Back in Old Blighty, it's time again for distribution of the Bad Sex Award, a prize given to the author of the year's most "unconvincing, perfunctory, embarrassing or redundant sex scene in an otherwise sound literary novel." Up for the honors was Thomas Pynchon, for his Santorumesque doggy shag tale involving
a spaniel called Mouffette, a curious man called Reef and the final line, "Reader, she bit him."
Sadly, Pynchon was pipped at the post by young turk Iain Hollingshead, whose more conventional offering included this passage:
She reaches for my belt. I groan too, in expectation. And then I'm inside her, and everything is pure white as we're lost in a commotion of grunts and squeaks, flashing unconnected images and explosions of a million little particles.
Hey, watch it! Those are Snowflake Babies you're talking about.
The compleat entries can be read here.
And, since somebody's got to do it, I'm awarding the Bad Blog Sex prize to Special Ed Morrissey, for his erotic essay on The Mile
Wide High Club:
In modern jets, the seats are far too cramped, and the bathrooms are worse. The flight experience produces physical reactions closer to a hangover than sexual arousal, and anyone who thinks that mutual sexual gratification can take place under such circumstances probably spends too much time reading Penthouse Forum than this blog [sic].
And Forum's more credible than that blog too.