It's Not Porn, and I'm Not Apologizing: Romance, Erotica, and What Sex on the Page Really Means

Shame Can Be a Hand-Me-Down, and I’m Done Wearing It.

I write sex. On purpose. In detail. With zero shame.

If that makes you clutch your pearls—or if you’ve ever uttered the term mommy porn with a self-satisfied grin—you’re not my audience. That phrase always comes with a smirk, a snort, or a condescending chuckle, usually from someone who wouldn’t know a character arc if it bit them in the plot twist. I’ve heard it. You’ve heard it. And honestly? It’s getting old.

Sadly, I learned early what many people think of romance novels. I devoured hundreds of them as a teenager—those glorious, over-the-top 1980-something bodice-rippers—without a flicker of guilt. It never occurred to me that I should feel ashamed. That is, until someone else handed me the shame. 

One afternoon after school, my mother grabbed a book out of my hands. “This is nothing but porno for housewives! I shouldn’t even let you read it,” she said—dismissive, a little embarrassed, her voice edged with something sharp and uneasy. I didn’t argue. I just slipped the book into my school bag. That was the first time I realized how the world looked at the stories I loved.

Apparently, this still needs to be said forty years later: not all heat is pornography. Not all sex on the page is the same. And not all explicit scenes in romance novels are about sex. They’re about bravery. Vulnerability. They’re about undressing someone’s soul—not just their jeans. And that makes some people uncomfortable.

But here’s the thing–I’m not trying to convince anyone that romance novels have literary merit. That conversation’s been had, and it still gets drowned out by someone yelling “But Fabio!” from the back of the internet.

And I’m not writing this to defend the genre. That’s been done enough already too. I’m writing this for the readers who love romance and the writers who’ve been made to feel small for writing it.

Romance. Erotica. Porn. Know the Difference.

According to Romance Writers of America, a romance novel is defined by two elements: a central love story and an emotionally satisfying and optimistic ending. That’s it. Those two things are nonnegotiable. Everything else—tropes, subgenres, steam levels—is garnish.

Erotica, by contrast, focuses on sexual exploration as the main story line. The plot is the sex—or rather, the character’s relationship with their own sexuality. Emotional depth may be present, but it’s not required.

Pornography, by any clinical definition, is created for one purpose: sexual arousal. Not emotional resonance. Not character development. Hell, not even an external plot. It’s just mechanics.

Here’s an idea that blows some people’s minds: romance novels—even explicit ones—are not porn. The sex in romance serves the emotional journey. It’s there to reveal vulnerability, deepen conflict, shift power, show growth—or undo it. It’s an extension of the character arc, not a detour from it.

And when it doesn’t do that? It’s still not porn. It’s just empty. Or worse—lazy.

Porn has a different job. Its structure, purpose, and pacing are designed to provoke arousal. Romance isn’t built that way. Even when it’s explicit, the goal isn’t arousal—it’s revelation. The body is often where the truth shows up first, and the intent is layered: physical intimacy as a gateway to emotional depth.

So when a sex scene in a romance falls flat, it’s not because it “turned into porn.” It’s because it failed at being romance.

Once more, for the people in the back:

A sex scene without emotional consequence is porn. A sex scene that undresses a character’s soul? That’s romance.

Here's a cheat sheet:

Writing Romance Is an Art. Even the Naked Parts.

Romance novels are often dismissed as formulaic—even though, structurally, they’re beasts. They frequently juggle more complexity than most general fiction. A typical novel follows one protagonist, one main plot line, and maybe a subplot or two.

Romance writers are managing two full character arcs, a relationship arc, and usually an external conflict. That’s four major threads—four emotional journeys—rising and falling in tandem and resolving in sync. And when you add sex—real, character-revealing, high-stakes intimacy—it becomes even more challenging.

There’s this idea that writing sex is easy. That we’re just stringing together body parts and breathy synonyms and calling it “art”. But writing sex well takes skill. It’s choreography with consequences. It demands pacing, emotional logic, and restraint. Not the kind of restraint that fades to black, but the kind that knows when to crack something open.

Then there’s the emotional layering. That’s the part that makes the intimacy feel earned. Sex scenes aren’t detours; they’re vehicles. A kiss can be a character’s first act of trust. A sex scene can be a reckoning.

The Long History of Dismissing a Genre Women Love

Romance has long been treated like the emotional equivalent of junk food—cheap, formulaic, not serious. But let’s be honest: romance novels are dismissed not because of what they are, but because of who loves them.

The genre centers emotion, connection, and hope. It dares to believe in transformation and vulnerability. Longing, tenderness, and emotional payoff take priority. For some reason, those themes are treated like the literary equivalent of glitter.

Stories about falling in love, especially the kind that make space for female desire and fulfillment, can be profound. They reflect real longings, real truths, and the radical idea that we’re allowed to want more than survival.

When women center stories around feelings, relationships, and personal growth, those stories are often branded as less than. When books prioritize female growth, emotional resolution, or (gasp) joy, they’re shoved into a corner labeled guilty pleasure.

As if pleasure should come with guilt.

Romance has always been the genre of hope. Even when it’s dark, messy, or dystopian—it’s still about connection and growth. No wonder it’s not taken seriously. It doesn’t fit the mold of what people have historically labeled as important.

Desire Is Power—and Women Know It

I don’t write sex to be provocative. I write it because desire is part of the story. Showing a character wanting, and being wanted, is one of the most intimate revelations fiction can offer. Women deserve stories where they own their pleasure, their pain, their healing, and their voice.

When women write romance, we write ourselves into center stage, and into stories where our pleasure matters. We get to be complex, lustful, soft, sharp, devastated, resilient, angry, and hungry. We get to want something, and we get to receive it.

Unfortunately, the moment a woman names what she wants, and the story honors that desire without punishing her for it, it unsettles people who are used to seeing female desire filtered through someone else’s lens. 

Apparently, there’s something deeply threatening about women naming what they want—and then getting it. Especially when it’s wrapped in fantasy. Especially when it’s loud, unapologetic, and dripping with purpose. 

Explicit sex scenes in romance novels aren’t dangerous because they’re erotic. They’re dangerous because they don’t apologize for women’s hunger. There’s power in that–not metaphorical power–real power.

Because if a woman can find herself in the pages of a book—messy, flawed, desiring, desired—then she might stop being content with being misunderstood in real life. She might stop settling for less. She might even start expecting narrative payoff from her own damn existence.

And we can’t have that now, can we?

Stop Mistaking Pleasure for Shame

I write romance because it demands emotional truth and rewards it with transformation. I write it because I value honesty, precision, and empathy. I write it because love stories matter. Because pleasure—when written with purpose—is empowering.

So nope—I don’t write porn. I write transformative love stories.

But if you want to keep believing it’s filth, fine. Just don’t try to shame me. It’s no longer possible.

Mom’s Character Arc

My mother has experienced her own character arc. These days, she’s my biggest cheerleader. She helps me brainstorm plot points, celebrates every win, and is over-the-top proud of my writing career.

Maybe she understands it differently now, or maybe she just sees that it matters to me, and that’s enough. Either way, that moment from my teenage years doesn’t sting anymore. Now, it reminds me how far we’ve both come, and how much power there is in refusing to be ashamed.