Everyone. The day you've been waiting for has finally arrived. No, not Thanksgiving or Black Friday or whatever else is going on this week. The British magazine Literary Review started giving out the "award" for Bad Sex in Fiction back in 1993. Yep, even before the hell that was Fifty Shades of Grey, this was actually a thing. On Tuesday, they unveiled the eight finalists, and believe it or not, these may actually be worse than our love-to-hate-it Fifty Shades.
The eight finalists are:
1. The Yips by Nicola Barker
2. The Adventuress: The Irresistible Rise of Miss Cath Fox by Nicholas Coleridge
3. Infrared by Nancy Huston
4. Rare Earth by Paul Mason
5. Noughties by Ben Masters
6. The Quiddity of Will Self by Sam Mills
7. The Divine Comedy by Craig Raine
8. Back to Blood by Tom Wolfe
But the best part of this whole ridiculous contest? The excerpts.
By the way, if you're wondering how Fifty Shades could have been excluded from the list, turns out it wasn't even eligible. "The prize’s rubric explicitly excludes pornographic and erotic literature," said Johnathan Beckman, who's the senior editor at Literary Review. Well, damnit all.
And unfortunately for me, I didn't have time to run out and buy all of these to pick out the best excerpts for myself. (Though, trust me, I think I would have thoroughly enjoyed that assignment.) (Stop judging me.) Luckily for all of us, the folks at EW rounded up some of the best, and here are the top five for your viewing pleasure.
Back to Blood by Tom Wolfe:
Now his big generative jockey was inside her pelvic saddle, riding, riding, riding, and she was eagerly swallowing it swallowing it swallowing it with the saddle’s own lips and maw -- all this without a word.
Infrared by Nancy Huston:
He runs his tongue and lips over my breasts, the back of my neck, my toes, my stomach, the countless treasures between my legs, oh the sheer ecstasy of lips and tongues on genitals, either simultaneously or in alternation, never will I tire of that silvery fluidity, my sex swimming in joy like a fish in water ...
The Yips by Nicola Barker:
She smells of almonds, like a plump Bakewell pudding; and he is the spoon, the whipped cream, the helpless dollop of warm custard. She steams. He applauds, his tongue hanging out (like a bloodhound espying a raw chop in a cartoon).
The Quiddity of Wilf Self by Sam Mills:
Down, down, on to the eschatological bed. Pages chafed me; my blood wept onto them. My cheek nestled against the scratch of paper. My cock was barely a ghost, but I did not suffer panic.
The Divine Comedy by Craig Raine:
And he came. Like a wubbering springboard. His ejaculate jumped the length of her arm. Eight diminishing gouts. The first too high for her to lick. Right on the shoulder.
OMG. "A wubbering springboard"? That is just so, so bad -- and freakin' hilarious. How does this stuff get published?
If you're at all curious, here's how the magazine finds these gems of fiction. Listening to them read this stuff in British accents will really just make your day. You're welcome:
If you had enough time to waste, would you ever try reading one of these books just for the hell of it?
Image via Amazon