Desire as Revelation
There’s a quiet ache that lives inside all of us—some call it longing, some call it shame. I write toward that ache. When I write sex, I’m not interested in choreography. Not really. Where the hand goes, who’s on top, which hole is filled—those things matter, yes. But only as echoes of something deeper. I care more about what it feels like. What it unearths. What it changes in the person being touched. Sex, for me, is a mirror. It reflects every hesitation, every hunger, every lie we’ve told ourselves about what we should want.
Which is why I don’t write “hot scenes.”
I write turning points.
Sex should tilt the world a little. It should ruin something—or reveal something worth ruining.
Take Elias, for example.
In His, Theirs, Enough, there’s a moment—barely described, really—where Elias is on his knees, forehead to the ground. His skin is marked by another man’s grip. There’s no elaborate description of the act itself. No litany of thrusts or licks or moans. Instead, the focus is on a single breath. One inhale, sharp with salt and sweat and surrender. He doesn’t cry out. He doesn’t beg. He just yields. And that’s the climax—not of the body, but of the psyche. Because in that moment, Elias finally stops apologising for being who he is.
That’s what I mean when I say I write sex that means something.
It’s not about mechanics. It’s about revelation.
So how do I write it?
First, I get close. Too close. I write from inside the body, yes, but also the mind inside the body. What does the character notice? What do they try not to? Whose gaze are they performing for—and what would it mean to stop?
Then, I slow it down. Or speed it up until it’s gasping. I interrupt the rhythm. Let a hand hesitate. Let a thought intrude: What am I doing? or Please don’t stop. The best sex scenes are not uninterrupted bliss—they’re ruptured, uneven, unpredictable. Like the people in them.
Finally, I ask: what changes after this?
Because if nothing does, then why write it?
In my stories, sex doesn’t resolve tension—it creates it. It deepens the silence. It stains the sheets with unspoken things. It leaves bruises that bloom like secrets.
And here’s the truth:
I don’t write sex to titillate.
I write it to expose.
Not just bodies. But truths.
Desires we didn’t dare name.
Shames we thought we’d buried.
Futures that shimmer on the edge of touch.
Sex that means something is sex that lingers. In the throat. In the dreams. In the way a character can’t quite meet someone’s eyes the next morning.
If you read one of my scenes and feel a little ruined afterward—
then I’ve done what I came to do.
