TWO IRISH WRITERS have been nominated for this year’s Bad Sex in Fiction Award, which recognises the very worst in literary couplings.
For the past 25 years, the Bad Sex in Fiction Award has recognised authors who manage to write a good novel that contains an outstandingly bad sex scene.
According to the Literary Review which awards the prize, its purpose is “to draw attention to poorly written, perfunctory or redundant passages of sexual description in modern fiction”.
Among Irish authors William Wall and Julian Gough is Haruki Murakami, a well-known author often said to be in the running to win a Nobel Prize.
Previous winners of the prize have included former Smiths’ frontman Morrissey. This year’s winner is announced on Monday 3 December.
Here’s a selection of the contenders for the award, as reported by the Guardian:
Connect by Julian Gough
He drops the bra to the floor, looks up, into her eyes, it’s too much. He kisses her chin, her mouth, and their tongues touch, oh, too much, he slips his lips free with a soft suck. Moves up to kiss her strong nose, on one side, then the other, it’s hard and soft at once. He moves back down, till he is level with her breasts.
‘They’re small,’ she says, surprisingly shy, apologetic.
‘They’re perfect,’ he says.
He kisses them. Teases a nipple with his lips. It’s so soft; and then, suddenly, hard.
Wow.
Grace’s Day by William Wall
He’s almost weightless. When he enters me it hurts and my pain belongs to the subterranean world, primitive as the clay. His body is slacker than I expected, a small paunch begins at his waist and settles in a downward parabola to his groin. His pubic hair is red. His erect penis is a surprise although I had imagined what they would feel like, read about them, seen them represented on toilet walls and magazines. I didn’t see it before he entered me, but afterwards it is small and sticky and amusing. I want to touch it but I don’t dare. I don’t know the etiquette. He is twenty or more years older than me. This is sex.
Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami
My ejaculation was violent, and repeated. Again and again, semen poured from me, overflowing her vagina, turning the sheets sticky. There was nothing I could do to make it stop. If it continued, I worried, I would be completely emptied out.
Scoundrels: The Hunt for Hansclapp by Major Victor Cornwall and Major Arthur St John Trevelyan
“Empty my tanks,” I’d begged breathlessly, as once more she began drawing me deep inside her pleasure cave. Her vaginal ratchet moved in concertina-like waves, slowly chugging my organ as a boa constrictor swallows its prey. Soon I was locked in, balls deep, ready to be ground down by the enamelled pepper mill within her.
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