John Updike Wins Lifetime Achievement Award for Bad Sex Writing
America's own John Updike and a Brit named Rachel Johnson won this year's "Bad Sex in Fiction Award" from England's "Literary Review" magazine. Rachel Johnson is the sister of the mayor of London, so she was not forced to have bad sex with any of the judges to get nominated. Updike, on the other hand...

Updike was nominated for the fourth consecutive time so they gave him a special award for being unrepentant, for standing tall, for possibly never having touched an actual woman or man in his entire life, and yet for always going there, for always squeezing out one more load of hot goop for his nurse and publisher (not always the same person).

Check it out! Here are this year's winning passages! Can you do better? Can you do worse?

Shire Hell, by Rachel Johnson (Penguin Books).

JM comes over and pushes me gently back down on the fake fur. I try to rise up to kiss him - it's so lovely, the kissing - but he pushes me down, again. He likes to kiss me all over before he does anything else. He starts with my eyes, and plants a tender kiss on each lid.

... He moves on to my ears, a kiss that makes my nipples stand erect, and me emit little moans that drown out to my own ears the loud, distracting sound of Cumberbatch swiping dock leaves and tearing nettles and long grasses very close to the rickety stoop.

JM's hands are caressing my breasts, now, and I am allowed to kiss him back, but not for very long, for he breaks off, to give each breast in turn the attention it deserves. As he nibbles and pulls with his mouth, his hands find my bush, and with light fingers he flutters about there, as if he is a moth caught inside a lampshade.

Almost screaming after five agonizingly pleasurable minutes, I make a grab, to put him, now angrily slapping against both our bellies, inside, but he holds both my arms down, and puts his tongue to my core, like a cat lapping up a dish of cream so as not to miss a single drop. I find myself gripping his ears and tugging at the locks curling over them, beside myself, and a strange animal noise escapes from me as the mounting, Wagnerian crescendo overtakes me. I really do hope at this point that all the Spodders are, as requested, attending the meeting about slug clearance or whatever it is.


The Widows of Eastwick, by John Updike (Hamish Hamilton).

'[...] Do you want to see my vagina? Have you ever looked at one?'

'Of course.'

'Why 'of course'? Many men haven't. Straight men. They're scared to. It's the Medusa's head, that turns them to stone. Uh-oh. You're losing your stoniness. I guess you're not ready to think about vaginas yet.'

'No. I am. I'll get ready. But - '

'I know, darling. I know.'

She said nothing then, her lovely mouth otherwise engaged, until he came, all over her face. She had gagged, and moved him outside her lips, rubbing his spurting glans across her cheeks and chin. He had wanted to cry out, sitting up as if jolted by electricity as the spurts, the deep throbs rooted in his asshole, continued, but he didn't know what name to call her. 'Mrs Rougement' was the name he had always known her by. God, she was antique, but here they were. Her face gleamed with his jism in the spotty light of the motel room, there on the far end of East Beach, within sound of the sea. The rhythmic relentless shushing returned to their ears. She laid her head on the pillow and seemed to want to be kissed. Well, why not? It was his jism. Having got rid of it, there was an aftermath of sorrow in which he needed to be alone; but there was no getting rid of her. 'Call me Sukie,' she said, having read his mind. 'I sucked your cock.'

'You sure did. Thanks. Wow.


If you win, you get a bottle of champagne and a foot made of plaster which is supposed to be an abstract representation of sex. There is no cash prize; only shame.

Posted by miracle on Mon, 01 Dec 2008 04:28:29 -0500 -- permanent link

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