Bad Sex in Literature Award

Britain’s Literary Review has announced the winner of its annual Bad Sex in Literature award. Rachel Johnson won for a passage in her satirical novel “Shire Hell,” and John Updike won a Lifetime Achievement award for his many contributions over the years.

I think this is a great idea, although I’m not sure how it works. Do the judges hunt for bad sex passages all year long or do people send in nominations, or what?

Although Ms. Johnson was commended for using the “worst metaphors” in a group of “equally awful entries,” a couple of the other candidates are impressive enough to deserve attention.

Here is a bit from “To Love, Honor and Betray” by Kathy Lette.

His towel fell away. Sebastian’s erect member was so big I mistook it for some sort of monument in the centre of a town.

Hahaha! Great, isn’t it? Here’s a passage from “Triptych of a Young Wolf” by Ann Allestree:

‘You are so moist down there.’ He stroked and probed her with two fingers as she felt her blood waken. He raised himself to his knees and bent to roll his tongue around her weeping orifice. He was bringing her to a pitch of ecstasy when she heard Madame Veuve, on the landing, put down the supper tray. Whiffs of onion soup strayed over them as he engulfed her.

It really is an art.

Let’s have a contest for the Godammit Bad Sex in Blog Comments Award. I haven’t thought out the prize yet, but it will be GOOD. I promise.

No filthy language, please. Anyone can write porn; this is about creative writing and the lofty heights that language can achieve.

If you read some of the excerpts from this year’s selections, you are bound to feel inspired. Here’s my extemporaneous attempt:

He unzipped his skin-tight Levis and extracted all twelve inches of his throbbing member, which ached for the heavenly   cavern she had hidden between her creamy waxed thighs. “Ow!” she screamed wildly, thrashing like a horse giving birth to twin foals.

Okay, so something like that, only a thousand times better. Ready, get set, go!

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35 Responses to Bad Sex in Literature Award

  1. Skye says:

    I don’t think Kathy Lette counts since she tries to be funny and over the top (not my sense of humour, but I think deliberate attempts at bad sex writing should be disqualified from the contest). That second one is more like it!

    I don’t think I can really compete – although some of the “erotic” short stories I wrote for my boyfriend in my twenties probably qualify. I can remember one masterpiece in particular which involved a koi pond and the koi themselves. Ick.

  2. The Bulwer-Lytton bad writing website collects various atrocities.

    Their contest idea is to submit a deliberately horrendous opening sentence to a fictive novel.

    Here is my entry which won an award a few years ago:

    “It was the absence of earwax on the end of the number 2 pencil found beside the meticulously ravaged body of socialite Buffey St. Clair that led Detective-Inspector Ferguson of the Yard to suspect that not all was as he had been given to believe.”

    Not much sex… but she was ravaged..

  3. Romeo says:

    No longer encumbered by any of her three prostheses, Julia twitched and gamboled her way over the ample form of the baron like a child bouncing on the naked back of an epileptic pachyderm. The baron thrusted and diddled with whichever appendage was most convenient momentarily for sustaining her voracity while his mind, a disassociated balloon tethered and floating about ten feet above their position on the toilet, swelled up with images of actuarial tables and incomprehensible bus schedules and alarmingly frequent flashes of Lord Oregano Von Wigglesbottom’s portrait published in the 1989 edition of Who’s Who In The House of Lords.

    But really, how can anyone compete with the straying whiffs of onion soup?

  4. This almost happened to me..

    The bats were still whirling and diving after bugs under the street lights and I knew from past observation that their flapping was totally silent, but that night, however, the pounding of my heart and my wheezing and gasping for oxygen as I pumped my bicycle, seemed to synchronize with the beating of their wings, giving them a World War I soundtrack, like little Tigermoths and Sopwith Camels chugging through the air, motors backfiring and sputtering.
    Hoping that my deodorant would stand the strain, I doubled my speed and turned on-to the main drag, leaning far over the handlebars as I pumped. When I got within fifty yards of the gas station I slammed on the brakes, ran a comb through my hair, and dismounted. Taking a deep breath, I started pushing the bike along as if I had the Dowager Empress on my arm. Puckering, I began whistling, “Que sera sera”, hoping to approximate the je ne sais quoi of Fred Astaire.
    As I approached the gas station I could see the Buick parked in front of the office and my heart leaped with joy. Oh thank you thank you thank you God, I bowed and scraped inwardly. All religions teach that the creator loves it when his creations grovel, and had I been a Catholic I would have genuflected on hot coals.
    Continuing on towards the Buick and fixing my eyes on the distant stars, I resumed my whistling. Whatever will be, will be, I blew, wondering will Will or won’t Will?
    “Ah, it’s the man of the hour,” she said when she saw me approaching. “You’re late,” she added flatly.
    “Forgive me, wondrous lady,” I said, bowing with full arm sweep, Errol Flynn’s Essex in the court of Bette Davis’ Elizabeth, “but I paused here and there along the way to search the glorious firmament for appropriate metaphors for the exquisite delicacy of your beauty.”
    “Did you remember to stop by the drugstore?” she asked.
    I looked at her blankly. This was a puzzlement. I had no headache, stomach cramp, infirmity of the limbs, water of the knee, wax of the ear, or ossification of the kidney. Nor had I any longer dandruff of the pate or halitosis of the breath, so far as I was aware. Nor, I hoped, had she.
    When she got tired of watching me stand there with that intelligent open-mouthed expression that I’m famous for, she shook her head and told me to get in. I quickly recovered my wits and chained my bike to the number two pump before sliding in next to her. She reeked of enticingly cheap perfume and was wearing another off-the-shoulder blouse, this time a pink number, and I put my arm around her shoulder, marveling again at her silky skin.
    “We’d better hurry,” she said, looking at her watch. “The cartoons should be finishing now and the picture starting soon.”
    I was about to suggest that we cancel the picture and head for some desolate spot where I could climb all over her, when my head nearly did a back flip into the back seat as she floored the accelerator and tore out of the gas station. After a minute and thirty-eight seconds, and only running three red lights, we were parked in the Night Owl drive-in.
    Twelve seconds later the screen credits were over and Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon, two sterling youths of latin extraction and missing about a half a pound of nose between them, were already tossing a beach ball back and forth, and I was getting a delightfully warm, wet, and well experienced tongue shoved half-way down my throat. This is the life, I thought as I caressed her neck as slowly and as gently as I could. I would blow into her ear later at the appropriate time.
    I was just settling down to the tongue fencing when I felt a claw slam down on my crotch like one of those metal talons in the penny arcades that you drop into the glass case full of marbles and trinkets to try to snag a cigarette lighter but never succeed. This girl had succeeded, however, and I let out a yelp.
    “My, but you’re impetuous, my little snap dragon,” I said, panting as I tried to pry her fingers open while hoping for a blessed return of circulation to my former privates. She quickly shifted her grip to my neck and pulled my head down to her and started melting my earwax with lingual stabs that felt like a red-hot poker. I’m not in control here, I said to myself. I could get hurt or at least very seriously bruised.
    By then she had yanked off my clip-on tie and was pulling out tufts of my chest hair as she dug for my zipper with her other hand, all the while impaling my ear with her tongue. I was definitely not in control. My carefully planned strategy for subtle seduction had jumped eight steps ahead of schedule and it was obvious that I wasn’t going to enjoy her hormonal frenzy unless I seized the initiative. I thought quickly.
    “Susy ..ouch! Susy, my dove little leprechaun ..ow! ..let go a sec. Have you heard of the Book of the Kama Sutra?”
    She relaxed her grip and removed her tongue from my ear with a popping sound that left my eardrum vibrating for a good thirty seconds, and she looked up at me with questioning eyes.
    “What are you talking about? You want to talk about books?” she said peevishly.
    “Listen carefully, my pigeon,” I whispered, as softly and as seductively as I could so that she had to concentrate to hear me. “Over five thousand years of erotic delights are con-tained within the Kama Sutra. It’s a fully illustrated manual of all the sexual wonders developed and perfected by the maharajas of India in order to satisfy the myriads of lusty concubines they had locked in their harems.”
    “Speak English,” she said sceptically.
    “Look,” I quickly continued, “these maharajas were sexual supermen. They had to be ..otherwise they would have been torn apart by those frustrated women. You’ve got to remember that even if a maharaja laid four or five concubines a day it might take him three or four months to get around to them all. So he had to be able to satisfy them so much that they could survive the long wait until the next session.”
    Her pupils had dilated now. If she buys this, I thought, she’ll be putty in my hands instead of the other way round.
    “You wouldn’t happen to have one of those Kama books, would you?” she asked with a mixture of skepticism and hope.
    “Not on me,” I answered quickly. “But I do have one at home. Luckily I have memorized the essentials of the book and am quite prepared to reveal to you the innermost secrets of the mystic cult.”
    She brightened noticeably.
    “But first, my darling, I must ask you to swear a solemn oath that you will never pass on the sacred knowledge that I am about to confer.. for if the secrets of the Kama Sutra should

    come into the possession of the uninitiated, scenes of unbridled carnality could result with unforeseen consequences. Swear, darling. Promise me.”
    She raised herself up from the seat on one elbow and put two fingers up like a good scout and swore. This is ludicrous, I thought. Two nights hence she’ll be perpetrating whatever I dream up tonight on some other pimpled Romeo.
    “Tell me,” she prompted. “Tell me!”
    “Oh, no, my little pea hen. I’m going to show you.
    Raising my head, I peered out of the side windows. The couple in the car on our right were busily engaged in trying to smooch, watch Frankie and Annette, and devour a bucket of pop-corn at the same time. The middle-aged couple in the station wagon on our left were spending most of their time swatting their brats in the back seat and fishing up ice cubes from spilled cups of root beer. The coast is clear, I thought. This had better be good.
    Meanwhile Susy had started vibrating with anticipation and she grabbed my shirt by the collar and ripped it open and down over my shoulders, popping at least four buttons.
    “Now,” she moaned. “Hurry!”
    “Easy, my concubine,” I whispered hoarsely as I pushed her back down on the seat. Then lowering myself gently over her I seized both her wrists in one hand above her head.
    “We will begin with the classic opening move called the Bite of the Jewelled Tortoise.”
    Lowering my head, I began to nibble at one of her delectable earlobes, pausing every few seconds to let the tension mount, and after a minute or two she was panting and bucking under me, her pelvis thrusting lewdly. I used my free hand to punch her forcefully in the stomach.
    “None of that,” I said severely. “You must allow me to play upon you like a guru tuning his sitar. The music must flow from the musician to his instrument, and tonight.. you are my instrument.”
    Lowering my head again, I brushed her lips with mine, careful to pull away when her tongue shot out.
    “This next perfection is called the Dance of the Perfumed Butterflies. Stop sticking your tongue out,” I reprimanded. Obedient, she retracted it, her breath coming in rasping pants. I again brushed her lips with mine before moving along her cheek to blow little wisps into her ear.
    “This is called the Sigh of the Westwind,” I explained.
    “Jesus, Jesus,” she moaned, and started to struggle to free her hands again.
    “You must not struggle,” I growled, “lest you disrupt the meditative state that is descending upon us.”
    Quickly dropping my head, I ground my lips to hers, forcing her mouth open and thrusting my tongue down her throat. She gasped and moaned and started bucking her hips up again.
    “That’s just Ogden tongue fucking. Is that what you want?” I hissed.
    “Yes.. I mean no, no!” she wailed, tossing her head, her eyes tightly shut in passionate indecision.
    “We will now proceed with the Praise of the Sacred Mountains.”
    Christ, I thought. Where am I getting all this stuff from?
    “Grab hold of the door handle with both hands. Don’t let go,” I ordered sternly. “I must have both my hands free to perform the next exercise.”
    She clutched the door handle tightly, knuckles white with exertion, her forehead and upper lip beading with sweat. I was starting to overheat alarmingly too, and I slipped out of my jacket and shrugged off the remains of my tattered shirt.
    “And now for the Magic Hills!” I intoned.
    “Sacred Mountains,” she corrected, still clutching the handle.
    “Yes, yes, the Sacred Mountains.”
    Fumbling briefly with the buttons of her blouse I got it quickly undone. The button holes were three times the size of the buttons. Whether she bought her blouses specially made that way for occasions such as this, or the holes had become grossly enlarged by much frenzied groping, I didn’t know and wasn’t about to ask. When I had gotten her buttons undone and folded back her blouse, I took a deep breath and whistled softly. She was wearing no bra.
    “Holy Himalayas!” I whispered. They were lovely. Two beautiful firm mounds with delicious rosy nipples that seemed to point in different directions, erect and pulsating. I was getting walleyed just looking at them. Now it was my turn to groan as I lowered my head once more and blew a soft stream of warm air, first over one lovely bonbon and then the other. My lips had become as dry as sandpaper and I licked them and then trailed my tongue slowly up the valley between the two trembling plums, careful not to come too close to her nipples.
    “Oh, Lord!” she wailed, clutching the door handle tighter.
    I then turned my full attention to one throbbing rosebud, extending my tongue to its full length and bending down to give it a tantalizing flick. It vibrated slightly from the caress and stood up even straighter.
    “Oh, Daddy, Daddy,” she puffed, her hips twisting and churning under me, and I fastened my lips to the luscious nipple, thinking that I had better get on to the nitty gritty before her dry humping made me embarrass myself.
    I moved my head back and forth between her breasts, biting, sucking and licking, making them wetter and wetter, amazed at how much sex made me salivate. It is a delicious meal, I told myself.
    “Sweet Jesus,” said Susy, throwing her head from side to side, “Sweet Jesus,” her chest heaving up to my ministrations. Finally she could stand it no longer and she tore her hands from the door handle and seized my ears in a frantic grip, pulling my mouth down to surround one burning mountain. I bit and chewed for all I was worth, eliciting rapturous cries and bansheeï·“like wails.
    After a minute or so of trying to withstand her writhing contortions, I had to reach up to disengage her hands from my mangled ears, which were sore and more than slightly swollen after being twisted like dish rags. Christ, I thought. I’m going to be the only blockhead in history to get cauliflower ears from foreplay!
    “And now, my gazelle,” I whispered hoarsely, “we will prepare for the Entrance of the Python to His Lair.”
    My overheated teen organs were beginning to feel like a pinball machine gone tilt and I reached between us and unzipped my pants. The sound of my zipper sliding down electrified her, and she stiffened and then resumed vibrating like a tuning fork.
    “Yes, the Python,” she moaned. “The Python! The Python!”
    Resting on the seat along side her, I lifted up her skirt and let my hand play from her knees up to her stomach. The insides of her thighs were like velvet and my breath caught as I noticed with delight the few soft golden strands of hair peeking out from the edges of her panties. By then the windows of the Buick were completely fogged up and the magical smell of aroused maiden was beginning to fill the car like a hypnotic perfume. I inhaled deeply, my senses reeling. The passionate odors emanating from this lusty wench were permeating the car, my clothes and my hair, and I breathed deeply once more and hoped that I wouldn’t have to burn my clothes when I got home.
    “The Python!” she was moaning again. “The Python!”
    Slipping my hand under her luscious bottom, I lifted her hips up slightly, and with the other hand peeled her panties down and off her. They were soaking and I tossed them to the floor, licking my fingers afterwards, my head dizzy from the heady smell of musk in the air. Then I spread her legs gently and lowered my head to blow a stream of warm air that parted the curly golden hairs that glistened at the gate of her pink pavilion. I realized then that I was about to know this girl in the Biblical sense – Moses and the Burning Bush! – and I uttered a silent prayer of thanks to the heavenly benefactor who had thought up sex.
    Thrusting out my tongue, I searched for her love button and she gasped and said, “Forget that and come up here. I can’t wait. Have you put it on?”
    “What?” I said, dazed with throbbing agony. I tried to thrust myself between her thighs but she held them locked behind my ears and crossed her ankles.
    “The safe,” she moaned. “Have you got it on?”
    Oh Christ, I thought. I had forgotten about a rubber. Her knees were rubbing the skin off behind my ears now as her hips made liquid circles on the seat, and I thought desperately.
    “I.. I dropped it on the floor,” I lied. “I don’t think I can find it in the dark.”
    “Never mind,” she grunted, frenzied by the delay. “The glove compartment. There might be some in the glove compartment. Hurry! Hurry!”
    I reached in back of me and fumbled the glove compartment open and fished around until my fingers found a strip with three condoms. I tore one of them open, squirting jelly on my pants and cursed. Her hands shot up and wrenched the condom from my fingers and then she rose up on one elbow and rolled the rubber down on my painfully engorged erection with one swift motion before collapsing back on the seat and lifting up her legs to brace her feet on the roof of the car.
    “Hurry! Hurry!” she begged.
    Throwing myself between her legs I slid into her with one smooth plunge. “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!” we both said.
    She wrapped her arms around my head and started planting kisses all over my forehead and cheeks, her hips pumping like jack hammers, and I knew that I was about to explode like a berserk calliope at any second from the fiery contractions of her furnace. Desperate to prolong the ecstasy I started reciting the pledge of allegiance in my head, careful to enunciate as Miss Brownell had taught. I had just gotten to “..for which it stands..” when I heard the click of the back door opening.
    “Oh, Shit!” I said, both panic stricken and angry. The door shut softly again and I looked up to see my good friend and compatriot, Larry Chu, staring benignly down at us from the back seat, his chin resting on the back of our seat.
    “It’s a lousy movie,” he said blandly. “I got lonely. My, that looks invigorating.”
    Susy was oblivious to the interruption, howling and yelping, tossing her head to and fro and nearly unsaddling me with her pelvic thrusts.
    “Buzz off, you yellow devil!” I hissed, trying my best to stay in the groove.
    “No racial epithets,” Larry chided. “You’d better concentrate on what you’re doing,” he mused. “She’s doing the conga and you’re doing the polka or something. You’re lousing up the beat.”
    He was right. Susy had shifted into overdrive and I was plugging along like a Model T with three cylinders misfiring.
    “Please fuck off,” I pleaded, “or I’m going to shove one of your grandmother’s prayer horns up your keester. I swear to Buddha I will!”
    “Keester.. Keester!” moaned Susy, as she started tearing off upholstery with the fingernails of her right hand while she gouged bloody furrows in my ass with her left.
    “Confucious say,” said Larry, “that in the coï·“mingling of porcupines it is usually one thousand pricks against one. I’ll see if there’s a blood donor among the audience,” and he start-ed to open the door.
    “One thousand pricks! One thousand pricks!” Susy bleated.
    Just then all hell broke loose. Sirens wailed, tires screeched, dogs barked, car doors slammed and slammed again like thunderclaps all around us, and searchlights strafed the night, poking in and out of cars to illuminate their occupants.
    Larry rolled down his window and sat back to watch the ruckus, a look of bemused curiosity on his face. “I think it’s a raid,” he said.
    “Holy shit!” I said and tried to pull out, hoping that whatever was happening wouldn’t catch me with my pants down around my ankles and a trojan dangling from my flagstaff. But Susy’s grip was too strong and she pulled me back down and in like the first great drop on a rollercoaster.
    “WHAAAAAAAA.. Daddy! Daddy!” she gurgled.
    “What’s happened to romance?” I asked myself as I felt my testicles bouncing against each other in my scrotum like marac-as being banged together by an amphetamine-crazed Venezualan. We’re coming whether you like it or not, they were signaling. I was just about to let them have their way when a searing light flashed through the window from the driver’s side and right into my eyes. I froze in mid stroke, elbows locked, holding myself up with my palms clutching Susy’s breasts.
    “Oh, Daddy! Daddy!” she continued to moan.
    Had I not been blinded by the light there’s a small chance that I might have noticed that her left hand was no longer raking my buttocks, but had groped around and found the Buick’s cigarette lighter, depressed it, and removed it when it was glowing red.
    “Harder, Daddy! Harder!” she implored. I was just about to let myself go with a final plunging thrust when a voice came from behind the light.
    “Well, ain’t this a pretty scene,” it said, sounding like Wallace Berry gargling rusty razor blades.
    I choked at the sound and tried to pull out and had just gotten myself free when I backed into Susy’s hand zooming down towards my anus like a kama kazi bomber. When that redï·“hot lighter hit my sphincter my whole body contracted, forcing all the air from my lungs, and my poor tortured balls came harder then they ever had, before or since, and the condom shot off my penis and jetted out the window where it came to rest with a plop on the brim of the stetson of our town sheriff, Hobart “Bulldog” Bascombe.
    “OOh Daaaaadddddyy!” groaned Susy as she orgasmed, too, shuddering spasmodically.
    The Sheriff smiled benignly and waited for her to finish, and when she flopped back limply on the seat he said pleasantly, “Hello, child.”
    Susy twisted her head around like a cornered animal and said, “Oh, Daddy!”
    “Evenin’, daughter,” said the Sheriff.
    I heard a sizzling sound and saw in horror that a big drop of semen had dripped out of the condom and off the stetson brim and down onto the tip of Sheriff Bascombe’s cigar, putting it out. The Sheriff stared crosseyed at the cigar briefly and then spat it out and grinned at me with a terrible grin that said, You and me, little feller, are gonna have some great fun and games this evenin’.
    “Yer Ma told me you were headin’ for the lib’ary tah do some studyin’, girl. Wha’cha got? A biology test comin’ up?”
    “Oh, Daddy, really!” she said with an exasperated harumph, and began buttoning her blouse, after which she spun around in her seat with her arms folded resolutely across her lovely chest, totally ignoring her limp panties on the floor. The Sheriff noticed them, though, and saying, my my, he removed his stetson and flicked the rubber off. I quickly but gingerly hiked my pants back over my burning rump and smiled weakly.
    “Evening, Sheriff,” said Larry from the murk of the back seat.
    Surprised, the Sheriff jerked his head around and peered in through Larry’s window. An evil smile spread across his lips.
    “Well, well. What have we got here? A menagerie twah? Or you some kinda drama critic to the evenin’s performance?”
    “Oh, no, Sheriff,” said Larry earnestly. “They only come out for opening nights.”
    “Whatter you.. a cheeky chinky comedian?” the bulldog growled.
    Larry settled back into his seat and began confidently, “Sheriff, I’ll try to explain my somewhat unseemly presence here tonight, although your present humor makes it highly doubtful that you’ll buy my story.”
    “Damn straights,” grunted the Sheriff as he pushed his stetson back on with the brim low over his eyes. He stared belligerently at Larry, his eyes trying to bore molten holes through him, but his glare seemed to be refracted and neutralized by Larry’s glasses and Larry remained undaunted.
    “I was sharing a six-pack of Coor’s in a friend’s car, although I freely admit I’m under age. To that I plead guilty. And after consuming three or four beverages- it is, I’m sure you’ll agree, a rather warm evening – I suddenly felt the call of nature and left the car to urinate.”
    “Watch yer langwidge round mah dawghter!” Sheriff Bascombe bellowed.
    “To relieve myself,” Larry corrected.
    “That’s better,” said the Sheriff.
    “..And when I finished I was attempting to return to my friend’s car when I was thrown into confusion by your men’s sudden, and may I say, brilliantly executed raid. Blinded by your searchlights I simply entered the wrong vehicle and had only been sitting here for a half dozen seconds before you arrived.” Finished, Larry smiled and folded his hands neatly in his lap.
    “Bullshit,” whispered the Sheriff.
    “Well, that’s my story and I’m stuck with it,” said Larry happily.
    “I got me a version that plays a little better. Wanna hear it? It goes like this. My daughter got took out by the both yez. Maybe this jerkoff in the front seat was pitchin’ relief after you had yore shot? Maybe after havin’ a chink five minutes later yer hongry agin? My daughter probly knows the answer to that one, only I ain’t a gonna ask her. Now git outa mah car,” he growled and yanked open the doors, and seizing us by our collars, he dragged us towards a waiting paddy wagon that was filled to overflowing with a menagerie composed of members of Ogden’s teen population in various states of deshabille. The occupants of the packed wagon were engaged in a cacophony of wailing, shouting, and cursing.
    “Shut up, you monkeys,” shouted one of the deputies and pounded on the side of the paddy wagon with his night stick.
    The Sheriff then pushed us in and closed the door with a metallic thud that sounded like all the gates of hell slamming shut.
    “Take em down town, Marty,” he said and walked back to the Buick.
    “You drive on down and meet us at the station, honey. I want you to see what happens to naughty children that break the laws of man and God.”
    She scowled up at him, and twisting the ignition she gunned the engine and barrelled out of the drive-in and into the night.
    Packed into the wagon like sardines, Ogden’s delinquents continued their wailing and gnashing of teeth as the motor started with a low rumble. I found a seat and sat down gingerly, my anus still burning. In my black despair I barely noticed the mixture of aromas that wafted up from my fellow arrestees: sweat, lipstick, popcorn, corndogs, chocolate, gin, mustard, and the musty odor of sex. Most of the girls were trying to straighten their hairdos or reapply makeup that had been smeared by passionate necking, and a few obviously had their brassiers on inside out and even upside down. Some of the boys sat guiltily with hands folded across their laps, apparently trying to hide humiliating stains. Two or three of the sons of the richer section of the community were pounding on the walls of the van and cursing and making threats about lawyers and “All the way to the Supreme Court!” and the like. Larry sat back contentedly in his seat with his arms folded behind his head and his eyes closed, whistling softly up to the ceiling.
    “Now I’ve done it,” I moaned. I was fond of moaning. Moaning can be of great solace upon occasion, and I resorted to it frequently. Too frequently of late, I thought.
    “Now I’ve done it,” I moaned again.
    “What do you mean you, white boy?” said Larry, opening his eyes and grinning. “Now we´ve done it!” he laughed. He was almost rubbing his hands together in perverse anticipation of the rest of the evening’s novelties and I could have strangled him on the spot.
    “We’re going to prison, you blockhead,” I whimpered pitifully. “Don’t you understand that? ..And for tampering with a sheriff’s daughter on top of it!”
    Larry examined his nails and mused. “I must say I’m rather surprised at your choice for a sparking companion. I would have thought that the flesh and blood of Bulldog Bascombe would have been off limits to even the most randy young knucklehead ..though I must admit she did seem a jolly playmate.”
    Just thinking about her made my backside burn. “Oh for Christ’s sake, can it, Larry. You know damn well I wouldn’t have gotten within eight blocks of her if I’d known who she was!” Putting my face back in my hands I tried to work up a good moan.
    “Confucious say, ‘Many men put their peepees in places where they wouldn’t leave their hankies. Next time get the darlings to show you an I.D. first.”
    “Shall I ask for a pap smear, too?” I said with what little sarcasm I could muster considering my imminent fate and my prospects for a besmirched and benighted future.
    “Aw, Jesus.. Now I’ve really done it,” I said and resumed moaning.

    Anyone want to learn of Will’s cruelly inventive and horrendous fate in the police station?

    send me an e-mail if you long to be flabbergasted..

  5. A reward for those with the stamina to have plowed through the above:

  6. Juri says:

    “Oh no, we mustn’t”, she cried and made a desperate dash towards the opposite end of the staples in a feeble effort to escape the staple boy’s gruesome embrace and his shamelessly bulging crotch he had so arrogantly rubbed against her trembling hands. It was a raging monster – desperate for its prey- and so was he.

    Clouds were graceful enough to cover the moon but the rain begun to drum the ceiling mercilessly, and the horses grew restless in their boxes as the boy began to make his way down the aisle towards her. The stallions neighed nervously. The mares bounced desperately against their doors and the staples was filled with the unmistakble sounds and smells of their lust, fear and anticipation as the whole world waited for the upcoming spectacle to unfold. In the back of the staples the floodgates of desire sprung open and our lady found herself helplessly drawn to the very man he was trying to escape. Her mind said she shouldnt but her growing moistness told her she would. As soon as the boy would touch him again she would.

    Halfway down the isle, the boy stopped and let his lust-filled gaze sweep over the horses that fell silent at his stare. Caressing his manhood, that throbbed and demanded to ravage and devastate like “Little Boy” over Hiroshima, he stared arrogantly at the stallions as he unbuttoned his pants and let them fall down, revealing the fullnes of his glorious erection that towered like a totem pole over his navel which could not be seen at all behind the massive mushroom-head that stood upright and threatening like an angry anarchist’s fist in a rally, only bigger.

    One by one, the stallions fell dead as he strutted his scepter at them before turning to show it to the mares. At once, they all turned around in their boxes and banged their behinds against the doors as they tried to attract the boy to come and use his magic wand on them, just as he had done so many times before.

    And he would, too, but the lady would get hers first.

    ……………SHIT, I give up… I can’t take this any longer. Not a fucking second!!

    How do these people live with themselves. The writers, I mean. I think I need a beer or two. Now.

  7. P.A. says:

    I just read a comment elsewhere that used the endearment “fount of health” in reference to a pro meat advertisement from the 50’s

  8. David Duff says:

    When I read our hostess’ intro this morning, and having by now a passing knowledge of her usual commenters, I feared, nay, I trembled, for the worst. Then up pops Mr. Dexter VanDango whose intelligence is confirmed by his decision to live amongst the most pleasant people on earth, the Danes (and with the most drop-dead, gorgeous girls, too) and whose wit left me howling and helpless with laughter.

    Thanks, Dexter, and whilst I’ve only had chance to skim your site, it’s going on my links immediately. I’d buy you a Schnapps if you were closer!

  9. She was torn between Dexter and David. As she leant against the door she could discern little of the conversation they were engaged in. She heard the strike of a match and shortly after the smell of cigar penetrated her nostrils. By now the tension of choice was causing deep breaths that could have been mistook for panting.
    Suddenly the tension was broken upon the arrival of Dexter’s manservant through a door she had failed to notice. He pressed his finger to his lips and gently held out his hand. Grasping him firmly, it seemed he almost pulled her close to his chest as he hastened her out of their way and reach. Faster and faster they move along the corridor to the open door. Stepping out in the cold of the night her body tensed and she was grateful for her petal shields under her shimmering sheath dress.
    ‘Harriet, I’m Nigel and PAP has sent me to rescue you from the obligation of repaying your debt.’
    He pulled her so close to protect her from the cold that the warmth of his lips unleashed ripples of yearning in her veins. As the intensity deepened Nigel lifted her onto the awaiting horse and mounted behind her. Harriet moaned into the horse’s mane as she clung to the neck for dear life as they galloped forth trying to banish thoughts of Nigel’s intruding and wonderful prowess.

  10. Juri says:

    As a foreigner living in Copenhagen (where I first came in 1990 looking for my friend and cheaper drugs than those available in Finland or Sweden) I must say I agree, to a certain extent, with Mr. Duff on his testimony about the pleasantness of the Danes and the good looks of (some of) their women.

    With that said, I can’t help myself wondering what happened to your competition entry, Mr. Duff? Did you forget to post it?

    I must confess I was slightly disappointed for not being granted a chance to read your contribution.

  11. Sister Wolf says:

    Skye -PLEASE, how can you withhold the koi?!?

    Romeo – Stunning. You made the shortlist.

    Dexter – Imagine the shock I experienced when I clicked on your url and discovered……you are my husband’s best friend! Hi “Dexter”, it’s Robert’s wife, here!! You may be ineligable to enter this contest, but you’ve certainly given me a funny Thanksgiving morning!

    Juri -Brilliant. Hahahahahahaha! Little Boy and stallions in the same sentence….

    P.A.- Hahahaha!

    David – How delightful. Isn’t it fun to realize that your new idol is practically Sister Wolf’s brother-in-law?!

    Make Do – YES, I had no idea of your talent!!!

    Juri -I noticed the ommision too. Maybe we should just be thankful…?

  12. Thanks for the kind words, David.

    All the best from Copenhagen.

  13. Juri says:

    SW – No, I don’t think grateful would be the word. Not just yet. We may have another thing coming, so to speak. After all, Alistair Campbell, Tony Blair’s former spin doctor, was also nominated for the porn books he has written under a pseudonyme.

    Similar things could happen at the more conservative end of the spectrum as well, I suppose, and if we ask nicely we just might get a free treat.

  14. Juri says:


    But his pseudo was Riviera Gigolo …

  15. hammie says:

    Yeah, I agree with Skye in that I think that Kathy Lette is being ironic in her description of bad sex, or is it a bad sex description? But her books are almost unreadable these days, generally. (Sorry Kathy, I loved you when you did Puberty Blues)

    FYI Alan Tidmarsch won a Bad sex in literature once too I believe. He is a celebrity gardener and the voice of Gordon the Garden Gnome on Cbeebies.


  16. Bex says:

    You guys should read this guy then, he’s fucking hilarious!!! The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely

  17. Sister Wolf says:

    Juri – We shall see.

    Hammie -yeah, that Kathy Lette shouldnt have been on the list. She lacks sincerity.

    Bex -Thank you, my dear! I like the bottle of his ejaculate.

  18. enc says:

    I’m way out of my league here, so I’ll just stand back and watch the fun.

  19. HelOnWheels says:

    I’m with enc. I’m just going to read and laugh my ass off.

  20. rachael says:

    “weeping orifice” sounds quite painful.

  21. Juri says:

    I think the prize should go to Dexter as he’s definitely “in it to win it”, and does not shy away from the challenge of onion soups and city square monuments like the rest of us did.

    Jeg synes, as we say in Denmark, vi har en vinder her!

    Since Mr. Duff was gracious enough as to not to sweep the table by entering the competition with the rest of us “nuts, nerds and dipsticks” he’s secretly in love with, I’m happy to point at Dexter as my choice for a winner.

  22. I refuse to be the only one with a vicarious sex life.

    Don’t be shy, people. Scribble sumthin.

    Maybe Sister Wolf will relate how she lost.. or perhaps flung.. her virginity?

  23. Sister Wolf says:

    Enc – Oh come on. Don’t be a baby! You can do it.

    HelOnWheels -Same to you! It’s “literature” so you can do it!

    Rachael -Painful, and sad, too.

    Juri -Not so fast. Mr. Duff is working up a head of steam. Give the poor chap some time.

    Dexter -Good cheerleading! You now have several entries, so you can spend your time proofreading the others.

    Regarding SIste Wolf’s virginity:

    One day, long, long ago, Sister Wolf fell for a hippie who lived in a loft and smoked pot all day. He had a nice little beard and wore his long hair slicked back. It was soon to be the Summer of Love.

    Sister Wolf was starved for love and affection. The hippie traded some for her virginity, and also gave her the gift of crabs and a smelly fringed suede jacket.

  24. David Duff says:

    I’m coming, I’m coming … just give me time!

  25. annemarie says:

    The Dentist’s Chair

    As the mists of chloroform parted, I became aware of a flush of heat that was slowly engulfing my entire body. The hot tingling seemed to be emanating from an epicenter between my legs. I lifted my foggy head to look down the length of my body and suddenly my predicament dawned on me. My last conscious memory had been Dr. Sukoff telling me that root canals don’t hurt nearly as much as they say they do– now I saw his curly salt and pepper head bobbing up and down and felt his tongue lapping furiously at my boiling pussy, like a voracious tropical flower in the middle of the amazon jungle whose vast petals were continuing unfurl in the heat and humidity. I could stand it no longer. Dear Reader, you will think me a loose woman, but at that moment the sense of pleasure overrided the outrage of bad manners. My flower was engorged and tumid and about to burst. Suddenly my body began to convulse in an agony of ecstasy. I cried out. Sukoff’s raised his glistening face and I quickly shut my eyes tight to feign unconsciousness. My eyelids closed, I became aware of the sweet yet acrid smell of my own juices and knew that Sukoff’s face was hovering over mine. I heard his fly unzip. My flower began to eagerly open even more. It ached to be pollinated. In a matter of seconds I felt Sukoff’s rocket prod my launching pad, until it found the spot and my ravenous flower sucked him inside. Sukoff was a large man indeed! In shock, my eyes flew open and locked with his. A filthy leer spread over his face. “You bastard!” I moaned throatily, as I came with the force and throttle of a flatulent elephant.

  26. David Duff says:

    You must understand that this example of ‘Bad Sex Writing’ comes from a man who thinks the film “Brief Encounter” is really rather risque! It is entitled:

    Algernon timed his visit to the office tea-making area to coincide with Cecily’s. They both froze as their eyes met over the formica worktop. His eyes ravaged her pretty summer frock with the high collar and the demurely long skirt. He became aware of butterflies in his stomach and a curious sensation in his Y-fronts. He also became uneasily aware that he was standing in a puddle of spilt water left by some careless co-worker and that his rather smart brogues were changing colour. Undeterred, and encouraged by the intensity of Cecily’s gaze, he reached for a cup at the same time as she did and for a second their hands touched. “I could never experience a jolt like that”, he thought, as he reached unthinkingly for the kettle’s electric lead with his other hand and, shorting out through the puddle of water, received 250 volts up his arm that threw him across the room. His last thought as his brogues smoked and sizzled, was, “Wrong again, Algie, old chap!”

    Now, be honest, what do you think? Great, or simply superlative?

  27. annemarie says:

    Very romantic Mr. Duff! You’d give Barbara Cartland a run for her money! Bravo!
    Answer: Great.

  28. David Duff says:

    Aw, shucks, Annemarie, you say the sweetest thangs.

  29. Juri says:

    I stand in awe before Mr. Duff’s curiously feeling Y-fronts. They give annemarie’s skyrockets and flowers a tough competition, and make me all the more glad I’m not the judge here.

  30. David Duff says:

    Yes, but I forgot the crucial little detail that would have given the whole scene a certain ‘je ne sais pas’ – the Y-fronts were white airtex. Sooo dashing!

    Oh dear, I can’t stand the excitement, I’m off to bed.

  31. Sister Wolf says:

    annemarie -Very, very steamy.

    David- But where is the ‘sex’ in your entry?

  32. Sister Wolf says:

    I think I should tell the truth about my first time. I was 29, nearly thirty. He was 17, a neighbor boy who rode a skateboard all day long. The sight of his shirtless young body, so commandingly navigating the skateboard, was sometimes more than I could bear.

    One day, when I went outside to bring in the newspaper, he came racing up to my front lawn and snatched up the paper. He handed it to me and said “Here you go, ma’am.”

    I laughed nervously and said “You can call me miss, actually.” He stared boldly into my eyes and flashed a dazzling smile. His eyes travelled down to my bellybutton as I realised that my negilgee had come undone and my entire body was exposed to his greedy blue eyes.

    “Nice belly button” he said hoarsely. I remembered my belly dancing classes at the YWCA and started to move my hips.

    Bla bla bla bla. After we lay side by side, enjoying the after glow of our urgent sweaty coupling, I asked what his name was. “Jake” he answered, because all boys that age are named Jake if not Josh, Kyle or Dylan.

  33. David Duff says:

    “where is the ’sex’ in your entry?”

    Their fingers touched – and they’re not married!!!

    Honestly, I don’t know what the world is coming to!

  34. Juri says:

    Bellydancing classes, hahahaha!!! I just remember that I used to know (or still do, actually) a belly dancing teacher in Finland. About Twenty years ago, when she was just getting her “career” started, my friend and I ended up at her place after some party. She was very excited about her new hobby and insisted on giving us a private show in her living room. She put on some god-awful oriental music, then disapperared for a while and finally re-appeared in her self-made bellydancing costume.

    Twenty ears later, she still refers to that evening as “the night she held us under her spell and controlled us with her hips”, or something along those lines, just because I never had the heart to tell her how horrible her show was that night.

    But yes, skaterboys. They are not to be trusted. Most of them lie about their age and are really in their mid-thirties. Many of them are also “between sponsors”, which is skaterspeak for being unemployed.

  35. Amanda says:

    Weeping orifice is sending me to the emergency room, in tandem with ecstasy and wafting onion soup.

    However, if you’ve ever seen Will Ferrell and Rachel Dratch do the Amorous Hot Tub Get Away Academics on SNL, (I think if you put in Will Ferrell, SNL and Hot Tub you might find it) the following is what you’d get. From a real book!:

    “Her pubes was a field of wheat after the harvest, a field neatly furrowed; it was a nest, a pomegranate, an arrowhead, a rune. It was a shadow. It was moss on a smooth white stone. There was an orchid within the moss. There was a drop of dew upon the orchid. It had the breath of moss-beds, of the deep seas, of the abyss, of scrimshaw and blue glass, of cold iron; she had the sex of rain forests, the ibis and the scarab; she had the sex of mirrors and candles, of the hot, careful winds that stroke the veldt, the winds that taste of clay and seed and blood; the winds that dreamed of tawny, lean animals.”

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