Freedom Lawyers of America

Do not be drinking anything when you look at these entries.  Sample passage:
"...she came with the exhilarating whoops and pant-hoots of a troop of Rhesus monkeys, which was flattering, if alarming."
--dean


The Bad Sex award shortlisted passages  |  Thursday December 4, 2003
http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,6109,1099719,00.html

The Winner

Bunker 13 by Aniruddha Bahal (Faber & Faber)

She's taking off her blouse. It's on the floor. Her breasts are placards for the endomorphically endowed. In spite of yourself a soft whistle of air escapes you. She's taking off her trousers now. They are a heap on the floor. Her panties are white and translucent. You can see the dark hair sticking to them inside. There's a design as well. You gasp.

'What's that?' you ask. You see a designer pussy. Hair razored and ordered in the shape of a swastika. The Aryan denominator...

As your hands roam her back, her breasts, and trace the swastika on her mound you start feeling like an ancient Aryan warlord yourself...

She sandwiches your nozzle between her tits, massaging it with a slow rhythm. A trailer to bookmark the events ahead. For now she has taken you in her lovely mouth. Your palms are holding her neck and thumbs are at her ears regulating the speed of her head as she swallows and then sucks up your machinery.

She is topping up your engine oil for the cross-country coming up. Your RPM is hitting a new high. To wait any longer would be to lose prime time...

She picks up a Bugatti's momentum. You want her more at a Volkswagen's steady trot. Squeeze the maximum mileage out of your gallon of gas. But she's eating up the road with all cylinders blazing. You lift her out. You want to try different kinds of fusion.

* * *

The shortlist

The Sucker's Kiss by Alan Parker (Sceptre)

Honey couldn't get my pants over my boots, so she pulled her hair up on top of her head, readjusted the tortoiseshell hair comb, took off her glasses and went straight to work with that long tongue of hers licking my bat and balls... Maybe it was because I was tight as a goat, but it sure was a great afternoon. I'm not much of a muff diver, but I can strongly recommend that Kentucky cocktail of Sneaky Pete and strawberry juice. Further down my body, Honey Mackintosh bobbed up and down between my legs, her big soft lips locked around my hootchee and, true to her Scottish roots, she sucked away like she was the last person left on earth to play the bagpipes on Robbie Burns' birthday.

* * *

Too Beautiful for You by Rod Liddle (Century)

(Joanne hung with her head flung back over the side of the bed, her hair splayed out across the floor, which required Christian to cling on to her waist so they both didn't fall off, and then after a modicum of congenial thrusting, she came with the exhilarating whoops and pant-hoots of a troop of Rhesus monkeys, which was flattering, if alarming.)

*

Paul ejaculates voluminously and with very great force indeed. In fact he keeps on and on ejaculating, there's loads of the stuff, out it all comes, pint after pint, and he begins to wonder if it will ever cease. Sophie, the minx, trails the back of her hand across the back of his penis - what a wonderful trick, thinks Paul, vaguely, lost in a chemical oblivion - and delicately but decisively arches her body away from him to avoid the ostentatious spurting which continues for so long that Paul becomes embarrassed and wonders if there's maybe something seriously wrong with him.

When, eventually, it does stop ... They each cling to opposite sides of the mattress, well away from the vast lagoon of semen in the centre of the bed, a thick coldness which will still be damp when Paul awakes the next morning. His dreams are furred with a strange sort of exhaustion.

* * *

The Stranger at the Palazzo d'Oro by Paul Theroux (Hamish Hamilton)

The softness of her skin in the dark, far softer-seeming because of the dark, was irresistible. And the aroma of her lily-fragrant perfume mingled with the cat smell of her steaming cunt made me salivate and pant like a lion, my nose tormented by damp fur and hot blood. Still I could not tell where her soft skin ended and her silk began, and the complexity of her vaginal lips was like another elaborate silken garment she had put on for me to stroke. I adored the gleam of her body in the light from the ... streetlamps and the blistered moon... She knelt and worshipped my cock with her mouth and her gloved hands and she cried out louder than I did when I came, spattering her face as she licked.

* * *

Eleven Minutes by Paolo Coelho (HarperCollins)

As he simultaneously penetrated and touched me, I felt that he was doing this not only to me, but to the whole universe. . .

He stopped moving inside me while his fingers worked quickly and I had one, two, three orgasms in a row. I felt like pushing him away, for the pain of pleasure is so intense that it hurts, but I resisted; I accepted that this was how it was, that I could withstand another orgasm or another two, or even more... and suddenly, a kind of light exploded inside me. I was no longer myself, but a being infinitely superior to everything I knew. When his hand took me to my fourth orgasm, I entered a place where everything seemed at peace, and with my fifth orgasm I knew God. Then I felt him beginning to move inside me again, although his hand had still not stopped, and I said 'Oh, God', and surrendered to whatever came next, Heaven or Hell.

It was Heaven. I was the earth, the mountains, the tigers, the rivers that flowed into the lakes, the lake that became the sea. He was thrusting faster and faster now, and the pain was mingled with pleasure, and I could have said: 'I can't take any more', but that would have been unfair, because, by then, he and I were one person.

* * *

Peyton Amberg by Tama Janowitz (Bloomsbury)

Somewhere she had once heard that women - lesbians - were experts at this because they knew what another woman wanted. That wasn't true. When she and Victoria had done it, it had been like trying out some strange Japanese cuisine, something that wriggled, still alive, in a dish. Or having to swallow the contents of a bearded mussel attached to a rock, while all the while one knew the tide was rapidly coming in. She was never going to be a lesbian. Being heterosexual was already strange enough.

*

He was stroking her body over her silky dress and when his fingers got down to where her dress ended, just below her thighs, he reached up between her legs and plunged two fingers into her vulva, and began to probe her vaginal canal, as if he was searching for lost car keys.

After a time he removed them and spread whatever lubrication he had found there across her labia. 'Good girl, good girl,' he said. 'Oo, that feels nice.'

His penis was prodding her leg and she took it in her hand like the snout of a dog.

Her life, she knew, could have been so much worse.

* * *

Seek My Face by John Updike (Hamish Hamilton)

She would blow him while he kneeled straddling her face on the tatty brown sofa in his Pearl Street loft, a sofa that looked like one more piece of street refuse, and then show him his pale semen inside her mouth, displayed on her arched tongue like a little Tachiste masterpiece before she swallowed it or disgorged it back onto his still-firm prick; even his prick was smooth, barely marked by the ridges and homely veins that other men had, like an ivory dildo or the erection in that Marisol masterpiece with the cigarette lighter.

* * *

The Crime Tsar by Nichola McAuliffe (Bloomsbury)

'It's all right, I won't break,' she whispered.

She felt him aware of his size and weight. His care not to hurt her. She moved to accommodate him and felt the blind probings before he slipped inside her. He was bigger than she had remembered. She tilted her hips and felt the weight of his balls on her ... what? Small expanse of skin between vagina and anus. Perineum - was that it? Her mind screamed: Shut up, Lucy! You're not doing the Cosmopolitan crossword now.