Bad Sex In Fiction Award 2012

Canadian author Nancy Huston is the winner of  Britain's most dreaded Literary Prize, the 20th Literary Review's Bad Sex prize, for her 14th novel, Infrared.

The prize was presented by the actor Samantha Bond and the ceremony was held in the august surroundings of the Naval & Military Club in St James, better known as The In & Out club.

Others on the shortlist included Sam Mills (for The Quiddity of Will Self) distinguished BBC Newsnight economics editor Paul Mason (Rare Earth), poet Craig Raine (for The Divine Comedy) and veteran novelist Tom Wolfe (for Back to Blood), a previous winner in 2004.

Other favourites this year who had made it to the longlist had already been eliminated. These included JK Rowling (for The Casual Vacancy, her first novel for adults, ), and E.L. James, for Fifty Shades of Grey.

The judges found Rowling's writing not bad enough, and James because the prize, established to draw attention to bad sex writing "and discourage it" specifically rules out pornographic or intentionally erotic literature.

In a press release, the Literary Review said 

Infrared tells the story of a frustrating family holiday endured by Rena Greenblatt, a photographer who specialises in taking infrared snaps of her lovers during sex. Nancy Huston lives in Paris and was unable to accept the prize in person. Her publisher accepted it on her behalf. Huston said in a statement: 'I hope this prize will incite thousands of British women to take close-up photos of their lovers' bodies in all states of array and disarray.'

Sentences from the novel such as 'Kamal and I are totally immersed in flesh, that archaic kingdom that brings forth tears and terrors, nightmares, babies and bedazzlements' caught the judges' attention. One long passage in particular stood out:

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...

Infrared is Huston's 14th work of fiction. She has won the Prix Goncourt des Lycéens, the Prix Femina and been shortlisted for the Orange Prize. Originally from Canada, she writes in French, then translates her books into English herself. She is only the third woman to win the Bad Sex in Fiction Award.

Huston edged out strong competition from Tom Wolfe's Back to Blood ('Now his big generative jockey was inside her pelvic saddle, riding, riding, riding, and she was eagerly swallowing it swallowing it swallowing it with the saddle's own lips and maw'), Ben Masters's Noughties ('She took it and forced it inside the cup of her bra, lending me her full cushiony swell. With my other hand I traced the Braille of her viscera'), and Nicola Barker's The Yips ('She smells of almonds, like a plump Bakewell pudding; and he is the spoon, the whipped cream, the helpless dollop of warm custard. She steams').

***

Winner: Infrared by Nancy Huston. Extract: 

No sooner have we settled onto the bed and begun to remove each other's clothes with the clumsy gestures of impatience than I realise Kamal also knows about passivity — yes, he also knows how to remain still, fully awake and attentive, and give himself up to me as a cello gives itself up to a bow. Arching his back, he surrenders his face, shoulders, back and buttocks, waiting for me to play them, and I do — I play them, play with them. Most men are afraid to let go like this — whereas with a little finesse the wonders of passivity can be tasted in even the most violent throes of love-making.

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 ...

And orgasm — the way a man's face is transformed by orgasm — oh it's not true they all look alike, you have to be either miserable and broke or furiously blasé and sarcastic to say they all look alike — to me, every climax is unique.

***

When our bodies unite for the third time we leave all theatres behind. What happens then has as little to do with the libertinage prized by the French (oh the blasphemers, the precious precocious ejaculators, the nasty naughty boys, the cruel fouteurs and fouetteurs) as with the healthy, egalitarian intercourse championed by Americans (who hand out bachelors degrees in G-points, masters in masturbation and Ph.Ds in endorphines).

Others on the shortlist:

The Quiddity of Will Self, by Sam Mills: 

  … oh, yes, oh, yes, oh, Will, oh, yes, oh, semen-bedizened blood-pusillanimous bed onanistic quiddity fulcrating pelvic thrusts smoke thick typewriter’s click-clack-click Will Our Cock is Spent screaming loving Will is pleased Will is Saved I have done it I have done I am the Chosen One I am his Chosen One oh Will for ever I am yours for ever I am yours for ever I am.

Rare Earth by Paul Mason: 

He switched to some ancient steppe language as he ejaculated, blubbering and incoherent. Chun-li faked an orgasm, keeping her mind focused on an eighth-century lyric of sadness, and her face still as a lake in winter. Khünbish collapsed below the neck of the horse, where he clung now, like a forlorn circus rider, as the steppe cacophony segued seamlessly into the kind of trickling-stream-plus-birdsong music they play in mental hospitals to calm things down.

The Adventuress: The Irresistible Rise of Miss Cath Fox by Nicholas Coleridge: 

In seconds, the duke had lowered his trousers and boxers and positioned himself across a leather steamer trunk, emblazoned with the royal arms of Hohenzollern Castle. ‘Give me no quarter,’ he commanded. ‘Lay it on with all your might.’ Cath did as she was told, swishing the twigs hard onto the royal bottom.

The Divine Comedy by Craig Raine: 

And he came. Like a wubbering springboard. His ejaculate jumped the length of her arm. Eight diminishing gouts. The first too high for her to lick. Right on the shoulder.

Back to Blood, by Tom Wolfe: 

But then the tips of her breasts became erect on their own, and the flood in her loins washed morals, despair, and all other abstract assessments away in a cloud of some sort of divine cologne of his. Now his big generative jockey was inside her pelvic saddle, riding, riding, riding, and she was eagerly swallowing it swallowing it swallowing it with the saddle’s own lips and maw

Noughties, by Ben Masters: 

We got up from the chair and she led me to her elfin grot, getting amongst the pillows and cool sheets. We trawled each other’s bodies for every inch of history. I dug after what I had always imagined and came up with even more.

The Yips by Nicola Barker: 

He knows her body now, even tightly sheathed and slippery as it is; a ripe, red plum, its yellow flesh pressing out against the smooth arc of its cool, fragrant skin. He understands the basic groundwork, has visited the orchard like a hungry finch, has gorged on the fruit and rejected the pips, has explored the geography.