Few things can be funnier or more entertaining than really good bad sex writing: robustly and lecherously purple, and valiantly, if somewhat unintentionally, hilarious. The shortlist for this year's Bad Sex in Fiction award (established by the Literary Review to celebrate truly cringe-worthy erotic writing and mark "the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel.") was impressive, but debut author Iain Hollingshead scooped up the prize for his novel Twenty Something, beating established writers including Irvine Welsh, Will Self, David Mitchell and American literary maverick Thomas Pynchon.
"I hope to win it every year," said a delighted Hollingshead (the prize's youngest-ever winner at 25), who received his award, a statuette and a bottle of champagne, from rock singer Courtney Love at a London ceremony. His use of clichés and euphemisms, and his description of "bulging trousers", sealed the win, the judges said.
So, here, without further ado, is the incriminating passage (you will find the complete set of shortlisted extracts here):
She's wearing a short, floaty skirt that's more suited to July than February. She leans forward to peck me on the cheek, which feels weird, as she's never kissed me on the cheek before. We'd kissed properly the first time we met. And that was over three years ago.
But the peck on the cheek turns into a quick peck on the lips. She hugs me tight. 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. 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 little particles.