Last night, in a star-studded ceremony in London's glamorous West End, Tom Wolfe won the Literary Review's annual Bad Sex Award, for the most absurd or redundant description of sexual activity in any book published in the previous year. Here is the prize-winning passage:
(From My Name is Charlotte Simmons, by Tom Wolfe)
'Hoyt began moving his lips as if he were trying to suck the ice cream off the top of a cone without using his teeth. She tried to make her lips move in sync with his. The next thing she knew, Hoyt had put his hand sort of under her thigh and hoisted her leg up over his thigh. What was she to do? Was this the point she should say, ‘Stop!’? No, she shouldn’t put it that way. It would be much cooler to say, ‘No, Hoyt,’ in an even voice, the way you would talk to a dog that insists on begging at the table…
Slither slither slither slither went the tongue, but the hand that was what she tried to concentrate on, the hand, since it has the entire terrain of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns – oh God, it was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest – no, the hand was cupping her entire right – Now! She must say ‘No, Hoyt’ and talk to him like a dog…’
Pretty bad, I think you will admit. Yet greater depths of absurdity and repellence have been plumbed, not least by me. I won the Bad Sex in Fiction Award three years ago, with a passage so obscene, bizarre and ourageous, I frankly believe I should win the award every year. Of course I might just be boasting - so here, for your delectation, are MY offending/award-winning paragraphs. I leave it to others to judge whose is the Baddest Sex of All.
(From Kissing England, Flamingo, 2002)
'In Katy's bedroom Katy is step-by-step taking her clothes off and Alex's heart is working so fast he feels endangered, overbuzzed, like a student on too much speed. Stuck with his addiction Alex watches, obsessing, as Katy undoes her jeans, he wants so much to strip the clothes off her quickly, he wants so much to take his time and do it slowly.
- We better be quick my mum will be home soon
Needing no more Alex rips off his strides; his shorts; showing her his erection he motions with a hand; she understands:
- You mean I have to put all of that in my mouth?
Oh God. Oh yes.
Hopeful, wistful, mouthful of spit, he watches her little hand around his cock and he waits for as long as he can; but then he can't: then he goes: down: to her rose of cunt, where he licks her between, smelling the scent of a St Malo restaurant on a winter's evening, lost in the thick soft furrier’s sample; lost in the young Czarina of her cunt. Oh yes.
Cunni. Cunniling. Cunnilinguling. Cunnilingulingilinguling
Gagging, enjoying, gagging; Alex licks, works, and considers the fact that Katy is the only women he enjoys licking out. He considers this: dismisses it. Dangerous, dangerous. Why shoud he enjoy cunnilingus with her and no-one else? Scientific, Alex lays off his tongue and considers the taste. It is, he feels, one of those very nearly disgusting lovely tastes that can so easily tip over into compete disgustingness. Like burnt charcoal peppers in oil. Like oysters. Olives. Anchovy butter. Like so much seafood. Like cunt. But because he loves her, Katy, he loves the taste.. the taste of the blood, from her warwound, from the scartissue, from where she was Islamically mutilated; ohyes he loves it, loves the kowtow, yes he loves the taste.
But not that much. It is time, time to fuck her. Now. Yes. Brupt, he rises, turns her over, flips her white body. Her smallwhite tidy body. She is so small and so compact, and yet she has all the necessary features... Shall I compare thee to a Sony Walkman, thou are more compact and more
She is his own Toshiba, his dinky little JVC, his sweet Aiwa
- Aiwa - She says, as he enters her slimy red-peppers-in-olive-oil cunt - Aiwa, aiwa aiwa aiwa aiwa aiwa aiwa aiwa aiwa aiwaaaaaaaaah