Too Much Information

Yesterday, reading yet another terrible sex scene in an otherwise well-written novel, I got to thinking, not for the first time, why it is that it is so difficult to write about sex well? And I think I finally thought of an answer that makes sense, which is that sex, ultimately, is just another everyday bodily function that doesn't need to be described at length because everybody who's ever done it pretty much knows what it's like. And yet sex scenes have a terrible tendency to go on and on, as if they are describing the experience to somebody who has no idea what it is.

Consider eating an apple. As an author, you might just say "I had an apple", and everyone is fairly clear on what that means, because most of your readership will have eaten apples before. If you want to make it clear that it's a particular kind of apple experience, you might give a little more detail, such as "I bit into the apple, and the flesh crumbled in my mouth to a dry heap of powdery disappointment." Again, we've all been there. What is totally unnecessary is the following:

The apple gleamed in the bowl, its shiny red and green skin so inviting. I longed to take it, to sink my teeth into its firm yet yielding flesh. I picked it up, its luscious curves filling my hand to perfection, and carried it over to the sink, where I let the long, cool stream wash over it, my mouth watering like the tap itself. Then I opened my mouth wide, feeling my jaw tense slightly in anticipation. I bit. My teeth pierced the apple's skin and all at once my mouth was filled with juicy wetness. Its sweet, sharp tang was so delicious, better even than I had imagined. I moved my teeth up and down, chewing, chewing that melting apple flesh, my tongue wrapping itself around around its liquid goodness. I swallowed, and peristalsis wafted the apple down to my stomach, which rumbled in appreciation.

Writers: as a rule, if you're giving more information about sex than you would do about a meal, then that is TOO MUCH INFORMATION.