The spice MUST flow.

If you've read my work, you know I don't shy away from sex. My rule is simple: it has to serve the plot, and it has to feel earned by the characters first, then by the reader. If it doesn't, I cut it.

That's the whole ethic in one paragraph, but the craft lives in the decisions underneath it.

Spice is not the meal

Anyone can write a hot scene. The internet proved that a long time ago.

The artistry is what surrounds it. I think about spice literally, not literarily. You don't serve a bowl of paprika for dinner. You add it to the stew. It changes the color, the heat, the depth. It makes you notice the other ingredients more. But it's never the meal itself.

When a sex scene becomes the point, the story goes flat for me. When it's seasoning, it does three jobs at once: it reveals character, it raises stakes, and it changes what happens next. If it isn't doing at least two of those, I'm just showing off.

Earned is a verb, not a vibe

"Earned" gets thrown around a lot. For me it isn't a mood. It's work on the page.

A scene is earned when:

- The characters have paid for it. Not with time, with risk. They've told a truth, made a choice they can't take back, or let themselves be seen in a way that costs them something.

- The reader has a reason to care beyond curiosity. We know what this intimacy will cost tomorrow. A promise, a betrayal, a goodbye.

- Something shifts because of it. Not just bodies. Power, trust, shame, tenderness. The dynamic is different on the other side.

If I can't point to the shift, I delete the scene, no matter how well I like the prose.

Three questions I ask before I keep a scene

I run every draft through this filter. It's fast and it keeps me honest.

1. What does this reveal that dialogue couldn't? If it's only confirming what we already know, cut it. If it shows how someone touches when they're scared versus when they're sure, keep it.

2. Who has agency here, moment to moment? Not just consent, though that's the floor. Who initiates, who hesitates, who changes their mind, who stays? If agency is fuzzy, the scene is fuzzy.

3. What is the aftermath? I write the next morning more carefully than the night before. The clothes on the floor, the text left on read, the joke that lands wrong. That's where intimacy lives.

If I answer all three clearly, the scene stays. If I can't, it becomes a fade to black.

I write it like real life

In real life, sex is rarely about performance. It's about connection, negotiation, history. I try to keep that same texture on the page.

Sometimes it's a plot marker. Two characters think they might not survive the next chapter, so tonight matters in a way last week didn't. The scene isn't there to be spicy. It's there because the relationship needs that weight before the choice that follows.

Sometimes it's quiet. Hands, breathing, the way someone looks away. The most intimate scenes I've written have almost no choreography. They have attention.

Sometimes it's awkward. Clothes catch, timing is off, someone laughs. I leave that in, because perfect sex is boring and it tells you nothing about who these people are when they're vulnerable.

What I cut every time

- Scenes that exist to prove the book is "adult." If the rating is the reason, it's not a reason.

- Metaphors that distance you from the body. If I'm reaching for poetry to avoid saying what happened, I'm hiding.

- Power dynamics I haven't interrogated. If I can't explain why this imbalance is here and what it costs, I don't get to write it.

- Repetition. If I've already shown how these two people are together, I don't need to show it again unless something new is true.

The reader contract

Here's the part I care about most. When you include sex in a story, you're asking for a specific kind of trust. The reader is letting you close. My job is to not waste that closeness.

That means I don't use spice to shock you into paying attention. I use it to make you pay attention to the right things: the character who finally asks for what they want, the one who realizes they don't want it anymore, the couple who discover they love each other differently than they thought.

Anyone can write good sex. A writer, like a chef, uses it to make the whole dish more robust. The heat should linger, but you should still taste everything else.

If you're writing your own, start with the aftermath and work backward. Decide what changes. Then decide if you need the scene to earn that change. Most of the time, you do. Sometimes a closed door is louder.

That's how I use spice. Not as decoration. As seasoning, as signal, as story.