I wrote a sex scene that I ducked in the first draft of BtMB, and boy, I gotta tell you, that was fun. (There was a good deal of people doing what people do in the earlier drafts, but none of it was exactly spelled out. I have discovered upon reread and revision that this is because I Was Chicken.)
Anyway, it came out all rough and nasty and elbows and knees, and I'm quite pleased with it. And looking forward to all the other smutty bits I'm going to have to write between now and then (where then is the end of the revision pass.) This is the book with the (originally very glossed) somewhat nonconsensual erotic asphyxiation scene, after all. I may have to get somewhat drunk for that one.
(See further explanations: why so many writers wind up hopeless alcoholics.)
Anyway, I think from now on I'm writing lots of sex. It's fun writing sex; it's just character and voice, and conflict, and you don't have to worry about such fiddly details as plot.
In fact, perhaps I will just write books that are nothing but sex. Thinly diguised soft-core porn! Then I don't have to worry about theme and accessibility and craftsmanship and all that noise.
In fact, I think I'll start a literary movement, and we can claim it's an artistic revolution driven by honest appraisal of humanity (let's face it, most of us are motivated at base by food, sex, and baseball) and a rejection of hackneyed patriarchal narrative values.
Objective measures of literary quality are a tool of the patriarchy! Bring on the smut! Sex by page 30 or you can't sit at my lunch table!
...God, I'm bored.