Graffle.

Imagine the horror of having to write a sex scene. In a book, a play, anything. Even a poem.

(I've been reading some of the "Women's Literature" belonging to my mother and sister lying around the house, as yet another method of procrastination to prevent revision. Needless to say, I am more than a little cross. And confused. Why call anything a "mighty sword"? It doesn't sound erotic as much as it does painful.)

Apparently, you're not allowed to be truthful. Of the entire spectrum of things that can go horribly wrong, miraculously, NOTHING EVER DOES. No one gets their hair caught in a jeans zipper, or accidentally tears a condom with their nails.

And yet it's entirely common and expected for at least one character to go insane, get amnesia, disappear, die in a car/drugs/shark related accident, commit suicide, marry their brother, be abducted by aliens, betrayed by their lover/husband/brother/son, flayed alive, tortured, marry the love of their life, or kill about 5 other characters before finally getting to the lead character and then failing to kill them because of some bizarre coincidence involving a fear of water or the utterly implausible convenience of a police officer (and probable love interest) turning up "just in time".

Mm, I do so love a late night insane ramble.