Här följer några citat från nätet. Scenerna är klassade som excellenta då de som lagt ut dem menar att de är mycket välskrivna. Gör din egen bedömning utan att tjuvkika på författarnamnet. Om du gillar utdragen, kan du förklara varför?
I washed her with slow, careful gestures, first letting her squat in the tub, then asking her to stand up: I still have in my ears the sound of the dripping water, and the impression that the copper of the tub had a consistency not different from Lila’s flesh, which was smooth, solid, calm. I had a confusion of feelings and thoughts: embrace her, weep with her, kiss her, pull her hair, laugh, pretend to sexual experience and instruct her in a learned voice, distancing her with words just at the moment of greatest closeness.
But in the end there was only the hostile thought that I was washing her, from her hair to the soles of her feet, early in the morning, just so that Stefano could sully her in the course of the night. I imagined her naked as she was at that moment, entwined with her husband, in the bed in the new house, while the train clattered under their windows and his violent flesh entered her with a sharp blow, like the cork pushed by the palm into the neck of a wine bottle. And it suddenly seemed to me that the only remedy against the pain I was feeling, that I would feel, was to find a corner secluded enough so that Antonio could do to me, at the same time, the exact same thing.
/ Elena Ferrante, The Story of a New Name
He whispered, “Let’s make this one last happy farewell fuck.”
She started to tell him something but then thought no. They fell together, folded toward each other, and then she leaned back, arching, shored on her back-braced arms, and she let him pace the occasion. At some point she opened her eyes and saw him watching her, measuring her progress, and he looked a little isolated and wan and she pulled his head down to her and sucked salt from his tongue and heard the sort of breast-slap, the splash of upper bodies and the banging bed. Then it was a matter of close concentration. She listened for something inside the bloodrush and she spun his hips and felt electric and desperate and finally home free and she looked at his eyes stung shut and his mouth stretched so tight it seemed taped at the corners, upper lip pressed white against his teeth, and she felt a kind of hanged man’s coming when he came, the jumped body and stiffened limbs, and she ran a hand through his hair—be nicer if we did it more often.
/ Don DeLillo, Underworld
Så här låter motiveringen till Bad Sex in Fiction Award som publiceras av Literary Review:
“The purpose of the prize is to draw attention to poorly written, perfunctory or redundant passages of sexual description in modern fiction. The prize is not intended to cover pornographic or expressly erotic literature.”
Vinnaren 2018 kommenterad i Literary Review:
The judges of the Bad Sex in Fiction Award were swayed by several sex scenes in Frey’s novel, including an extended passage set in a Paris bathroom involving the narrator, Jay, and his lover, Katerina, a model from Norway. The following is merely a brief extract:
“I’m hard and deep inside her fucking her on the bathroom sink her tight little black dress still on her thong on the floor my pants at my knees our eyes locked, our hearts and souls and bodies locked.Cum inside me.
Cum inside me.
Cum inside me.
Blinding breathless shaking overwhelming exploding white God I cum inside her my cock throbbing we’re both moaning eyes hearts souls bodies one.
I close my eyes let out my breath.
I lean against her both breathing hard I’m still inside her smiling. She takes my hands lifts them and places them around her body, she puts her arms around me, we stay still and breathe, hard inside her, tight and warm and wet around me, we breathe. She gently pushes me away, we look into each other’s eyes, she smiles.”
/ James Frey, A million little pieces
After days of debate culminating in a meaningful vote, the judges finally agreed that Frey deserved the award. The Norwegian model left them unconvinced and the hard withdrawal was too much for them to bear. They said in a statement: “James Frey prevailed against a strong all-male shortlist by virtue of the sheer number and length of dubious erotic passages in his book. The multiple scenes of sustained fantasy in Katerina could have won Frey the award many times over.” (Literary review, 2018)
I artikeln ”In defense of #BadSex” opponerar sig Allan Drew (2015) mot att tävlingen ”Bad Sex in Fiction Award” bara presenterar lösryckta scener. Han ger ett exempel från Ian McEwans roman “On Chesil beach” som han själv skulle valt som #GoodSex när han läste stycket i sin romankontext:
Drawing her fingers across its underside, she arrived at the base of his penis, which she held with extreme care, for she had no idea how sensitive or robust it was. She trailed her fingers along its length, noting with interest its silky texture, right to the tip, which she lightly stroked; and then, amazed by her own boldness, she moved back down a little, to take his penis firmly, about halfway along, and pulled it downwards, a slight adjustment, until she felt it touching her labia. (Drew, 2015).
Han menar att det finns en risk att priset nedvärderar vissa former av skrivande, som i McEwans fall där en sexuellt explicit beskrivning av vad som hände var nödvändig för handlingen. Drew frågar lite syrligt :
One might wonder whether issues of female sexual desire are, at least for the bad sex judges, a little more cringeworthy, a little more transgressive, than issues of male desire. That, however, is a separate analysis (Drew, 2015).
xxxHG En läsvärd erotisk scen / sexscenerna enligt någon, den sämsta enligt andra
Delar av följande scen blev alltså nominerad till Literary reviews Bad sex in fiction award. Den finns ocksp med bland ”50 incredible written sex scenes in books” (Bookfox) där den karakteriseras som en humoristisk kommentar, om män ur en kvinnas perspektiv.
She said, ‘Very well, you may kiss my vibrato.’
He took her left hand and sucked the ends of her fingers in turn, and put his tongue on the violin player’s calluses there. They kissed, and it was in this moment of relative optimism for Florence that she felt his arms tense, and suddenly, in one deft athletic move, he had rolled on top of her, and though his weight was mostly through his elbows and forearms planted on either side of her head, she was pinned down and helpless, and a little breathless beneath his bulk. She felt disappointment that he had not lingered to stroke her pubic area again and set off that strange and spreading thrill. But her immediate preoccupation – an improvement on revulsion or fear – was to keep up appearances, not to let him down or humiliate herself, or seem a poor choice among all the women he had known. She was going to get through this. She would never let him know what a struggle it was, what it cost her, to appear calm. She was without any other desire but to please him and make this night a success, and without any other sensation beyond an awareness of the end of his penis, strangely cool, repeatedly jabbing and bumping into and around her urethra. Her panic and disgust, she thought, were under control, she loved Edward, and all her thoughts were on helping him have what he so dearly wanted and to make him love her all the more. It was in this spirit that she slid her right hand down between his groin and hers. He lifted a little to let her through. She was pleased with herself for remembering that the red manual advised that it was perfectly acceptable for the bride to ‘guide the man in’.
She found his testicles first and, not at all afraid now, she curled her fingers softly round this extraordinary bristling item she had seen in different forms on dogs and horses, but had never quite believed could fit comfortably on adult humans. Drawing her fingers across its underside, she arrived at the base of his penis, which she held with extreme care, for she had no idea how sensitive or robust it was. She trailed her fingers along its length, noting with interest its silky texture, right to the tip, which she lightly stroked; and then, amazed by her own boldness, she moved back down a little, to take his penis firmly, about halfway along, and pulled it downwards, a slight adjustment, until she felt it just touching her labia.
How could she have known what a terrible mistake she was making? Had she pulled on the wrong thing? Had she gripped too tight? He gave out a wail, a complicated series of agonised, rising vowels, the sort of sound she had heard once in a comedy film when a waiter, weaving this way and that, appeared to be about to drop a towering pile of soup plates.
In horror she let go, as Edward, rising up with a bewildered look, his muscular back arching in spasms, emptied himself over her in gouts, in vigorous but diminishing quantities, filling her navel, coating her belly, thighs, and even a portion of her chin and kneecap in tepid, viscous fluid.
/ Ian McEwan, On Chesil Beach