The Bad Sex In Fiction Winner Dissected. Slightly NSFW

Prepare for 'low rhythmic wails' and a lot of 'gliding'.

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by Jess Commons |
Published on

We've been so caught up in all the Christmas merriment that we almost forgot our most favourite time of year; The Bad Sex In Fiction Award!

Each year, the Literary Review see fit to highlight the cringiest, most horribly written lines about sex from this year’s books and chooses the absolute worst one.

This year’s ‘winner’ is Ben Okri (winner of the 1991 Booker Prize) for his narrative in The Age Of Magic.

Behold…

*When his hand brushed her nipple it tripped a switch and she came alight. *

*He touched her belly and his hand seemed to burn through her. *

*He lavished on her body indirect touches and bitter-sweet sensations flooded her brain. *

She became aware of places in her that could only have been concealed there by a god with a sense of humour.

*Adrift on warm currents, no longer of this world, she became aware of him gliding into her. *

*He loved her with gentleness and strength, stroking her neck, praising her face with his hands, till she was broken up and began a low rhythmic wail … *

The universe was in her and with each movement it unfolded to her. Somewhere in the night a stray rocket went off.

Right. For starters; what on earth is the male obsession with nipples being a magic button to press to achieve an all cylinders firing libido in a woman? Plus, we'd hesitate to ever use the word 'burn' in a passage about sex.

But IMHO, Ben's sex writing is absolutely not the worst. Other nominations included Michael Cunningham’s The Snow Queen ('He hears himself gasp in wonder. He falls into an ecstatic burning harmedness, losing, lost, unmade. And is finished'.), Wilbur Smith's Desert God, ('They were perfect rounds, white as mare’s milk and tipped with ruby nipples that puckered as my gaze passed over them'.)

But our personal fave? Richard Flanagan's book *The Narrow Road to the Deep North, which included the line, *'Hands found flesh; flesh, flesh. He felt the improbable weight of her eyelash with his own; he kissed the slight, rose-coloured trench that remained from her knicker elastic, running around her belly like the equator line circling the world.'

Because if referring to a woman's mid section as the equator doesn't get you going, we don't know what will.

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Follow Jess on Twitter @Jess_Commons

This article originally appeared on The Debrief.

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