The power of exposure: when skin becomes a canvas
It is a cold autumn evening in an old brick house on the outskirts of town, where the initiates’ breath is visible in the damp air. The walls of the room are covered with peeling paint, but the candles standing at irregular intervals on the wooden floor cast a warm, flickering light on the scene. Here, in this half-ruined room that smells of old wood and beeswax, seven young women gather. They are between 19 and 23 years old, their bodies still uncertain in their own skin, their gazes a mixture of curiosity and fear.
The oldest of the group, Lina, in her early 30s and about to complete her master’s degree, with short, dark curls and a pattern of scars on her left upper arm—remnants of a forbidden tattoo session years ago—stands in the middle. She wears a sheer white linen dress that only half covers her wide hips and the dark, thick hair between her thighs. Her voice is deep, almost smoky, as she explains the rules: “Today, you will not only show your bodies. You will learn to understand them in a new way.”
The first pledge, Mira, trembles slightly. She is lanky, her knees bony, the skin on her thighs covered with small red dots—an allergic reaction to the cheap soap in the dormitory. When she is asked to take off her shirt, she takes a deep breath. Her breasts are small, her nipples dark and hard in the cool air. She feels the others’ eyes gliding over her ribs, over her flat stomach, over the slight curve of her lower abdomen. “Don’t look away,” Lina whispers. “Your body is not a mistake. It is a sentence we read together.”
Touch as language: The cartography of shame
The second test takes place in a circle. The women sit on cushions, legs spread, hands on their thighs. One by one, they are asked to take another woman’s hand and guide it to a place they themselves consider “untouchable.” For Jasmina, a stocky woman with olive skin and a birthmark above her left hip, it is the area between her labia and her anus. Her skin is darker here, almost purple, and her hair is thick and curly. When Lina’s fingers gently stroke Jasmina’s sensitive skin, Jasmina flinches. “Breathe,” says Lina. “This is not taboo. This is geography.”
The exercise is not sexual. It is cartographic. It’s about understanding the body as a landscape that can be explored not only by oneself, but also together. For the young authors among you: Don’t just describe what is being touched, but also how. Is the skin moist or dry? Does it stretch over the bone, or does it yield like soft clay? And above all: What is going on in the character’s head? Shame is not a monologue. It is a dialogue between the self and the gaze of others.
The chorus of voices: when shame becomes collective
The third and most intense phase of initiation begins with a bath. A large, enamel tub stands in the middle of the room, filled with lukewarm water in which herbs float—rosemary, sage, something that smells like camphor. The women enter one after the other, naked, their bodies touching, overlapping. Water droplets bead on the curves of their shoulders, collect in the hollows of their collarbones, run down between their breasts.
Next comes the talking. Each woman must say one thing she hates about her body. “My thighs touch when I walk.” “The scar above my lip that everyone sees when I laugh.” “That my nipples are asymmetrical.” The words hang in the room, heavy as steam above water. But then comes the decisive moment: the group repeats the sentence, not as an echo, but as confirmation. “Your thighs are warm and strong.” “Your scar is proof that you have lived.” “Your nipples are unique—like a fingerprint.”
Here, in this collective reinterpretation, shame becomes a weapon. Not against the individual, but against the norm that says certain body parts can be “wrong.” For those of you who write erotic literature: use this dynamic. Don’t just let your characters have their insecurities, let them transform. A body that feels shame is a body that remembers. A body that remembers is a body that carries stories.
Tips for young authors of erotic literature
- Sensuality instead of sex: Eroticism thrives on the tension between revelation and concealment. Don’t just describe what happens, but how it feels. Is the air cool on wet skin? Does a shiver run down your spine when eyes glide over your body?
- Bodies as maps: Every body has its own topography. Scars, birthmarks, wrinkles—these are not flaws, but signposts. Use them to give your characters depth.
- Shame as dialogue: Shame is rarely silent. It speaks, whispers, screams. Let your characters react, not just suffer. How does their breathing change? Do they clench their fists? Or do they suddenly smile because they realize they are not alone?
- Collective instead of isolation: Eroticism does not have to be lonely. Show how bodies relate to each other, not just next to each other. A touch of solidarity can electrify a scene.
Writing Prompt
“The door to the bathhouse is heavy, the wood swollen from centuries of moisture. When you push it open, a wall of heat and steam hits you. Inside, five women sit in a semicircle, their bodies only half-covered by towels that reveal more than they conceal. The eldest, a woman with graying hair and a gold ring through her left nipple, raises her head. ‘Finally,’ she says. ‘Take off your clothes. We’ve been waiting for hours to show you what you can’t see.’”
What would your character feel at this moment? And—more importantly—what would she do?