Bad Sex Awards

Het Britse tijdschrift Literary Review deelt elk jaar een prijs uit voor de slechtste sekspassage die dat jaar in een roman terechtkwam. De winnaar dit jaar was de onlangs overleden Norman Mailer. Hij kreeg de prijs voor een passage uit zijn roman The Castle and The Forest. In dat boek wordt over het mannelijk hoofdpersonage verteld dat hij ‘zacht is als een bobijn van uitwerpselen’. Dit fragment deed de jury helemaal overstag gaan: ‘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.’
Maar ook de andere genomineerden schotelden de jury pareltjes voor.
Uit Girl Meets Boy van Ali Smith:
We were tangled in each other’s arms . . . Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about me became a wing . . . a bird that could sing Mozart
Uit Apples van Richard Milward
She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyes popped out. She hadn't shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet. Her cunt smelt a bit like an armpit, and when I pulled the lips open I knew I'd have to shut them numerous times or else I'll die of Aids or I'd fall into it.
Uit The Stone Gods van Jeanette Winterson
Why am I embarrassed about taking off my clothes right in front of a robot? She is smiling, just a little bit, as though she knows her effect.
To calm myself down and appear in control I reverse the problem. 'Spike, you're a robot, but why are you such a drop-dead gorgeous robot?'
She answers simply: 'They thought I would be good for the boys on the mission.'
I'm assuming 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.' ...
Uit Absurdistan van Gary Shteyngart
"You wanna pop me?" she said. This must have been some new-fangled youth term. The verb "to pop."
"I wanna bust a nut inside you, shorty," I said. "I wanna make you 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 while to maneuver two large dimpled buttocks and the accompanying vaginal wedge out of the hard shell of her Miss Sixty denims. We huffed and sweated; I had her hanging off the edge of the bed while I gripped the cuffs of her jeans; I nearly pulled a groin muscle getting her naked; but through it all I stayed hard, a testament to how much I wanted her.
…
"Yeah," I said, "I'm fucking you, boo," but the words did not 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 me right. 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 slipped out. Her thighs trembled before me, and I felt a warm, abundant liquid spreading on my own thighs, not sure which of us had issued it. My bedroom was filled with the smell of asparagus and related greenery.