I admit that it's rather difficult to write about - ahem - romantic interludes, or what the hell, let's just call it smut. However, sometimes reading it is more painful than trying to write it. The British newspaper The Guardian has given out the Bad Sex Award. Below are some of the real zingers - enough to make you try to reclaim your virginity.
From Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart (Granta) p201
"AW," she shouted. "FUCK ME." She leaned back. I slipped out. Her thighs trembled before me, and I felt a warm, abundant liquid spreading on my own thighs, not sure which of us had issued it. My bedroom was filled with the smell of asparagus and related greenery. "Aw," she said again. "Fuck me."
From Will by Christopher Rush (Beautiful Books) p132-3
Anne Hathaway's cow-milking fingers, cradling my balls in her almond palm, now took pity on the poor anguished erection, and in the infinite agony of her desire, guided it to the quick of the wound. At the same time I searched wildly with the fingers of my left hand, groping blind as Cyclops, found the pulpy furred wetness, parted the old lips of time and slipped my middle finger into the sancta sanctorum.
From Apples by Richard Milward (Faber) p 179
She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyes popped out. She hadn't shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet.
I may not be an expert, but nothing I've ever written is anywhere near as bad as the snippets above!