Tag: sex scenes

Cat yawn

‘Cat Person’ Author Speaks out About Real-Life Inspiration for the Viral Short Story

This past December, a 4,000-word short story took the internet by storm when it was published in The New Yorker. The story is titled Cat Person, and details the trials of twenty-year-old college student Margot as she meets and briefly dates thirty-four-year-old Robert.

 

The all-too-realistic piece of fiction showcases Margot throughout the many quick-changing stages of a blooming, new relationship: the excitement, the giddiness, the butterflies of a growing new crush, the fantasies about everything this relationship could possibly grow into, all the way through unto the grounding realization that this person is not at all who you’d hoped they were.

 

*** SPOILERS AHEAD***

 

The rose colored glasses always begin to fade, and, when they do, Margot realizes Robert is not someone she wants to see. And, by the time everything’s progressed to their first (and only) sexual encounter, Margot’s already realized that she’s not at all attracted to this stranger of a man. She feels repulsion towards him, but doesn’t know how to stop, seeing as sex has already been initiated and they are well in the midst of it all. Margot allows her mind to drift off so she can “just get it over with” while Robert does what he wants until he’s finished:

 

…she felt like a doll again, as she had outside the 7-Eleven, though not a precious one now—a doll made of rubber, flexible and resilient, a prop for the movie that was playing in his head.

 

She ends their relationship shortly after, telling Robert she’s not interested and asking him to stop texting her. The story ends months down the line when Robert gets drunk at Margot’s go-to bar, then spends the remainder of night verbally harassing her via text messages, starting with:

 

“Hi Margot, I saw you out at the bar tonight. I know you said not to text you but I just wanted to say you looked really pretty. I hope you’re doing well!”

“I know I shouldnt say this but I really miss you”

 

And quickly escalating to and ending with:

 

“Answer me”

“Whore.”

 

This story spoke to millions of women of all ages who couldn’t help but see themselves in Margot. The societal expectations placed upon women and girls to always be appeasing, to never come across as difficult, and to never anger or upset the man you are in bed with are an unmanageable weight to bear. This story spread to such immense popularity because it worked to shine a light on the ways in which we are taught that consent always looks like x, y, or z. And that, if you agreed to the encounter initially, there’s no backing out; we are taught to believe that you cannot revoke your yes.

 

I don’t think I, personally, know any women (myself, included) who haven’t been in this exact situation multiple times over the years. Nights that end this way always feel like they’re surrounded by this foggy cloud of discomfort, fear, disappointment, dissociation, and disgust (both with them and with yourself). It’s scary to be alone with someone you don’t know very well, and feel just completely stuck inside their house with no real way out. You never want to be rude by asking to leave, and you also don’t want to anger them for fear of how they might react.

 

It’s the sort of situation where your heart races and your palms sweat and you feel yourself quickly weighing out all of your options until you, eventually, decide that, well, it’s already pretty late and, if you just stick it out until morning, you can go home and shower and pretend it never happened. This way, you avoid any awkward or scary confrontations, and ensure they’re feelings remain unhurt while you just mime your way through the rest of the evening; letting your thoughts wander somewhere else, to some far-off place until it’s all, finally, over. (It doesn’t even have to be a stranger from some Tinder date; we can all-too-often find ourselves ignoring uncomfortable or coercive behavior from people we are already in committed relationships with, allowing them to do what they want under the guise of being in love and being too afraid to rock the boat.)

 

This situation is such a commonality within the dating-sphere, it’s no surprise that author Kristen Roupenian drew from her own personal, real-life experiences to create this story. Roupenian spoke to The Times earlier this week, opening up about her own Cat Person for the very first time.

 

It all started when Roupenian, who had spent many years in a long-term committed relationship, found herself single at thirty-five for the first time since she was in her twenties:

 

When I was 26 and dating, I was such a mess and everything was terrible. I thought now I would be a mature adult and wouldn’t screw up and would understand when people are garbage right away. But instead I felt just as smacked by it and just as confused…I went on a date, it went poorly, and we got in a fight. And that’s alright, but I thought, ‘I’m 35, how did I make this mistake? How did I misread someone so completely?

 

The story grew to success seemingly overnight, and resulted in Roupenian landing a two-book deal with Scout Press, including a collection of short-stories set to release in 2019 and a currently untitled novel.

 

The success was by no accident, however. The story resonated, and still resonates, with people across the board.

 

Dating is never as easy as any of us hope it’s going to be. And, it can be difficult when you’re meeting all of these people to not feel tired of it all, and just ready to settle down with the next semi-charming, borderline-compatible adult human you stumble across. But, once you’ve already begun to force a connection with someone and convince yourself of it’s sustainability, it can be nearly impossible to come to terms with how you genuinely feel, walk out, and leave the situation behind you.

 

Roupenian went on to tell the Times about her own views surrounding the dating culture our society has built:

 

I think that young women in particular feel they have to manage and control and soothe and charm and weave this magic around men…The truth is, most people are not the right person for you, and the person who is the right person for you will still not be a perfect human being.

 

Since the Cat Person publication, Roupenian has learned she was never really alone in this thinking. Women all over have shared their own stories of uncomfortable dates that have ended in aggression, shame, and coercion.

 

I only hope that, now that a light has been shone on the aspects of dating and consent that before we had only ever been told to deal with and ignore, we can finally begin to see a shift in what we do and do not consider normal, healthy, and okay. 

 

In the meantime, we can continue sharing our stories. We can acknowledge and find comfort in the autonomy of our own bodies, and the fact that no one, no matter what their previous relationship to us may be, is allowed to steal that from us. We can refuse to accept the things that feel uncomfortable, scary, or harmful, and not feel any embarrassment, guilt, or shame in vocalizing that. We can understand and accept our own imperfect humanness, and work on erasing both our desire to mold and shift others’ views of us and our impossible desire to never disappoint.

 

We can keep standing up and speaking out. 

 

 

 

Featured Image via Sykesville Veterinary Clinic

Mrs. Weasley

NSFW: 5 Torrid Sex Scenes Directly From Harry Potter Erotica

What if I told you there’s a whole world of fanfiction out there dedicated to sexualizing the Harry Potter series? Well, it’s there. And I found it. If no part of you is curious about this, turn back now. But if you’re vaguely curious about what your fellow Potterheads have invented, please continue. It’s hilarious.

 

1. Harry and Mrs. Weasley

 

VenomBat22’s Harry’s Sex Year is a proper novel. It’s essentially a 53,000-word sex scene in which Harry has sex with every conceivable character. One of the most quality scenes is between Harry and Mrs. Weasley, in which Mrs. Weasley blackmails Harry into having sex with her. Let it be known, this sort of behavior cannot and will not be condoned. In fact, I’d be inclined to agree with VenomBat22’s Harry when he says to Mrs. Weasley, “You are so devious!” Check out the scene here. For now, though, enjoy this brief excerpt.

 

He could sense that she was getting excited, so he picked up the speed on his licks. Molly shrieked loudly as he did this, even holding his head at her entrance. She rested her hand and calmed down, saying he was close. As he let her legs down, he was happy that he actually had a chance to be doing this, fucking an older woman. She kept her legs spread and Harry knew what she wanted.

 

2. Hermione and Neville

 

Following up his smash hit Harry’s Sex Year, VenomBat22 penned the epic Hermione Granger and the Order of Sex, in which Hermione has sex with a lot of people. In an attempt to form a covert wizarding army during Dolores Umbridge’s strict reign, Hermione scouts for recruits. Her first candidate is Neville Longbottom. He is, logically, reluctant to join the army. So, again operating logically, Hermione has sex with him. The ensuing sex scene is—well, I’m not sure if it’s good, but it does exist. It’s also weirdly moving. Here it is in its totality, and, again, here’s the wonderful way it ends.

 

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“That was…amazing!”

“It was that great, wasn’t it?” she chuckled.

“I finally lost my virginity to my crush.”

“You had a crush on me?” she blushed.

“Yeah,” he said nervously.

“I’m flattered.” he said kissing him. “I really am.”

 

3. Hermione and Draco

 

It would appear that fanfiction erotica circles are really into the pairing of Hermione and Draco (aka Dramione), which I now know. Cheryl Dyson’s “The Ladder” couples the two in a library. Things get risque. Draco refers to Hermione’s breasts as “cauldrons.” Dyson’s sex scene is a little anatomical, but she plays it much slower than VenomBat22. The result is a kind of biological description of sex between an unlikely pair, but it weirdly works. Below is an excerpt, but you can read the story in full here.

 

Malfoy’s hands gripped her thighs almost painfully and she wrapped her legs around his naked hips. He thrust forward in a fantastic rhythm, earning a cry from Hermione at every jolt of bliss, until an astounding orgasm exploded through her. She bit into the corded muscle that bound his neck to his shoulder, shuddering with the impact of his last few strokes.

 

4. Neville and Luna

 

In “What if I Do it Wrong?” writer snarkysweetness asks the important question: What does first-time magic sex look like? The answer is that it’s oddly endearing. Luna and Neville, in snarkysweetness’ eyes, are a patient, delightfully awkward couple. This is notably less graphic than the rest of the list, as snarkysweetness seems to have taken on the challenge of never using any words that mean penis or vagina. The scene might be a little too PG-13 to some readers as a result, but judge for yourself. Here’s the story in full, and here’s an excerpt so you can see what I’m talking about.

 

He moved his hand around until he heard another loud moan escape her lips. He rubbed the small area above where her opening was. Neville wondered what she tasted like, and hoped he got to find out soon.

 

5. Harry, Ginny, and also Draco

 

Yeah, so the world of Harry Potter fanfiction erotica is a large one that includes many different interests. TigerLilly8806’s “A Nightly Stroll” follows Harry on a late, sleepless night as he accidentally catches Ginny and Draco together in a classroom. Instead of being taken over with jealousy, he joins in. Again, logic is at work! In any case, the three have sex. Check out the story here, and here’s the really, really bizarre ending.

 

“You guys look cute together,” Harry said abruptly. Before Draco or Ginny could say anything Harry threw the cloak on again and slowly backed out of the room.

 

Feature Image Via Tor

featured

James Joyce’s Steamy Love Letters Are Better Than ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’

Irish writer James Joyce may best be remembered as a literary icon whose written work, Ulysses, cemented his image as a wise and intelligent mind hiding behind a soft and innocent-looking face.

 

Don’t be fooled, however. Yes, he is in fact intelligent, but he’s certainty not soft (in more ways than one). Behind those puppy dog eyes, thick mustache, and posh bowtie happens to be a dirty old man. Seriously dirty, dirty man.

 

The same passion and experimental attitude this linguistic mastermind brought to his stories and poetry he also translated to other avenues of his personal life. For those unfamiliar with Joyce, he had a passionate relationship with Nora Barnacle, whom he met in 1904 (the same date he later chose as the setting of Ulysses).

 

Their enduring love was filled with children, a marriage, and a great deal of passion. The sensual bond between the pair was evident throughout their public relationship. However, it became much more evident following their deaths when, in 1975, a book containing Joyce’s side of their written correspondence was published. The book, appropriately titled, Selected Letters of James Joyce (which you can buy here), brought to light their very personal and steamy love affair that rivaled anything E. L. James ever wrote. 

 

Don’t believe it? Take a peek for yourself. Just a warning, however, they are absolutely NSFW! You’ve been warned.

 

1. 2 December 1909, Dublin

 

My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the very stink and sweat that rises from your arse, glorying in the open shape of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you while you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.

 

You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.

 

Nora, my faithful darling, my seet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! My little fucking whore!) you are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark-blue rain-drenched flower.

 

JIM

 

2. 3 December 1909, Dublin.

 

As you know, dearest, I never use obscene phrases in speaking. You have never heard me, have you, utter an unfit word before others. When men tell in my presence here filthy or lecherous stories I hardly smile. Yet you seem to turn me into a beast. It was you yourself, you naughty shameless girl who first led the way. It was not I who first touched you long ago down at Ringsend. It was you who slid your hand down inside my trousers and pulled my shirt softly aside and touched my prick with your long tickling fingers, and gradually took it all, fat and stiff as it was, into your hand and frigged me slowly until I came off through your fingers, all the time bending over me and gazing at me out of your quiet saintlike eyes. It was your lips too which first uttered an obscene word. I remember well that night in bed in Pola. Tired of lying under a man one night you tore off your chemise violently and began to ride me up and down. Perhaps the horn I had was not big enough for you for I remember that you bent down to my face and murmured tenderly ‘Fuck up, love! fuck up, love!’

 

JIM

 

 

3. 8 December 1909, Dublin.

 

My sweet little whorish Nora,

 

I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue come bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

 

You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over me with a whore’s glow in your slumbrous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometime too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your hot drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.

 

Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.

 

JIM

 

If you can’t get enough, the great news is, there’s more. You can read more of James Joyce’s letters by clicking on the link here.

 

Feature Image Courtesy of The Irish Times and Her Campus

outlander

6 Steamy Sex Scenes That You Should Absolutely Avoid Reading

Before Fifty Shades of Grey hit the shelves, there were plenty of books that featured raw and intense portrayals of sex. I think many people often scoff at the idea that the human experience, intimacy included, can be effectively and beautifully portrayed on paper, but they are certainly missing out.

 

Since sex is so openly portrayed on screen (e.g. Game of Thrones every five minutes (not that I’m complaining)), books often get overlooked. Nevertheless, sex can, and has, been explored and portrayed endlessly by writers whose own objective views promise unique perspectives. Here are 6 incredibly steamy sex scenes that will make you blush!

via GIPHY

 

1. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami

 

And again, as before, she unzipped my fly, took out my penis, and put it in her mouth. The one thing different from before was that she did not take off her own clothing. She wore Kumiko’s dress the whole time. I tried to move, but it felt as if my body were tied down by invisible threads. I felt myself growing big and hard inside her mouth.

 

I saw her fake eyelashes and curled hair tips moving. Her bracelets made a dry sound against each other. Her tongue was long and soft and seemed to wrap itself around me. Just as I was about to come, she suddenly moved away and began slowly to undress me. She took off my jacket, my tie, my pants, my shirt, my underwear, and made me lie down on the bed. Her own clothes she kept on, though. She sat on the bed, took my hand, and brought it under her dress. She was not wearing panties. My hand felt the warmth of her vagina. It was deep, warm, and very wet. My fingers were all but sucked inside.

 

Then Creta Kano mounted me and used her hand to slip me inside her. Once she had me deep inside, she began a slow rotation of her hips. As she moved, the edges of the pale-blue dress caressed my naked stomach and thighs. With the skirts of the dress spread out around her, Creta Kano, riding atop me, looking like a soft, gigantic mushroom that had silently poked its face up through the dead leaves on the ground and opened under the sheltering wings of night. Her vagina felt warm and at the same time cold. It tried to envelop me, to draw me in, and at the same time to press me out. My erection grew larger and harder. I felt I was about to burst wide open. It was the strangest sensation, something that went beyond simple sexual pleasure. It felt as if something inside her, something special inside her, were slowly working its way through my organ into me.

 

2. Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman

 

I got up and reached for one of the peaches, opened it half-way with my thumbs, pushed the pit out on my desk, and gently brought the fuzzy, blush-colored peach to my groin, and then began to press into it till the parted fruit slid down my cock…The fruit was leaking all over my cock. If Oliver walked in on me now, I’d let him suck me as he had this morning. If Marzia came, I’d let her help me finish the job. The peach was soft and firm, and when I finally succeeded in tearing it apart with my cock, I saw that its reddened core reminded me not just of an anus but of a vagina, so that holding each half in either hand firmly against my cock, I began to rub myself, thinking of no one and of everyone, including the poor peach, which had no idea what was being done to it except that it had to play along and probably in the end took some pleasure in the act as well till I thought I heard it say to me, Fuck me, Elio, fuck me harder, and after a moment, Harder, I said…I sensed I could just stop then and there or, with one more stroke, I could come, which I finally did, carefully aiming the spurt into the reddened core of the open peach as if in a ritual of insemination…

 

The bruised and damaged peach, like a rape victim, lay on its side on my desk, shamed, loyal, aching, and confused, struggling not to spill what I’d left inside. It reminded me that I had probably looked no different on his bed last night after he’d come inside me the first time….

 

“I’m sick, aren’t I?” I asked.

 

“No, you’re not sick—I wish everyone were as sick as you. Want to see sick?”

 

What was he up to? I hesitated to say yes…

 

He dipped his finger into the core of the peach and brought it to his mouth.

 

“Please don’t.” This was more than I could bear.

 

“I could never stand my own. But this is yours…”

 

3. Endless Love by Scott Spencer

 

As soon as her body began to jerk and shudder in response to her climax, I found myself astoundingly moved— as if by choral music that surprises you, or a kiss from behind bestowed by your lover on tiptoes. Jade let out her high keening call and I felt an abrupt rush of my semen, racing through me like twin rivers, turning with an acidic twist but not slowing down. I grabbed hold of her back, instinctually afraid she might leave me, and I arched myself toward her as I came. I could sense my pleasure passing through me almost unnoticed and I tried to fix my entire concentration on it. A perceptual lunge— like trying to discover the silver arc of a shooting star whose dive through the sky you’ve just caught out of the corner of your eye. When Jade felt the blurry warmth of my climax, she moved up a little and tightened herself for a slow, deliberate slide down. Whatever semen I had surrendered at the coaxing of Jade’s fingers had left a prodigious storehouse behind— almost a creepy abundance. My scrotum, feet, hands went icy cold and my mouth— moments before filled with the slosh of desire— was dry as a wafer. My muscles were collapsing, my lungs shriveled like burst balloons, but I continued to come. Jade looked down at me. Smiled. Her eyes were glassy, indistinct, like someone who has breathed in smoke. A burning room.

 

4. “Secretary” Bad Behavior by Mary Gaitskll

 

I turned my head away from him. I thought, I don’t have to do this. I can stop right now. I can straighten up and walk out. But I didn’t. I pulled up my skirt.

 

“Pull down your panty hose and underwear.”

 

A finger of nausea poked my stomach.

 

“I told you I’m not going to fuck you. Do what I say.”

 

The skin on my face and throat was hot, but my fingertips were cold on my legs as I pulled down my underwear and panty hose. The letter before me became distorted beyond recognition. I thought I might faint or vomit, but I didn’t. I was held up by a feeling of dizzying suspension, like the one I have in dreams where I can fly, but only if I get into some weird position.

 

At first he didn’t seem to be doing anything. Then I became aware of a small frenzy of expended energy behind me. I had an impression of a vicious little animal frantically burrowing dirt with its tiny claws and teeth. My hips were sprayed with hot sticky muck.

 

“Go clean yourself off,” he said. “And do that letter again.”

 

5. Blonde by Joyce Carol Oates

 

One of them wrestled her to the cold damp sand, hard-packed as dirt. She was fighting, laughing, her red dress torn, her garter belt and black lace panties twisted … Full on her startled lips Cass Chaplin began to kiss her, gently, then with increasing pressure, and with his tongue as he hadn’t kissed her in so long. Norma Jeane grabbed at him desperately, arms around his head, Eddy G sank to his knees beside them and fumbled with the panties, finally ripping them off. He stroked her with skillful fingers and then with his skillful tongue he kissed between her legs, rubbing, nudging, poking, in a rhythm like a giant pulse, Norma Jeane’s legs twined about his head and shoulders desperately, she was beginning to buck her hips, beginning to come, so Eddy quick and deft as if he’d practiced such a maneuver many times shifted his position to crouch over her, as Cass was now crouching over her head, and both men penetrated her.

 

6. Slow Dancing by Elizabeth Benedict

 

In his hotel room he used his hands to hold her head, moved it with deliberate but tempered force— far more than a suggestion— from a spot on his neck to his chest to himself. He kept his hands pressed firmly to her ears, then played with strands of her hair. He moved her head then away from himself so that he could feel her breasts there, between her breasts, and he pressed them close around it, which no one had ever.… It was weird having it pushed into her face, pushed against her, as casually as if it were a finger. He was so sure of himself. So cock-centered. The phrase had never occurred to her before that moment, when it was locked between her breasts. When he was inside of her later, she felt the same taut, sure strength in his hips as they pressed into her, forcing her to press back.… With his hips he pulled her along to the edge of sensation and then let her pull back ever so gently, and back and forth and back and forth. She felt as if she were getting ready for a dive, jumping up and down on the end of the diving board to get a feel for the springs. Tighter than she had expected. Though she offered no resistance and came right before he did. When they caught their breath and pulled the covers back up, Stephen kissed her on the cheek, a quick good-night kiss, and rolled over and slept by himself.

 

Featured image courtesy of Tall Ship Productions

Emilia Clarke grossed out

NSFW: The Bad Sex Award Winner Is Announced

Last week, we covered the nominees for The Literary Review‘s annual Bad Sex Award, and it was quite a trip. Check out the full list here. They were all really…something else. 

 

Now, this year’s winner has been announced… It is Christopher Bollen for the “anatomically confusing” “billiard rack” analogy he used in his thriller, titled (somewhat upsettingly, given the context of this award) The Destroyers

 

Via Giphy

 Via Giphy

What is this “billiard rack” analogy, you ask? Well, reader, ask and you shall receive. 

 

She covers her breasts with her swimsuit.The rest of her remains so delectably exposed. The skin along her arms and shoulders are different shades of tan like water stains in a bathtub. Her face and vagina are competing for my attention, so I glance down at the billiard rack of my penis and testicles.

 

The Literary Review commented:

 

The judges felt that there are parts in the book where Bollen goes overboard in his attempts to describe the familiar in new terms, leading occasionally to confusion. In the line quoted … they were left unsure as to how many testicles the character in question has.

 

It’s true: the billiard rack analogy is strange, but stranger still, I would argue, is the comparison between the skin of the woman and a stained bathtub. Stained bathtubs…aren’t sexy, Christopher. There is, frankly, no way around that fact.

 

Previous winners of the award include Norman Mailer, Morrissey, and Rowan Somerville. While many winners accept the accolade with good humor, others are not so welcoming. Unsurprisingly, Morrissey had a slight tantrum when crowned king of Bad Sex in 2015, saying, “there are too many good things in life to let these repulsive horrors pull you down I have many enemies, and their biggest motivation, as you know, is to try to use all your achievements against you.” Okay, Morrissey, add this “repulsive horror” to your list of achievements and move on, buddy. 

 

Via Giphy

Morrissey in a bathtub, although it’s hard to tell if this one is stained…sexily or not. | Via Giphy

 

Bollen has yet to publicly comment on the award, but I look forward to hearing what he has to say on the matter. 

 

Featured Image Via Bustle