I’ve written about the sexual voice here in Hack Writerville.
Let’s be honest. Some writers just will never get it. And that is okay. They can write books and I’ll read them.
But when a writer boofs (and boofs is a technical term) kissing, well that just irks me to no end.
A good kissing voice is totally necessary if your main character is, um, kissing. TOTALLY!
Let me explain.
We all have first kisses. There’s that first kiss with the first person to really kiss us, and then there is that first kiss with a specific person. The interest. The hottie. The lovah!
First kisses mean so much to almost every person. There is a certain kind of magic in that first kiss of your new paramour. Its more than just sex or affection, it’s the wonder and anticipation of something new and sensual. It’s magic and if it works, it’s magical if anything really was magical.
So why do writers boof the first kiss? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read TELL first kisses rather than SHOW first kisses. I do not get it. Maybe I’m an incurable romantic. Here’s my theory:
1) The writer is a bad kisser
2) The writer has forgotten the magic
3) The writing is stilted. That is, the writer knows there is something wrong with the kissing scene but is not skilled enough, or brave enough, to fix it
4) Combination of the above
5) All of the above
Now, I’m not going to write off a good book with bad kissing. But I am going to wonder. I am going to wonder just how much better the novel could be if the writer was more honest.
I’m not saying you need to get porno with the first kiss. All I’m asking is bring back the magic.
Kissing, my friends, is where it’s at!
Masao and Bunny: their first kiss
“Thank you, oh, thank you. My family has waited a long time for someone, anyone to say that,” Masao whispered, “a long time.” His own tears fell into Bunny’s hair; his naked honesty a self-inflicted knife wound to his own heart.
Bunny looked up at his face, closed her eyes and parted her lips.
You are an old fool, Masao thought to himself, but kissed her anyway.
Her lips, tasting of wine, were soft and her tongue was comforting but sensuous, both generous and insistent in a slow, focused way. She smelled of flowers and the sea, and in his arms she felt of coiled passion but also pure softness—a feminine contradiction that declared her a woman as any woman he had ever held. Her arm came up to grasp the back of his shoulder and his hand ran down the smooth fabric of her tight dress to cup her bottom, pulling her closer. The other hand he ran through her hair and she relaxed into him.
Then the kiss really started.
An old fool who is on fire, then.