November 30th, 2007


"O glorious pubes!"

One of my favorite annual literary awards is the Bad Sex Award offered each year to the novel with the most howlingly bad descriptions of sex. Often, they are so filled with overripe metaphors that it's hard to tell if they're supposed to be sexy or not (how is one to react, for instance, to "nipples like delicate forest mushrooms"?).

The Guardian's website has the shortlist in all its eye-rolling glory:

Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about me became a wing, a single wing, and she was the other wing, we were a bird. We were 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 the cub of a fox would.

The winner, by the way, was recently announced as the late Norman Mailer for his Hitler's-parents-are-driven-to-sex-by-demons scene from The Castle in the Forest.