The Bad Sex Award 2007

The Literary Review Bad Sex award was set up by the literary criticRhoda Koenig and the late editor of the Literary Review Auberon Waugh in 1993"to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use ofredundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourageit."

Last year's award was won by first-time authorIain Hollingshead for his novel Twenty Something, beating Irvine Welsh,Will Self, David Mitchell and American literary maverick Thomas Pynchon.Hollingshead had grandly announced that he "hoped to win it every year".But thejudges said they wanted to have just the opposite effect: "BecauseHollingshead is a first-time writer, we wished to discourage him from furtherattempts. Heavyweights like Thomas Pynchon and Will Self are beyond help at thispoint."

The Bad Sex In Fiction Award 2007

The Castle in the Forest by Norman Mailer

'Are you alright?' she cried out as he lay beside her, his breath going in and out with a rasp that sounded as terrible as the last winds of their lost children.

'All right. Yes. No,' he said. Then she was on him. She did not know if this would resuscitate him or end him, but the same spite, sharp as a needle, that had come to her after Fanni's death was in her again. Fanni had told her once what to do. So Klara turned head to foot, and put her most unmentionable part down on his hard-breathing nose and mouth, and took his old battering ram into her lips. Uncle was now as soft as a coil of excrement. She sucked on him nonetheless with an avidity that could come only from the Evil One - that she knew. From there, the impulse had come. So now they both had their heads at the wrong end, and the Evil One was there. He had never been so close before.

The Hound began to come to life. Right in her mouth. it surprised her. Alois had been so limp. But now he was a man again! His mouth lathered with her sap, he turned around and embraced her face with all the passion of his own lips and face, ready at last to grind into her with the Hound, drive it into her piety.

Philip Womack, assistant editor of the Literary Review, whose editorial staff judge the annualprize, said: 'It was the excrement that tipped the balance. That, and the line about Alois [the male character] being 'ready at last to grind into her with the Hound, drive it into her piety'. That was prettyawful.' There were seven others on the shortlist, but in the end it was a three-wayfight between Mailer, Ali Smith and Christopher Rush. Honourable mention went to Jeanette Winterson for her use of the phrase "silicon-lined vaginas".

First runner-up:
Will, by Christopher Rush, about the life of Shakespeare:
O glorious pubes! The ultimate triangle, whose angles delve to hell but point toparadise. Let me sing the black banner, the blackbird's wing, the chink, thecleft, the keyhole in the door. The fig, the fanny, the cranny, the quim -- I'dcome close to it now, this sudden blush, this ancient avenue, the end of allodysseys and epic aim of life, pulling at my prick now, pulling like alodestone.

Anne Hathaway's cow-milking fingers, cradling my balls in her almond palm, nowtook pity on the poor anguished erection, and in the infinite agony of herdesire, guided it to the quick of the wound. At the same time I searched wildlywith the fingers of my left hand, groping blind as Cyclops, found the pulpyfurred wetness, parted the old lips of time and slipped my middle finger intothe sancta sanctorum. It welcomed me with soft sucking sounds, syllables olderthan language, solace lovelier than words. She pulled my hand away, positionedthe prick, slid her buttocks deep into the grass, raised her thighs back high,crossed her legs behind my back, dug her heels into my spine and hauled at mesavagely and hard. I fell into her.

It was exhilarating, to be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king ofinfinite space. But Anne Hathaway was a cruel queen. Her calves crushed my ribs,her crossed heels digging in hard, drawing me in deeper. She responded withthose cries that men long to hear, the sweet deep moaning sounds that echo thesigh of oceans, the ebb and flow of fields, the sough of stars. So we drank fromone another, clung together on the ship we'd made of ourselves, breasting theirrelevance of time.

All around us nature joined in ... Streamers of heat lashed my back andshoulders and far beneath me now the body of Anne Hathaway began to rage andfounder in the rising foam as I clung like a mariner to her heaving haunches,the deep keel of her backbone dipping and lifting through July, through thegreen surge of growth, till at last the moment came when some colossal waveflung her up high, and I held on for my life, and she screamed loud and longThen O! then O! then O! my true love said and I felt death go through her. Ourvessel ran shuddering onto the rocks, a wave of wetness ran through us, the airwas rent with screams and I became aware that the bank on which we lay drenchedand grounded was journey's end, love's end, the very sea-mark of our utmostsail.

Second runner-up:
Boy Meets Girl by Ali Smith:
Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about mebecame a wing, a single wing, and she was the other wing, we were a bird. Wewere a bird that could sing Mozart. Her beautiful head was down at my breast,she caught me between her teeth just once, she put the nip into nipple like thecub of a fox would.

Was that her tongue? Was that what they meant when they said flames had tongues?I was hard all right, and then I was sinew, I was a snake, I changed stone tosnake in three simple moves, stoke stake snake, then I was a tree whose brancheswere all budded knots, and what were those felty buds, were they antlers? wereantlers really growing out of both of us? was my whole front furring over? andwere we the same pelt? were our hands black shining hoofs? were we kicking? werewe bitten? We were blades, were a knife that could cut through myth, were twoknives thrown by a magician, were arrows fired by a god, we hit heart, we hithome, we were the tail of a fish were the reek of a cat were the beak of a birdwere the feather that mastered gravity were high above every landscape then downdeep in the purple haze of the heather were roamin in a gloamin in a brashunending Scottish piece of perfect jigging reeling reel can we really keep thisup?

[According to Philip Womack, "Smith was a close contender." But alas,apparently, "from a literary point of view" they took "exception to the mixedmetaphors".] 

Honourable Mention: 
The Stone Gods by Jeanette Winterson
Spike doesn't say anything, but she looks at me, and I know she'll be reading mydata-chip implant. Everything about me is stored just above my wrist.

'I can't read your data,' she says, reading my mind instead. 'That function ispassive while I'm draining.'

'How long will the draining take?'

'A few hours, including questions, then I'm done.'

'You were built entirely for the space mission, right?'

She nods and smiles. She is absurdly beautiful. I start to slip off my jeans andI feel her gaze as I stand in my bra and pants. Why am I embarrassed abouttaking off my clothes right in front of a robot? I pull the dress over my headlike a schoolgirl, untie my hair, and sit down. She is smiling, just a littlebit, as though she knows her effect.

To calm myself down and appear in control I reverse the problem. 'Spike, you'rea robot, but why are you such a drop-dead gorgeous robot? I mean, is itnecessary to be the most sophisticated machine ever built and to look like amovie star?'

She answers simply: 'They thought I would be good for the boys on the mission.'

I am pondering the implications of this. Like a wartime pin-up? Like a liveanti-depressant? Like truth is beauty, beauty truth? 'How good? I mean, I'massuming you're not talking sexual services here.'

'What else is there to do in space for three years?'

'But inter-species sex is illegal.'

'Not on another planet it isn't. Not in space it isn't.' ...

'So you had sex with spacemen for three years?'

'Yes. I used up three silicon-lined vaginas.' 

...

We made love by our fire, watching the snow shape the entrance to the cave.

When I touch her, my fingers don't question what she is. My body knows who sheis. The strange thing about strangers is that they are unknown and known. Thereis a pattern to her, a shape I understand, a private geometry that numbers mine.She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is themissing map. She is the place that I am.

She is a stranger. She is the strange that I am beginning to love.

Others on the short-list
The Nature of Monsters by Clare Clark
Unhooked by longing, my body arched towards him. When at last he reached into touch me, there was nothing else left, nothing in the world but his fingersand the delirious incoherent frenzy of pure sensation they sent spirallingthrough me, as though I were an instrument vibrating with the exquisite hymns ofthe angels. Did that make him an angel? My toes clenched in my boots and mybelly held itself aloft in a moment of stillness as the flame quivered,perfectly bright. I held my breath. In the explosion I lost sight of myself. Iwas a million brilliant fragments, the darkness of my belly alive with stars.When at last I opened my eyes to look at him, my lashes shone with tears. Heraised a finger to his lips and smiled.

Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart:
"You wanna pop me?" she said. This must have been some new-fangledyouth term. The verb "to pop."

"I wanna bust a nut inside you, shorty," I said. "I wanna makeyou sweat, boo. Let's do this thing."

I'd like to say that she stepped out of her jeans, but in truth it took a whileto maneuver two large dimpled buttocks and the accompanying vaginal wedge out ofthe hard shell of her Miss Sixty denims. We huffed and sweated; I had herhanging off the edge of the bed while I gripped the cuffs of her jeans; I nearlypulled a groin muscle getting her naked; but through it all I stayed hard, atestament to how much I wanted her. She kept her T-shirt on throughout theinitial popping, which is just how I like my sex, infused with a little mystery.I slipped my hands beneath the cotton tee and felt the smooth creamery of herbreasts while saving the visuals of those brown glossy globes for later. Hervagina was all that, as they say in the urban media - a powerful ethnic musclescented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of atiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? GoodLord, yes it was. Mountains of kinkiness black as the night above the Serengetiwith paprika shoots at the edges - the pubic hair alone must have clocked in athalf a kilo, while providing the inspiration for two discernible trails of hair,one running up to the navel, the other to the base of the spine.

Naturally, considering my size, she got on top of me. But given her impressiveoverall body mass and natural resilience, I could see a day when we could broachthe missionary position, not that there's anything special in attacking a poorwoman that way. After we had fussed with the condom, I reached for her pubes,but she slapped me away. These preliminaries did not interest her. Instead, shejust plain mounted me, holding on to my tits for balance, slipping me insidewith no effort, both vaginal lips working to usher me into her tightness. I findit clichéd when couples insist that they have "the perfect fit," butbetween the busted-up, zigzag, Broadway boogie-woogie of my maligned purple khuiand the all-encompassing nature of her Caspian pizda, we reached a third way, asit were.

That is to say, she rode me. It was all very classy and contemporary, like amodern-art survey course at NYU. I wanted to have the slogan I RODE MISHAVAINBERG imprinted on her T-shirt. "Yeah, do me," she kept saying,after issuing a few grunts so male and assertive they startled me into a briefhomosexual fear, a fear compounded by one of her sharp nails digging into mytight rectum. "Do me, daddy," she said, her eyes closed, her thighsslapping against my upper and lower stomachs, my own tits making wet noisesagainst my frame. "Just like that," she said, stealing a brief glanceat me and then turning her head to the side so that I could lick her ear andplunge into her neck. "Just ... like ... that."

"Yeah," I said, "I'm fucking you, boo," but the words didnot convince me. "I'm busting my nut tonight," I sang.

"My pussy fills so tight," she sang back in perfect ghetto English.

"Ouch," I said. She was crushing my pubic bone, grinding into it."Ouch," I repeated. "Baby doll ... ouch."

"Just a minute, pops," she said. "Just give me a minute. Do meright. Just like that."

"Move up a little," I said. "Move up. It hurts. My bone."

"Just ... like ... that," she said.

"My bone hurts," I said. "I'm losing it."

"AW," she shouted. "FUCK ME." She leaned back. I slippedout. Her thighs trembled before me, and I felt a warm, abundant liquid spreadingon my own thighs, not sure which of us had issued it. My bedroom was filled withthe smell of asparagus and related greenery. "Aw," she said again."Fuck me."

Apples by Richard Milward
She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyespopped out. She hadn't shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or abit of old carpet.

'So, you just gonna sit there?' Abi asked, and I laughed nervously. I washardening up, but it was all a bit of a shock really. All I'd planned that nightwas listening to a selection of records and maybe some homework. I tried to godown on her, thinking back to the Razzle and how the boys did it in that. But myheart wasn't into it - her cunt smelt a bit like an armpit, and when I pulledthe lips open I knew I'd have to shut them numerous times or else I'll die ofAids or I'd fall into it.

The Late Hector Kipling by David Thewlis 
This is not pleasurable. How could anyone find having burning hot candle waxdripped onto the flesh of their belly pleasurable? But I don't want to tell herto stop cos the last time I told her to stop I got belted in the mouth. Shewears an average of three rings on each finger. God, Mum was right, this lousysettee does stink. No wonder Dad's in hospital. I might well be joining him bythe end of the night.

I think I'm still inside her but, quite honestly, it's difficult to tell ...

Avanti!

"You fucker!" she drawls, and brings the flame up close to my leftnipple. "You pathetic little fucker," and tries to light it like awick.

"Ooowwww!" Oh shit, my nipple's on fire. She's poured lighter fluidonto my chest and my tit's gone up in flames like some dessert in a poshrestaurant.

"Fuck, Rosa! Aggghhhh! For fuck's sake! Blow it out! Blow it out!"

"OK, baby," she whispers, suddenly gentle, "OK, my angel,"and with this she reaches down and pours half a can of Stella over my scorchedchest. I'm beginning to regret that I ever invited her in. "How'sthat?" she says, lowering her head and lapping up the ale. "That nice?That nice, baby?"

"No!" I scream.

"No?"

"No, Rosa, no that is not fucking nice! It bloody kills!"

She cracks me across the face with the back of her hand, grips my throat, spitsin my eye and scrapes her nails across my scalded flesh. And that's when I come.Oh yes. That's when the core of my soul spasms and snaps, spilling out itsfilthy pips.

Others on the long-list
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan had made it to the longlist, andwas initially being considered as one of the favourite contenders for the awardfor his Booker-loser novel devoted to the horrors of bad sex, and messy prematureejaculations, but finally could not even make it to the shortlist:

Had she pulled on the wrong thing? Had she gripped too tight? He gave out a wail, a complicated series of agonised, rising vowels, the sort of sound she had heard once in a comedy film when a waiter, weaving this way and that, appeared to be about to drop a pile of towering soup plates.

In horror she let go, as Edward, rising up with a bewildered look, his muscular back arching in spasms, emptied himself over her in gouts, in vigorous but diminishing quantities, filling her navel, coating her belly, thighs, and even a portion of her chin and kneecap in tepid, viscous fluid.

The Enormity of the Tragedy by Quim Monzo:
She felt the cylinder rod of his plunger. Tried to work up a precise rhythm.Felt the sand sticking to her knees through her trousers. She and Lluis-Albertwere all there was in the world; she swallowed him centimetre by centimetre(whenever a wave hit the beach) and then immediately let it go centimetre bycentimetre (as each wave retreated).