphic or viewed as obscene. In contrast, I have no problem calling female genitalia a “cunt”, assuming the term is consistent with tone of my tale and the personality of my characters. On the other hand, I won't eschew a bit of euphemism, even somewhat purple-tinged, when the story, the characters and/or the readership require it. I'll use clinical or anatomical terms, too, if that's what seems right. I think carefully about the words I choose in sexual description, because an unfortunate decision can distract and even alienate readers.

Hence, I don't appreciate being told what words I can and cannot use in my fiction. For the most part, I am deeply satisfied with my main erotic romance publisher, Total-E-Bound. They're the most well-organized, diligent and supportive publishing company I've ever encountered. And they let me get away with a lot! However, I've had a few run-ins with editors when I wanted to use the word “prick”.

I've been told that, according to their style guide, “prick” is not acceptable terminology. I'm really not sure about the rationale for this, since for me the word is no more graphic or offensive than “cock”. It's true that in American English, calling a man a “prick” (or a “dick”, for that matter) is considered deeply insulting (though the two epithets do not have the same implications). Does that carry over into the original use of the word to denote the penis? Not in my dialect, anyway. It has occurred to me that the connotations might be different in the UK, where TEB is based, but we do have readers all over the world.

I'll sometimes choose “prick” as an alternative to “cock” when a man is thinking about his own organ. It seems to capture, for me, some aspect of gritty physicality. It makes me think of locker rooms and surreptitious hand jobs, of embarrassing hard-ons and Internet porn watched on the sly. Personally I wouldn't tend to call a penis a “prick”, because I don't have one, but I feel that a man might (and I hope that our male Grip members will either confirm or refute this).

“Prick” also has the nice implication of something that pierces or penetrates. I'm certain that extra level of meaning makes it sound a bit dirtier.

Anyway, when I received the edits for my most recent erotic romance, Challenge to Him, there were several instances of “prick” called out.

He could scarcely look at her without imagining her rounded limbs wound with rope, her neat bosom bared to his pinching fingers, her lively brown eyes hidden by the blindfold that would give him license to use her however he chose. His prick swelled to an uncomfortable bulk inside his trousers. He was grateful that the motoring duster he wore concealed the evidence of his excitement. 

This example fits in with my commentary above. The hero is slightly embarrassed by his sudden arousal, and thus thinks of his organ as a “prick”.

I thought a long time about whether it was worthwhile to fight about this. Ultimately I decided to change the word to “cock”. In my opinion, this loses a bit of the meaning, but not enough to justify antagonizing the editor.

However, a second case occurred here.

“You’re a clever little slut,” Andrew muttered through gritted teeth. “I’ll wager this isn’t your first time eating a man’s prick.” He wound his fingers into her hair and held her head still. “Open!” Jerking his hips, he drove his cock down her throat with bruising force.

I refused to change this instance. Andrew has deliberately selected the term “prick” to embarrass and excite the heroine. Replacing this with some other term would weaken the utterance. There's also the problem of repetition, since I wanted to use “cock” in the following sentence.

Some authors agonize over every word. I have to admit that I don't do that. However, I can usually trust my instincts, especially in a sex scene.

I'm not a prima donna, I swear! You can even ask my editors. However, I'll stand up for my right to use the words that work in my story. Penis, cock prick, dick, dong, schlong, shaft, meat, phallus, skewer, screwer... there's a place for each one. Maybe even “hardness”. Words are my tools. I'm not going to reject any of them out of hand.

Anatomically Correct?

by Lisabet Sarai



I write erotica and erotic romance at the more intense end of the heat scale. I'm not afraid to use explicit language when the story requires it. I've never had particular trouble calling a “throbbing pillar of male flesh” by one of its common names. So it may come as a surprise to readers to learn that one of my pet peeves in erotic writing is an excessive focus on body parts.

All it takes is one mention of a character's G-spot and I'm ready to throw the book across the room. (Of course, I won't really do that, as it would cause serious damage to my beloved Eee PC, but I'm speaking figuratively.) I would rather not hear about how one hunk's back entry stimulates the other hunk's prostate. I couldn't care less when a heroine's fingers tickle the hero's perineum. I even get a bit annoyed by incessant references to women's clits, grateful though I am that men finally did discover that delightful little nubbin.

My objections are not rooted in squeamishness. I've written scenes that my publishers wouldn't print because they were too extreme. My main objection to all this anatomy is that it doesn't matter. It's distracting. Especially in romance, but even in erotica, the emphasis should be on the characters' feelings – both their emotions and their sensations.

The fact is that when you are making love or even just having sex, you are typically not thinking about either yourself or your partner in terms of discrete organs or erogenous zones. Sex is an integrated experience, and sexual feelings are diffuse. I don't really know, exactly, when someone is licking my clit. The feelings ripple away from the point of stimulation and affect my whole body. I would bet a month's royalties that no man, being penetrated, thinks, “Oh God, yes, I can feel him rubbing against my prostate, and it's fantastic.” No, he's more likely thinking, “Oh yeah, give me more!”. Or perhaps not thinking at all, just reveling in the physical sensations and his own emotional reactions.

An author's goal should be to have her readers identify and empathize with her characters. In a sex scene, she wants the reader firmly ensconced in the character's head. Explicit descriptions do play a role in achieving this objective. They may arouse the reader, making it easier for her to imagine the character's experience. We're conditioned to react sexually to words like “nipple” and “cock”. Dirty words evoke sexy feelings. A skillful erotic author takes advantage of this conditioning.

Overuse, however, blunts the reaction to sexual terminology. In addition, an excess of physical details will draw the reader's attention to the characters' bodies and away from their minds and hearts. The reader becomes an observer rather than a vicarious participant in the scene.

Furthermore, it is the psychological associations of sexual acts, as much as the acts themselves, that make them exciting. Let's consider anal sex once again. (I will admit that it is a favorite literary topic of mine.) Yes, it can feel great if done correctly. But personally, I think the reason that anal entry is so exciting is because it is something of a taboo. In addition, there is a larger element of trust involved in allowing anal penetration than in other sexual acts. It is especially intimate because of the risk of injury and the element of surrender on the part of the individual being penetrated. It is special, regardless of whether the prostate is stimulated or in whether in fact any prostate is involved, because of the bond that it can create between the participants—in the case of erotic romance, the characters.

I'm particularly put off by references to the G-spot because the notion of a magic key that unlocks female ecstasy is so antithetical to the core tenets of romance. In my view, it's not what's being done to you that counts—it is who is doing it. I suppose that some people may experience sex differently, but for me at least, arousal is as much mental, even spiritual, as it is physical. I truly believe my tag-line: imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.