“Writing about sex is like dancing about architecture.” —Someone, probably
Nancy Huston’s “Infrared” took home this year’s Bad Sex in Fiction Award, considered by many to be the U.K.’s “most dreaded literary prize,” considered by people without Internet access to be “kinda hot, like.”
The book, which blah blah blah you don’t care, just get to the sex:
“In a delirium of restrained desire, I weigh, stroke and lick Kamal’s balls, then take his penis in my hands, between my breasts, into my mouth. He sits up, reaches for me and I allow him to explore me in turn. He runs his tongue and lips over my breasts, the back of my neck, my toes, my stomach, the countless treasures between my legs, oh the sheer ecstasy of lips and tongues on genitals, either simultaneously or in alternation, never will I tire of that silvery fluidity, my sex swimming in joy like a fish in water, my self freed of both self and other, the quivering sensation, the carnal pink palpitation that detaches you from all colour and all flesh, making you see only stars, constellations, milky ways, propelling you bodiless and soulless into undulating space where the undulating skies make your non-body undulate …”
The question on everyone’s mind: Well, how much do Kamal’s balls weigh?
• 2011 Winner: ‘Like a Lepidopterist Mounting a Tough-Skinned Insect’
If you really care, here’s more on Huston and her writing habits.
If you’d like to leave your Fifty Shades of Grey joke in the comments …
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