The day has come, lads and lasses - the day the winner of the annual Bad Sex in Fiction Awards is announced. Today, among many other worthy contenders, the Literary Review gathered in London to crown American author, Christopher Bollen (who was probably not actually there) the One True King.
Eh hem. A reading from his novel, The Destroyers:
"On the stone porch, in the hot, mountain air, we grapple with our clothing, which, in the darkness, becomes as complicated as mountaineering gear. Her black shirt around her neck, mine unbuttoned, our shorts and underwear slid to our ankles, we seem to be moving at avalanche speed and also, unfortunately, with avalanche precision."
Bollen also has a proclivity for really erotic, appealing imagery:
“The skin along her arms and shoulders are different shades of tan like water stains in a bathtub.”
Or how about:
“Her face and vagina are competing for my attention, so I glance down at the billiard rack of my penis and testicles.”
In all fairness, he's a published author, and I hear the book is (otherwise) quite good. Doesn't mean I didn't snort at my reading all the excerpts.
There were other excellent contenders, of course:
At the Bad Sex in Fiction award. The first on the shortlist is about a Deleuzian philosopher and contains the phrase 'fuck me like an assemblage'.— Tim Whitmarsh (@Twhittermarsh) November 30, 2017
In my mouth her nipple turned from strawberry to deep raspberry but the taste I wanted was missing. I had sweat and what had to be soap from washing her dress or herself. Reaching behind me, I found the Brie and broke off a fragment, sucking her nipple through it. #BadSex— Literary Review (@Lit_Review) November 30, 2017
My fingers found both vineyards. At the front, she tasted salt as anchovy and as delicious. At the rear, bitter like chocolate and smelling strangely of tobacco. My tongue explored each and she shivered at one and giggled with embarrassment at the other. #BadSex— Literary Review (@Lit_Review) November 30, 2017
Her mouth was intensely ovoid, an almond mouth, of citrus crescents. And under that sling, her breasts were like young fawns, sheep frolicking in hyssop – Psalms were about to pour out of me. #BadSex— Literary Review (@Lit_Review) November 30, 2017
Sugar pretending to seduce an invisible man, begging him in a voice almost hysterical with lust. ‘Oh, you must let me stroke your balls, they are so beautiful — like … like a dog turd. A dog turd nestling under your …’ Your what? A word to make you wet yourself? #BadSex— Literary Review (@Lit_Review) November 29, 2017
Look, guys, I know writing a sex scene in any kind of artistic way is hard, but wow. Just... wow.