We have a wiener

The Bad Sex in Fiction Award for 2012 goes to Nancy Huston for Infrared, from which we excerpt this entirely-too-visible scene, placed after the jump for reasons which should be obvious:

“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 …”

There’s a lot to be said for silvery fluidity, but I don’t think I’m the one to say it.

Nor do I think I’m going to get anywhere near this scenario:

Picking up the award on Huston’s behalf, her publicist said: “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.”

“Photos,” she said. Let’s not encourage video.

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