Making Love

There are a lot of euphemisms, synonyms, and slang terms devoted to the sex act, especially as it appears in print. “Having sex,” “bumping uglies,” “doing the nasty.” And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, to say nothing of some of the more "printable" ones.

The one that sets my teeth on edge the most is “making love.” This particular poetic description conjures up images of two people “chastely” enjoying each others' bodies while rose petals rain from the ceiling, little diapered cherubs float aloft playing soft harp music, and they whisper tender declarations of undying love.

(Insert record scratch sound effect here.)

Yes, I also deal in sarcasm.
In reality, sex is a sweaty, sticky, wet, messy business. During a truly erotic encounter, the cerebral cortex shuts off. There’s literally no room for conscious thought. Part of this is because the blood that permits our brains to operate is rerouted to other areas, which then take over all “thinking.” This is why a guy with an erection is unlikely to be capable of intellectual speech. The lights are on, but no one’s home; the little head is doing all his thinking for him. If you can get a grunt out of him at that moment, you’ve got about all the reasoned discourse you can expect until the Viagra wears off.

At the moment of orgasm, it is utterly absurd to believe anyone capable of thinking about the PTA meeting tomorrow, or the conference with the kids’ principal next week. If you’ve ever had a truly intense and satisfying orgasm, you know that until the spasms subside, you can’t do anything but sit back and enjoy the psychedelic explosion of white noise in your mind. At the end of a vigorous and truly sexy interlude, neither participant should be able to do anything but look at the ceiling and gasp. A mumbled “I love you” might, and I say might, be made out among the panting, but that’s as far as that goes.

Is that to say that making love is impossible? Certainly not. There are those times when you start off slow, with lots of foreplay, taking your cues and pleasure as much from your partner’s responses as your own. It is even possible to make love to yourself, and no matter what Dr. Freud may have said on the subject, there’s nothing wrong with that. You can’t truly please someone else unless you know how to please yourself and what the “hot spots” for YOU are.

But such episodes, although intense, are also rare. Sensuality and seduction take a backseat to the animal urge to mate. As “civilized” people, we may not want to admit it, but when those juices get flowing, we haven’t advanced one single day since the first caveman. I know women who will personally trip a man they want, beat him to the ground, and have their way with him. There are men who secretly wish the mating rituals harkened back to a simpler time: a “thunk” on the head, a nice nap, and he’s there waiting for you when you wake up. Men have to exercise a bit more discretion with this line of thinking, though: at best the unfortunate male will be branded a Neanderthal. At worst, he’ll have to be very careful how he handles his soap in the shower.

So why do we, as romance writers, make such a primal act so frilly?

Because it deserves it. There’s plenty of porn out there, if all you want to do is get your rocks off. We want you to feel. We want you to remember why, in the best of all possible worlds, you first kissed this person you’re with today. We want you to remember what it was about that person that made you trust them with all your insecurities and inadequacies, remove your clothing, and present yourself without hesitation, barriers, or fear to them.

We strive to recall that sweet, nostalgic feeling of the first time that pain and awkwardness were no longer an issue and both partners took and gave of themselves freely, with confidence and desire. The first heated “I love you” whispered in that moment when both partners were striving toward mutual release. And the tender embrace afterward, when it didn’t matter a damn about the sweat or the wet spot on the bed, as long as they could stay as close as possible without the erotic connection. 
To simplify that little ramble, we want to remind our reader that the expression of sensuality is more than inserting Tab A in Slot B. There's more to sex than a series of neurochemical and physiological responses which facilitate the placing of Tab A in Slot B. And there's more to love than merely sex. Sex is the dessert which completes the menu, but without the meal that precedes it, cheesecake, delicious as it is, will never truly satisfy on its own.

If we've done our job properly, you, as the reader, will remember these things. Or, if you haven’t been fortunate enough to experience this for yourself, maybe you’ll seek it out for yourself. Once the rapture subsides and your brain comes back on line, we hope, you’ll lay there in the dark and your lover’s warm embrace and think, “So that’s what they meant!”

We couldn’t ask for a better review than that.

Until next time,
Best,
J.S. Wayne