One of the things I’ve enjoyed since starting this nonsense back up in September, is finding out which old-standby’s have survived and which haven’t. Glad to see the bad sex in fiction awards are still with us. They’re really one of the more rewarding awards.
The River Capture by Mary Costello
He clung to her, crying, and then made love to her and went far inside her and she begged him to go deeper and, no longer afraid of injuring her, he went deep in mind and body, among crowded organ cavities, past the contours of her lungs and liver, and, shimmying past her heart, he felt her perfection.
MY GOODNESS. That is indeed remarkably bad. But not everyone enjoys them. Especially, I imagine, writers who are nominated, like Julian Gough, forever tainted by a single line of oedipal awareness.
I was nominated for the Bad sex award last year, for a scene in my novel Connect that was about three-and-a-half pages long. The extract that most media ran was about 20% of that. The part most people shared was even smaller: “He sucks on the hard nipple. He has never done this before, and yet; no, wait, of course, it is totally familiar. The first thing he ever did.” For millions of people, that fragment of a fragment of a scene is the only piece of my writing they’ve ever read: nothing I’ve written has been published more widely.