What can be more fun than poking at badly written sex scenes? *g* This is why I soooo love the Bad Sex Award, not because it aims to recognize the worst description of sex in literature—and to discourage it (as well they should; bad sex scenes should be ILLEGAL)—but because this is one of those instances where Romance gets to laugh at the face of those “literary” snobs. Ha! Take that, you stupid sex writer wannabes!
One of the lucky contenders this year is Will by Christopher Rush. I swear it has more than enough purple prose to make Fabio’s lance of love to leap around like a shower dropped in an empty bath:
O glorious pubes! The ultimate triangle, whose angles delve to hell but point to paradise. Let me sing the black banner, the blackbird’s wing, the chink, the cleft, the keyhole in the door. The fig, the fanny, the cranny, the quim—I’d come close to it now, this sudden blush, this ancient avenue, the end of all odysseys and epic aim of life, pulling at my prick now, pulling like a lodestone.
Anne Hathaway’s cow-milking fingers, cradling my balls in her almond palm, now took pity on the poor anguished erection, and in the infinite agony of her desire, guided it to the quick of the wound. At the same time I searched wildly with the fingers of my left hand, groping blind as Cyclops, found the pulpy furred wetness, parted the old lips of time and slipped my middle finger into the sancta sanctorum. It welcomed me with soft sucking sounds, syllables older than language, solace lovelier than words.
The fig, the fanny, the cranny, the quim? What, no slippery waterweed? *shock* Gabaldon will have a fit! Oh, well, I was sold at “o glorious pubes.” :P
Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about me became a wing, a single wing, and she was the other wing, we were a bird. We were a bird that could sing Mozart... I was sinew, I was a snake, I changed stone to snake in three simple moves, stoke stake snake, then I was a tree whose branches were all budded knots, and what were those felty buds, were they antlers?
Huh? Me thinks—call it grasping at straws, if you will—this is a sex scene??? *verra confused* Erm, Ali Smith thinks it is. I haven’t read Girl Meets Boy; I’m guessing the story is about a girl who meets a dude who’s a shapeshifting bird-like Mozart-fan hippie and they smoke some crappy hash.
Anywho, the Bad Sex Award can’t be complete without some pervy author obsessing about the vajayjay. We’ve already established that no matter what the man’s intentions are, his main goal is always the same: to get between her legs. (C’mon, I DARE you to deny it. *g*) Apparently, the bush on top of it has its own wow-wow-wee effect. Here’s a snippet from Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart:
Her vagina was all that, as they say in the urban media—a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? Good Lord, yes it was. Mountains of kinkiness black as the night above the Serengeti with paprika shoots at the edges—the pubic hair alone must have clocked in at half a kilo...
Was it especially gagging? Good lord, yes it was! Eheh. Probably why, in The Stone Gods, Jeanette Winterson suggests that inter-species illegal sex with a robot—who has a silicon-lined vagina fetish—is the way to go. And she has a point! Look at this quote from Richard Milward’s Apples:
She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyes popped out. She hadn’t shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet.
“So, you just gonna sit there?” Abi asked, and I laughed nervously. I was hardening up... but my heart wasn’t into it—her cunt smelt a bit like an armpit, and when I pulled the lips open I knew I’d have to shut them numerous times or else I’ll die of Aids or I’d fall into it.
Dude, honestly, WTF? Heaven help the stupid fuck who might think my fanny smells like an armpit and looks like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet. Swear to Xenu, I’d shoot him in the head and then plunge a dagger in his heart to make sure he’s fucking DEAD. Hi-yah! *karate chop-chop*
Whatever. Fucker. :@ The winner will be announced today where passages from the books will be read aloud by actresses, hopefully with “a commotion of grunts and squeaks, flashing unconnected images and explosions of a million little particles.”**
**From last year’s winner, Twenty Something by Iain Hollingshead.