12.01.2006

At this point, I'll take whatever I can get.

Bad sex, better than nothing, don't you think.... well.

...a commotion of grunts and squeaks, flashing unconnected images and explosions of a million little particles.
I don't even know what that's supposed to mean, but it doesn't sound like anything I want to experience (or be in the presence of someone experiencing).

The above passage is by Iain Hollingshead, in his novel Twenty Something, the winner of the much coveted Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction award. And he's a newcomer, he must be proud, but his .."description of "bulging trousers" sealed the win, the judges said.."
"Because Hollingshead is a first-time writer, we wished to discourage him from further attempts," the judges said in a statement. "Heavyweights like Thomas Pynchon and Will Self are beyond help at this point."
Yeah, but you he got to meet Courtney Love, who presented the award, for that I'd be happy to be considered the worst sex writer of the year, I'm gonna have to polish up my skills in time for next year, anyway
"I hope to win it every year," said Hollingshead, who receives a statuette and a bottle of champagne.
I'll be keeping and eye on him.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I have a theory that "bad sex", in writing terms, is due to a reluctance to call a spade a spade. They beat around the bush (no pun intended, although this sounds better than anything Hollingshead has come up with). They fancy themselves as literary heavyweights, and so feel cocks and cunts are too earthy; to do with pornography rather than literature.

Last time I heard a "commotion of grunts and squeaks" was in witnessing pigs being fed live rats and mice. A real boner I must say!