You’re No Pouting Sex Kitten

Our guest columnist is not running for Preznit of These United States.

The boy in the greenhouse was flawlessly adolescent and shockingly beautiful, and in his innocent way, he’d made her come resoundingly — Apollo with his modest marble membrum virile, otherwise known, in her village, as a skin flute. This memory sparkled as Ed intently suckled. They were both on their left sides now, Ed behind, where he’d pried her right shoulder back while deeply inserted and twisted his head so he could suckle away madly. He freed himself from her nipple after a long attachment so as to kiss her on the mouth at length — as if seeking to set the world record for kiss duration — and she smelled her breast on his breath, which was otherwise piquant with saliva, a little tart, a little bitter, and humid with the churning underworld — the raw metabolism and generative heat — beneath the flawless exterior. Jim Long’s odor had been a little like Naugahyde, and his mouth, lips, and tongue had often tasted metallic (or, just as often, steeped in vermouth), whereas Ed smelled vulnerably digestive, warm-blooded, moist, and, just now, breast-fed. He smelled great, and she began to think, the way he was going at it now, that this was how he wanted to come — in her from behind, on one hip and elbow, contorted to kiss and with a hand between her legs. She was fine with that, would have welcomed it and joined him with a considerable bang, but what happened instead was that he pulled out at the last moment and, after turning her on her back, began yet another eternity of regional body worship, this one built around working his lips, tongue, and teeth down her rib cage and belly with that servility of his that was the flip side of masochism. To get Ed to burrow headfirst into her quim, Diane had to put her hands in his hair and, acknowledging her pressing need, press.

Ed King by David Guterson: Bad sex award extract [Guardian UK]

David Guterson comes first in Literary Review’s bad sex in fiction award [Guardian UK, via LuxMentis]


This must have been written by a virgin with a fetish for contortionist females from Cirque Du Soleil who have smelly boobs or an author writing as if he were.

It certainly is one of the stupidest and worst written “sex” scenes.

ETA: Oh wow. He’s a SERIOUS author. Holy shitsnacks.

It’s kind of like a description of a game of Twister if you read it right.

Also: Skin Flute. HAHAHAHAHA!

@ManchuCandidate: My son is mocking me now.

@Mistress Cynica: Heh.

@Tommmcatt Be Fat, And That Be That: I know! That’s from like, fifth grade?

Cat just had a nightmare, hissed at me and clawed the shit out of my arm. He’s lucky he’s bigger than me.

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