It’s well known that sex is very difficult to reproduce artistically in a non-disastrous way. And the only thing worth than sex in movies is sex in literature. If we needed a reminder, the Literary Review’s nominees for bad sex writing are out and….wow. There are many terrible options, including from Haruki Murakami, who for as great as he is writes very badly about sex. But this, this my friends is amazing:
Scoundrels: The Hunt for Hansclapp by Major Victor Cornwall and Major Arthur St John Trevelyan
“Empty my tanks,” I’d begged breathlessly, as once more she began drawing me deep inside her pleasure cave. Her vaginal ratchet moved in concertina-like waves, slowly chugging my organ as a boa constrictor swallows its prey. Soon I was locked in, balls deep, ready to be ground down by the enamelled pepper mill within her.
I’m trying to figure out not so much how someone writes these words as how someone writes these words, sets them aside, edits them, and ends with the conclusion that “yep, this is exactly how I want to write this.”
The rest are also highly disastrous.