The unbearable weight of eyelashes.
Nipples as hard as tiny round pebbles.
Sticking your cock into the sun.
It’s that time of year again: the Bad Sex in Fiction Award Haruki Murakami, Wilbur Smith, Kirsty Wark, and Man Booker Prize winner Richard Flanagan are among the nominees for the annual Bad Sex in Fiction Award. The Literary Review is once again looking for “the most egregious passage of sexual description in a work of fiction.”
The shortlist of erotically-charged authors of some very purple prose is as follows:
- The Snow Queen by Michael Cunningham
- The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan
- The Hormone Factory by Saskia Goldschmidt
- Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami
- The Age of Magic by Ben Okri
- The Affairs of Others by Amy Grace Loyd
- Desert God by Wilbur Smith
- Things to Make and Break by May-Lan Tan
- The Lemon Grove by Helen Walsh
- The Legacy of Elizabeth Pringle by Kirsty Wark
Kirsty Wark goes for the classic dam-bursting-with-passion imagery of romance novels.
He said my name over and over as he lifted me up, my legs curled around him, and laid me down beneath him on the high bed. I had never imagined that I was capable of wanton behaviour, but it was as if a dam within me had burst and we made love that day and night like two people starved, slowly suffused with more and more pleasure, exploring and devouring every inch of each other, so as not to miss one single possibility of passion.
Wilbur Smith is evidently a fan of bikini waxes. And puckering nipples.
Her hair was piled high, but when she shook her head it came cascading down in a glowing wave over her shoulders, and fell as far as her knees. This rippling curtain did not cover her breasts which thrust their way through it like living creatures. They were perfect rounds, white as mare’s milk and tipped with ruby nipples that puckered as my gaze passed over them. Her body was hairless. Her pudenda were also entirely devoid of hair. The tips of her inner lips protruded shyly from the vertical cleft. The sweet dew of feminine arousal glistened upon them.
Richard Flanagan has an interest in cartography.
Whatever had held them apart, whatever had restrained their bodies before, was now gone. If the earth spun it faltered, if the wind blew it waited. Hands found flesh; flesh, flesh. He felt the improbable weight of her eyelash with his own; he kissed the slight, rose-coloured trench that remained from her knicker elastic, running around her belly like the equator line circling the world. As they lost themselves in the circumnavigation of each other, there came from nearby shrill shrieks that ended in a deeper howl. Dorrigo looked up. A large dog stood at the top of the dune. Above blood-jagged drool, its slobbery mouth clutched a twitching fairy penguin.
Do you know how it feels to stick your cock into the sun? May-Lan Tan does.
She wriggles down under the blankets and pulls off my jeans and skivvies. I lie back and her hair tickles my stomach, her mouth wrapping over me. I’d forgotten this about her: she has the smallest, hottest mouth, as if she’s storing lava in her cheeks. I shut my eyes, holding her hair by the roots. My bones start to liquefy. When I’m about to come, I flip her onto her back and take off her underwear. I roll her nipple on my tongue and rub her clit with my thumb until her lips get slippery. I glide my middle finger in and out, then fold her legs up and push in. God. It’s like sticking your cock into the sun.
Saskia Goldschmidt’s sex scene features apples, uncaged beasts and the most erotically-laden chemistry lab imagery in literature.
She was moaning softly now, her breath coming faster. She tasted of apples. Her soft warm flesh was driving me crazy – that dish of delight my tongue was now lapping at frenziedly. Her suppressed cries were coming faster and faster. I unbuttoned my pants, pushing them down past my hips, and my beast, finally released from its cage, sprang up wildly. I started inching my way back up, continuing to stimulate her manually, until the beast found its way in. She opened her eyes and said softly, ‘I’m still a virgin, please be careful.’ I kept myself quiet for a moment, kissed her and said, “I’ll be very gentle, all right?” Running her tongue over her lips she nodded; she was as hot as boiling water in a distillation flask, and it wasn’t long before I was able to really get going. We both came at the same time. I stayed inside her for a few seconds, gazed at her, and smiled.
Haruki Murakami, meanwhile, opts for nature imagery like, you know, Wordsworth did.
The girls entwined themselves lithely around Tsukuru. Kuro’s breasts were full and soft. Shiro’s were small, but her nipples were as hard as tiny round pebbles. Their pubic hair was as wet as a rain forest. Their breath mingled with his, becoming one, like currents from far away, secretly overlapping at the dark bottom of the sea. These insistent caresses continued until Tsukuru was inside the vagina of one of the girls. It was Shiro. She straddled him, took hold of his rigid, erect penis, and deftly guided it inside her. His penis found its way with no resistance, as if swallowed up into an airless vacuum. She took a moment, gathering her breath, then began slowly rotating her torso, as if she were drawing a complex diagram in the air, all the while twisting her hips. Her long, straight black hair swung above him, sharply, like a whip.
Helen Walsh knows that sex, like life, can hit hard.
She closes her eyes. Shakes her head. “We can’t,” she begins. His mouth is on hers; his tongue is jabbing around her gums, the wrinkled roof of her mouth. He pulls away a second time. “Look at me,” he says. She looks him in the eye. She reaches out and cups his balls and squeezes gently. Nathan closes his eyes, bites his lip. Then he steps into her, furious. And when it hits her, it slams her hard and fast, as life once had.
Ben Okri thinks that sex is literally heavenly.
When his hand brushed her nipple it tripped a switch and she came alight. He touched her belly and his hand seemed to burn through her. He lavished on her body indirect touches and bitter-sweet sensations flooded her brain. She became aware of places in her that could only have been concealed there by a god with a sense of humour. Adrift on warm currents, no longer of this world, she became aware of him gliding into her. He loved her with gentleness and strength, stroking her neck, praising her face with his hands, till she was broken up and began a low rhythmic wail. She was a little overwhelmed with being the adored focus of such power, as he rose and fell. She felt certain now that there was a heaven and that it was here, in her body. The universe was in her and with each movement it unfolded to her.
Amy Grace Lloyd balances on the knife-edge of pleasure and pain.
I continued to tell her flesh of its gifts, such pleasure, gently but insistently given, even biting her earlobe with my front teeth, sweeping her hair from her face, her neck, as she cried, and breathed less jaggedly, “It hurts, it hurts.” I did not stop until it stopped hurting, until I heard pleasure articulated from her. Her throat as open as her body, wet everywhere from tears and the coming, and I did hear it, a long high twisting cry and a twisting in my arms as my fingers dove up and up into the full expressive wetness of her. Hold me, hold me. Here and here, she said after she came, placing one of my hands between her legs to press again, another over her breasts. Hold me tight.
Michael Cunningham wants you to understand the difference between a sigh and a sex moan.
They both know they have to do this quickly. He slides his dick into her. She sighs more loudly, but it’s still a sigh, not a sex moan, though this time there’s a soft gasp at the end. Tyler is inside her, here’s the heat, the powerful wet hold, and fuck, he’s about to come already. He holds off, lets his cock rest in her, lies on top, his face pressed to her cheek (he can’t seem to look directly at her), until she says, ‘Don’t wait.’ “Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” He thrusts once, cautiously. He thrusts again, and he’s gone, he’s off into the careening nowhere. He lives for seconds in that soaring agonizing perfection. It’s this, only this, he’s lost to himself, he’s no one, he’s obliterated, there’s no Tyler at all, there’s only… He hears himself gasp in wonder. He falls into an ecstatic burning harmedness, losing, lost, unmade. And is finished.
The winner of the Bad Sex in Fiction Award will be announced on December 3rd.