WARNING: The following may cause celibacy!!!
Read at your own risk!!!
These are real passages, from real books. Each is an egregious example of writing about sex. They were each nominated for the Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction Award.
The Quiddity of Will Self, by Sam Mills: “… oh, yes, oh, semen-bedizened blood-pusillanimous bed onanistic quiddity fulcrating pelvic thrusts.”
Back to Blood, by Tom Wolfe: “Now his big generative jockey was inside her pelvic saddle, riding, riding, riding, and she was eagerly swallowing it swallowing it swallowing it with the saddle’s own lips and maw.”
Noughties, by Ben Masters: “We got up from the chair and she led me to her elfin grot.”
Rare Earth by Paul Mason: “He switched to some ancient steppe language as he ejaculated, blubbering and incoherent. Khünbish collapsed below the neck of the horse, where he clung now, like a forlorn circus rider, as the steppe cacophony segued seamlessly into the kind of trickling-stream-plus-birdsong music they play in mental hospitals to calm things down.”
The Yips by Nicola Barker: “He knows her body now; a ripe, red plum, its yellow flesh pressing out against the smooth arc of its cool, fragrant skin. He understands the basic groundwork, has visited the orchard like a hungry finch, has gorged on the fruit and rejected the pips, has explored the geography.”
The Divine Comedy by Craig Raine: “And he came. Like a wubbering springboard. His ejaculate jumped the length of her arm. Eight diminishing gouts. The first too high for her to lick. Right on the shoulder.”