Since Marigold knows the scene is sexy, she thinks others should know that, too. The part she's not getting is that other people reading her words don't understand what they describe in the same way she does. Since it's obvious to her that Harry and Ron kissing is sexy*, it should be obvious to them, too. Put another way, she's laboring under the belief her audience understands her thoughts and reactions in a way that is frankly impossible to them for the simple reason that they are not Marigold.
Once she gets that, then I think Marigold's inexperience will still hinder her, and I agree (as I stated earlier) that I don't think she's reading the best material to teach her how to bridge the gap (Tai's "inevitable clefts" included), but she's got to understand that everyone is not her first.
Words of wisdom. It is hard work to make the reader see and feel what the author has in mind at the best of times, and erotic fiction carries the additional burden that a scene that turns on one person, squicks another out entirely. Inexperience is a problem, but experience of sex doesn't translate easily into good writing about it either; one assumes that Laurel Hamilton is not a virgin, after all. Either way, it is easy to slide into a hideous combination of
tedious mechanical description, and semi-coy purple prose. I nearly included a quotation from a story I wrote at the age of eighteen* as an example, but it would just be too embarrassing...
I believe that reading the work of good authors is fairly essential to learning to write. So far Marigold's reading has seemed to be restricted to JKR (good story-telling, banal prose style), manga (not well-written IMHO especially in translation), and fan-fiction (...). Not promising. Mind you, one needs to read
many good authors to avoid the dangers of writing pastiche. I adore Raymond Chandler, but have a dreadful tendency to start mimicking his slightly overwrought descriptive style, without a gramme of his talent.
*A
completely original detective/adventure story set in Shanghai circa 1935 featuring a
not-at-all self-insert plucky young Chinese heroine, and an American hero who bore
no resemblance whatever to a certain fedora-wearing archeologist. Just been rereading it. It's so bad...