Bad Sex Awards (burp)

The longlist for the Bad Sex Awards has been announced–I’m not entirely convinced that Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Tarun Tejpal or Christine Aziz should have been on the list, but that’s another matter.

In tribute, we offer The Digested Read:

[Warning: Adult content. Courtesy Updike, Brando, Coren, Elton, Rushdie, Grossman, Garcia Marquez, Theroux, Aziz, Lecasble and Tejpal.]

I twined my legs around Homer’s body, gripping him like a hunter hanging on to its prey.
…she grabbed at his dick, which was leaping around like a shower dropped in an empty bath…
I went to the bathroom and wrote on the mirror: Delgadina, my love, the Christmas breezes have arrived.
She was racing ahead, reading with emphasis.
She fainted, upright and motionless with seawater up to her belly. Lobster swam to her purple feet. Smoother, somehow simpler, its wetness less thick, less of a sauce, more of a glaze.
“Ooh-la-la!” she breathed as he smelt the clean aroma of her short bobbed hair and the rain-sodden grass around it. “Oooh-la-jolly well-la!”
This wasn’t like the moans she had heard from thousands of others, but like someone suddenly recognizing something they had previously only heard about, like a boy who sees an airplane in the sky for the first time, not in a story-book, and he stands and cries out: Airplane, airplane!
Toe and tongue. Nipple and penis. Finger and the bud. Armpit and mouth. Nose and clitoris. Clavicle and gluteus maximus. Mons veneris and phallus indica.
“You think I went to all this trouble just for a kiddie-style session of lick and suck?”
An unintelligible muttering sound came from Yummee as she subsided on top of him. It could have been a prayer to one of her goddesses, or a threat.

Offended? Try our Sanitised Version: look what wholesome goodness lurks among the dirty bits!

Descriptions of Nature: A flock of crows, six or eight, raucously rasping at one another, thrashed into the top of an oak on the edge of the square of sky.
And Religion: “Oh, Lord,” he cried out. “I’m a-comin’!”
Table Manners—why you should never talk when your mouth is full: “he gasped and glugged at the air”.
A nod to Blyton’s language: “Gosh”, “Golly” and, as things moved towards a conclusion, even “Tally ho!”
Lessons for the young smack addict: “Don’t you treat me like a child,” she said in a throaty voice that proved she had been unsparing in her drug abuse.
Old-fashioned Inspiration: She whispered to him eagerly, “You can do everything, you’ll see, nothing will stand in the way of your courage.”
Nursery rhymes: On the night of her birthday I sang the entire song to Delgadina…
What to do in a medical emergency: “Then he knew, his body began to convulse, and as he cried “No” – because she had let go – she pushed him backward onto the seat and pressed her face down…”
And childhood games: “We made our way to the summerhouse and hid in its shadows.”
For the budding fashion designer: “Yes! Suddenly he could see the fabric clearly, glistening, pearl-like.”
And nothing could be healthier than a little mountaineering: “We began to climb peaks and fall off them.”

4 comments

  1. Here’s my version of The Digested Read. [Warning: Adult content. Courtesy Updike, Brando and Cammell, Coren, Elton, Grossman, Theroux, Aziz] A flock of crows, six or eight, raucously rasping at one another, thrashed into the top of an oak on the edge of the square of sky. He stood there, his head thrown back with the rain falling on his face, as he felt fingers reaching into his fly and searching for a way into his long johns. He looked down at his prick, silently begging it not to be distracted; his prick stared back at him with its one eye clouded by a single drop of pure seminal yearning. He felt suspended at the top of an arc. The warmth of her mouth on him was almost too much to bear. The sound of his pleasure came slanting from deep within his lungs and seemed like an echo of a softer sighing in her throat. Her breasts were in his hands, his thumbs grazing her nipples. Her touch was surer and so finely judged that she seemed to feel in the throb of his cock the spasm of his juice rising. Then he knew, his body began to convulse, and he cried “Oh Jesus. Yes!” “Oh, Lord,” he cried out. “I’m a-comin’!” She pushed him backward onto the seat and pressed her face down, curling her tongue around it, and the suddenness of it, the snaking of her tongue, the pressure of her lips, the hot grip of her mouth, triggered his orgasm, which was not juice at all but a demon eel thrashing in his loins and swimming swiftly up his cock, one whole creature of live slime fighting the stiffness as it rose and bulged at the tip. He came hard in her mouth and his dick jumped around and rattled on her teeth and he blacked out and she took his dick out of her mouth and lifted herself from his face and whipped the pillow away and he gasped and glugged at the air, and he came again so hard that his dick wrenched out of her hand and a shot of it hit him straight in the eye and stung like nothing he’d ever had in there. She grabbed at his dick, which was leaping around like a shower dropped in an empty bath, she scratched his back deeply with the nails of both hands and he shot three more times, in thick stripes on her chest. When she looked at him, a sigh escaped her. He was so beautiful at that moment. She whispered to him eagerly, “You can do everything, you’ll see, nothing will stand in the way of your courage.” “Don’t wash it away” he said. “I want to be able to smell you tonight.”

  2. Yup, Remixed Prose isn’t such a bad idea. Imagine: The Tagore-Faulkner Remix (The Home and The Fury), The Murakami-Ishiguro Remix (Kafka, Let Me Go), The Shukla-Chauduri Remix (Afternoon Raag Darbari), The Mahasweta-Arundhati Remix (The Mother of Small Things). All we need now are PJs (Prose Jockeys).

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