The Bad Sex in Fiction Award results…

are out. Heh.

The award was won by a food-critic turned novelist, Giles Coren. I’m glad there weren’t comparisons to, hmm… gravy or sausages. Or even american pies, if you know what I mean. The Guardian claims that comparing the male genitalia to a hose in an empty bathtub clinched it.

Reminds me of when HDHD was in Delhi during the Book Fair, a couple of years ago. Which novel was it, where there was something about Ferraris and parking cars in the garage- Vikram Chandra’s?


I’ve exported my RSS subscriptions from Bloglines to an OPML file, and over to Google Reader. I never was able to get used to Bloglines. I quite like Google Reader, so far.


More from the BBC on the Bad Sex in Fiction award here. I quote:

“‘Ooh-la-la!’ she breathed as he smelt the clean aroma of her short bobbed hair and the rain-sodden grass around it. ‘Oooh-la-jolly well-la!’


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  1. A worthy winner, not one from want of competition (which as Guardian said aptly and obviously, was stiff)…

    Paul Theroux from “Blinding Light” : “…not juice at all but a demon eel thrashing in his loins and swimming swiftly up his cock, one whole creature of live slime fighting the stiffness as it rose and bulged at the tip and darted into her mouth.”

    And here’s more from the winning entry (“Winkler” by Giles Coren) : “And he came hard in her mouth and his dick jumped around and rattled on her teeth and he blacked out and she took his dick out of her mouth and lifted herself from his face and whipped the pillow away and he gasped and glugged at the air, and he came again so hard that his dick wrenched out of her hand and a shot of it hit him straight in the eye and stung like nothing he’d ever had in there, and he yelled with the pain, but the yell could have been anything, and as she grabbed at his dick, which was leaping around like a shower dropped in an empty bath, she scratched his back deeply with the nails of both hands and he shot three more times, in thick stripes on her chest. Like Zorro.”

    And from our very own Tarun Tejpal : “Leaving everything else for later, I went looking for where her hair began and worked my way through its musky trails to where there was none. And having found her burning core, and having drunk of it, I left it, and wandered her body, only to keep circling back to it for sustenance.

    We began to climb peaks and fall off them. We did old things in new ways. And new things in old ways. At times like these we were the work of surrealist masters. Any body part could be joined to any body part. And it would result in a masterpiece. Toe and tongue. Nipple and penis. Finger and the bud. Armpit and mouth. Nose and clitoris. Clavicle and gluteus maximus. Mons veneris and phallus indica.

    The Last Tango of Labia Minora. Circa 1987. Vasant Kunj. By Salvador Dal�. Draughtsmen: Fizznme.

    Fizz screamed silently through it all – through gritted teeth, through wide-open mouth – and only those who have known a woman screaming silently in orgasm know how loud it is. It ripped through the room and set me to pounding frenzies.”

    For more (do you really want to?) go here

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