Not saying what I mean

I have been spending some stolen time on my novel (see Novel Plan).

On the face of it, a 500 word reduction may not be viewed as progress, however I am quietly confident that those 500 words will be made up elsewhere as the story becomes more sophisticated. Yes, sophisticated.

By sophisticated, I of course mean sex. More specifically, the one and only sex scene. Only one is relevant to the story. Nothing gratuitous about this novel.

Writing this particular scene, however, is proving to be a challenge. I painstakingly review all the euphemisms I know for every part of the body, and 'the act' itself (are you beginning to see my problem?) and when I finally choose a word that is, shall we say, more descriptive than any other, I blush furiously. How does Jackie Collins do it?

Being an avid reader, I do actually know all the words that could be used, having read countless love stories in my time. Actually writing them down into a story of my creation is quite daunting. It's like I'm 15 again writing secretly in my diary, all the while terrified that someone will read it. What will people think of me?

As the whole point of writing a novel is that people will read it, I recognise that I need to overcome, or at least come to terms with, this very weird self-imposed impasse.

It's either:

Mills & Boon-style, a somewhat damp squib effect, however my composure remains intact, or

Non-euphamistic sex (with rude words), but with the whatwillpeoplethinkofme? concern intact.

I know which way this needs to go, so I'm putting my caveat in right now: whatever it is my characters say or do is their business, not mine!


(If you too suffer from a fondness for euphemisms, this book might excite you: How Not To Say What You Mean)