I will post samples from all the shortlisted titled below:
oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, Will, oh, yes, oh, semen-bedizened blood-pusillanimous bed onanistic quiddity fulcrating pelvic thrusts smoke thick typewriter’s click-clack-click Will Our Cock is Spent screaming loving Will is pleased Will is Saved I have done it I have done I am the Chosen One I am his Chosen One oh Will for ever I am yours for ever I am yours for ever I am
poor will self
It's the kind of thing that might make for a funny blurb/publisher's pitch, but the idea of having to read 300 pages of it makes me want to open a vein.
I get an image of that pub owner from that British episode of Family Guy with the creepy constantly protuding jaw that aired ages ago.
Not sure if that was the image the author intended.
based on the non-erotic preamble
We got up from the chair and she led me to her elfin grot, getting amongst the pillows and cool sheets. We trawled each other’s bodies for every inch of history. I dug after what I had always imagined and came up with even more
yall + Ben Masters need to be thunked over the head with the a-level english syllabus sans merci
But then the tips of her breasts became erect on their own, and the flood in her loins washed morals, despair, and all other abstract assessments away in a cloud of some sort of divine cologne of his. Now his big generative jockey was inside her pelvic saddle, riding, riding, riding, and she was eagerly swallowing it swallowing it swallowing it with the saddle’s own lips and maw
He switched to some ancient steppe language as he ejaculated, blubbering and incoherent. Chun-li faked an orgasm, keeping her mind focused on an eighth-century lyric of sadness, and her face still as a lake in winter. Khünbish collapsed below the neck of the horse, where he clung now, like a forlorn circus rider, as the steppe cacophony segued seamlessly into the kind of trickling-stream-plus-birdsong music they play in mental hospitals to calm things down
as Zangief hit her with yet another spinning piledriver.
and then straight after that I thought no, she can't be. She CAN'T be. Surely someone at the publishers would have said something.
reads like a proper writer couldn't be bothered to finish his grand image bender sentence and just decided to have an illiterate homeless passer-by suggest a poetic image instead.
He knows her body now, even tightly sheathed and slippery as it is; a ripe, red plum, its yellow flesh pressing out against the smooth arc of its cool, fragrant skin. He understands the basic groundwork, has visited the orchard like a hungry finch, has gorged on the fruit and rejected the pips, has explored the geography
but then I like Nicola Barker generally, although her books really don't need sex scenes.
When our bodies unite for the third time we leave all theatres behind. What happens then has as little to do with the libertinage prized by the French (oh the blasphemers, the precious precocious ejaculators, the nasty naughty boys, the cruel fouteurs and fouetteurs) as with the healthy, egalitarian intercourse championed by Americans (who hand out bachelors degrees in G-points, masters in masturbation and Ph.Ds in endorphines)
And he came. Like a wubbering springboard. His ejaculate jumped the length of her arm. Eight diminishing gouts. The first too high for her to lick. Right on the shoulder
right on the shoulder
right on the shoulder
In seconds, the duke had lowered his trousers and boxers and positioned himself across a leather steamer trunk, emblazoned with the royal arms of Hohenzollern Castle. ‘Give me no quarter,’ he commanded. ‘Lay it on with all your might.’ Cath did as she was told, swishing the twigs hard onto the royal bottom
because I was convinced you'd tacked the bit about the burbling music on the end as a joke.
or are these normally-talented writers that go to pieces when their characters start making the beast with two backs?
They may not have all had unanimously good reviews but they're proper literary books.
Where's her mossy cleft? Her honeyed lining?
there are certain words you don’t use when you’re writing a sex scene: balls, knickers, scrote. It’s not clever, it’s not sexy, it’s bad writing.
opening as if welcoming the sunlight.
I think I've got a pretty good case. There's a lot of buzz about my shit love-making this year.
I’m standing in front of the big mirror admiring my quivering cock when Maude trips in. Se’s as frisky as a hare and all decked out in tulle and mousseline. She seems not at all frightened by what she sees in the mirror. She comes over and stands beside me. “Open it up!” I urge. “Are you hungry?” she says, undoing herself leisurely. I turn her around and press her to me. She raises a leg to let me get it in. We look at each other in the mirror. She’s fascinated. I pull the wrap up over her ass so that she can have a better look. I lift her up and she twines her legs around me. “Yes, do it,” she begs. “Fuck me! Fuck me!” Suddenly she untwines her legs, unhitches. She grabs the big arm chair and turns it around, resting her hands on the back of it. Her ass is stuck out invitingly. She doesn’t wait for me to put it in – she grabs it and places it herself, watching all the time through the mirror. I push it back and forth slowly, holding my skirts up like a bedraggled hussy. She likes to see it coming out – how far will it come before it falls out. She reaches under with one hand and plays with my balls. She’s completely unleashed now, as brazen as a pot. I withdraw as far as I can without letting it slip out and she rolls her ass around, sinking down on it now and then and clutching it with a feathery beak. Finally she’s had enough of that. She wants to lie down on the floor and put her legs around my neck. “Get it in all the way, “ she begs. “Don’t be afraid of hurting me… I want it. I want you to do everything.” I got it in so deep it felt as though I were buried in a bed of mussels. She was quivering and slithering in every ream. I bent over and sucked her breasts; the nipples were taut as nails. Suddenly she pulled my head down and began to bite me wildly – lips, ears, cheeks, neck. “You want it, don’t you?” she hissed. “You want it, you want it…” Her lips twisted obscenely. “You want it… you want it!” And she fairly lifted herself off the floor in her abandon. Then a groan, a spasm, a wild, tortured look as if her face were under a mirror pounded by a hammer. “Don’t take it out yet.” she grunted. She lay there, her legs still slung around my neck, and the little flag inside her began twitching and fluttering. “God,” she said, “I can’t stop it!” My prick was still firm. I hung obedient on her wet lips, as though receiving the sacrament from a lascivious angel. She came again, like an accordion collapsing in a bag of milk. I got hornier and hornier. I pulled her legs down and lay them flat alongside my own. “Now don’t move, damn you,” I said. “I’m going to give it you straight.” Slowly and furiously I moved in and out. “Ah, ah… Oh!” she hissed, sucking her breath in. I kept it like a Juggernaut. Moloch fucking a piece of bombazine. Organza Friganza. The bolero in straight jabs. Her eyes were going wild: she looked like an elephant walking the ball. All she needed was a trunk to trumpet with. It was a fuck to a standstill. I fell on top of her and chewed her lips to a frazzle.
I love Henry Miller.
Well that got me going.
I find it difficult to judge properly outside of the context of the book, but that is a deeply unpleasant image on its own. But maybe it's supposed to be.
tom wolfe's is the worst. disgraceful
That one is an aberration
whereupon it aims for bathos and finds bathwater
`tips of her breasts became erect on their own` they're called nipples you hopeless man
`his big generative jockey was inside her pelvic saddle` smh
I've got the 'orn.
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