Ardeur

I was interviewed by a sex therapist, for her radio show, who had a habit of guessing the backgrounds of her guests—off air, of course. She was almost always right, or at least in the ballpark. We talked and laughed and I answered questions on air. Afterward she judged from what I wrote and how comfortable I was with her questions and the call-in questions that I must have been raised in a very sexually comfortable household where information was freely shared. I had to tell her no. My grandmother taught me that sex was bad, my body was dirty, and men were evil and wanted only one thing, and that one thing would be unpleasant and they were animals to want it. Her advice before my first wedding was to lie back and it would be over soon. The radio show host was quiet for a moment and then she said, “You’re remarkably healthy for your background.”

Grandmother was a deeply unhappy woman, and tried her best to share that unhappiness with me. She gave me so little guidance that I turned to the library for sex information. I was the best-informed virgin in my high school, to the point where girls who were having sex came to me with questions. I have to say their unhappiness and lack of information after having had actual sex helped keep me uninterested in crossing that barrier until college. I educated myself through books not just about sex, but about the larger world outside the small rural town I lived in. I had no parents, no couple to emulate, and no marriage that I saw as happy around me, so I grew up free to remake that part of my socialization with very few preconceptions.

I didn’t realize that my attitude toward sex, relationships, men and women interacting, was so different from societal norms until very late in life. I knew that men in college had trouble dating me more than once—or rather, that they and I came to a mutual agreement that one date was enough. I dated on my own terms, and saw no reason to compromise. I compromise better now than I did in college, but not on everything, and not ever on some things. That set me apart from most women, though I didn’t know it, but what really set me apart and still does is my attitude toward sex and gender roles. First, I don’t pigeonhole people by gender roles. My grandmother raised me to be the boy. Because she didn’t have a man around the house, I was it. I value that because it meant I didn’t think like a girl, or a boy, but as myself.

I still don’t understand why everyone is weirded out by the sex in my books. Sex is normal; it’s what we do for the species to survive, so why does it scare people so? Maybe it is the biologist in me, but I think it’s also the fact that I had to create my own sexual identity with almost no help, because all the help offered me was negative. I rejected it. I would not be limited by such unhappiness, I would find my own way, and I did. I am now happily married and my husband, Jonathon, has no problem with the fact that I put the same time, attention, thought, and research into my real sex that I put into my fictional sex. My first husband was disturbed by the fact that I thought so much about it. He seemed to feel it should be natural and not so planned. Spontaneity is great, but prior planning prevents poor performance is not just a phrase for the military. I treat my sex life the way I treat all my life: carefully, with thoughtfulness, planning, goals, and a constant desire to improve my skill set. Jonathon has adopted my paradigm and thinks it works just dandy. It’s nice to be with someone who thinks this is a plus and not a burdensome minus.

I didn’t start out by trying to be the spokesperson for nonstandard sex, but the more people were upset by it, the more I thought, Why? Why is it such a hot button for people? I finally realized that one of the reasons people get so upset about the sex in my books is that it is nonstandard a lot of the time, and they’re not upset because they didn’t like reading the sex scenes, they’re upset because they did like it. They’re upset because this is maybe the first time they’ve ever read a BDSM scene and liked it, or read a group sex scene and liked it, or thought it would be nice to have that third adult in the house to help with all those daily chores.

The message of my writing is some version of this: that whatever it is, as long as you harm no one, not even yourself, you’re okay. Whatever you want, whatever moves you, whatever makes your blood pump and your heart race is all good. There are no limits, so long as you harm none. Some have found that a very comforting message; others feel threatened by it. I meant it to be accepting and welcoming; the fear was not intended. But it’s not fear of the unknown. I believe the negative reactions are so strong because what scares them is themselves and their reaction to what I write. I have no qualms about showing reality. Through my patina of monsters and magic, I get to jerk the covers back and show what’s real and what’s possible, whether that sheet being jerked back is in the bedroom or the morgue. I show the reader what is there, unflinching through the good, the bad, the complicated, and the scary. All the while I whisper, “It’s okay. It’s all right. Don’t be afraid . . . of yourself.”

—Laurell