Nothing More English Than Bad Sex
Literary perverts the world over can rejoice! The Literary Review‘s eighteenth annual Bad Sex in Fiction Award winner has been announced: Rowan Somerville’s second novel, The Shape of Her.
Somerville accepted with grace,joking in a release: “There is nothing more English than bad sex, so on behalf of the entire nation I would like to thank you.”
Below, some choice bits for you to giggle at, emphasis is ours:
He caught her rhythm, pulling and releasing, cradling and crushing; pushing up through his fingers with each swing, mining up, like an otter through wet sand. Her sounds shifted from moans to grunts, insistent, almost desperate cries from the throat … He unbuttoned the front of her shirt and pulled it to the side so that her breast was uncovered, her nipple poking out, upturned like the nose of the loveliest nocturnal animal, sniffing in the night. He took it between his lips and sucked the salt from her. He hooked his fingers into her waistband, caught the elastic of her underwear and began pulling down. The knot on her light cotton trousers held fast as the fabric reached the curve of her backside. She twisted from him and stepped back.
“I want to suck you,” she said, descending … She loosed his trousers, pulled away his underwear and gripped him with fingers tender enough to hold a tiny bird. As he felt her mouth’s engulfment, he acquiesced, disappointment melting like ice in hot cream.
Oh, but it gets better.
Naked from waist to toe, a faint wedge of paleness from a few hours of sun, streaked with shadows in the candlelight; the triangle of pubic hair, blond, a thin line bunched darkly, like desert vegetation following an underground stream. He placed his hand on the concave stretch that was her belly, letting two fingers rest in the yawn of her navel. He slipped downwards, grazing the tight skin of her waist with his fingertips. He reached her hair line and the muscles of her belly hardened as she raised herself up onto her elbows. She stayed his hand and drew him, yanked him, into a smothering kiss. She released his hair from her fingers and twisted onto her belly like a fish flipping itself, her movement so brusque his chin bounced off her head.
He grasped the side of her hips, pushed her away and pulled her to him with a slap. Again and again with more force and velocity. Tine pressed her face deeper into the cushion grunting into the foam at each thrust. The wet friction of her, tight around him, the sight of her open, stretched around him, the cleft of her body, it tore a climax out of him with a final lunge. Like a lepidopterist mounting a tough-skinned insect with a too blunt pin he screwed himself into her.
We can’t wait until the establishment tears our books a new one for bad sex. We have to confess that we were very taken with Somerville’s hat tip to Nabokov, however. That’s how it’s done, even if your sex is kind of lolsy.
