Sharon's Muse.... Let's chat over coffee while I ponder some things
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Sharon's Muse.... Let's chat over coffee while I ponder some things |
About Me
Name::Sharon Cullars
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RAINE'S BLUES 
Now available at Loose-Id Watch trailer for Raine's Blues
GOLD MOUNTAIN 
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Read my business guides at Work.com
Read my profile on Air Station Savannah's pivotal Katrina rescues
Read my article on the Fair Trade system
Credits |
Thursday, November 30, 2006 Annual Bad Sex Award I'm sure new author Iain Hollingshead (interesting name) didn't vie for this particular literary award, but it's been bestowed on him anyway. The Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction award is a dubious distinction, but hey, it might just boost book sales for Hollingshead and that can't be bad for him. Here is a scene from his Twentysomething that won out over the also-rans: But the peck on the cheek turns into a quick peck on the lips. She hugs me tight. I can feel her breasts against her chest. I cup my hands round her face and start to kiss her properly, She slides one of her slender legs in between mine. Oh Jack, she was moaning now, her curves pushed up against me, her crotch taut against my bulging trousers, her hands gripping fistfuls of my hair. She reaches for my belt. I groan too, in expectation. And then I'm inside her, and everything is pure white as we're lost in a commotion of grunts and squeaks, flashing unconnected images and explosions of a million little particles. (last part sounds kinda nuclear to me) Here are some other entries: Black Swan Green by David Mitchell (Sceptre) If Dawn Madden's breasts were a pair of Danishes, Debby Crombie's got two Space Hoppers. Each armed with a gribbly nipple. Tom Yew kissed them in turn and his saliva glistened in the April sun. I know watching was wrong but I couldn't not. Tom Yew slipped off her red panties and stroked the cressy hair there. 'If you want me to stop, Madam Crombie, you have to say now.' 'Oooh, Master Yew,' she croodled, 'don't you dare.' Tom Yew got on her and sort of jiggled there and she gasped like he was giving her a Chinese burn and wrapped her legs round him, froggily. Now he moved up and down, Man-from Atlantisly. His silver chain jiggled on his neck. (Man-from Atlantisly? That should have gotten him the second place award) Now her grubby soles met like they were praying. Now his skin was glazed in roast pork sweat. Now she made a noise like a tortured Moomintroll. (WTF?) Now Tom Yew's body jerkjerked judderily jackknifed and a noise like a ripping cable tore out of him. Once more, like he'd been booted in the balls. (Again, WTF?) Her fingernails'd sunk salmony welts into his arse. Debby Crombie's mouth made a perfect O. Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon (Jonathan Cape) "Mouffette? She's a papillon ... a sort of French ladies' lapdog." "A - You say," gears in his mind beginning to crank, " 'lap' - French ... lap-dog?" Somehow gathering that Ruperta had trained her toy spaniel to provide intimate "French" caresses of the tongue for the pleasure of its mistress. "Well! you two are ... pretty close then, I guess?" "I wuv my ickle woofwoof, ess I doo!" (can someone say ewww! What is Pynchon smoking these days?) Some more entries.
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