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.Pretty bad, certainly (has Hollingshead ever actually had sex?) but not as snortingly risible as one would hope, and not a patch on my entry (ooh!) from last year. Maybe the standard of sex writing has improved, or maybe it's just that Paul Theroux and Salman Rushdie didn't have new books out this year.
"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 tiny particles.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
"A demon eel thrashing in his loins..."
The annual Bad Sex Award has been thrust upon Iain Hollingshead for this act of turgidity:
Posted by Tim at 12/03/2006 09:39:00 pm