Bad sex

Enough about smelly washers! (Not really. If you have more to say, you can still comment on the previous post. Or e-mail me. Two friends have e-mailed me from the other side of the Atlantic about their own smelly washer woes. Mind you, I have but two friends on the other side of the Atlantic, so 100% of them have smelly washers. Whereas I know scores of people in the U.S. who have not mentioned smelly washers. Is this a cultural thing? Does America have washer superiority, or is it just chance, this disparity?)

Anyway—Nancy Friedman's Away With Words blog pointed me towards the Bad Sex Awards of 2007, dishonoring the literary flights of fancy that have done the most harm to the cause of good sex writing this year. Norman Mailer won for a horrid imagining of Adolf Hitler's parents' bad sex, complete with a penis that was "now as soft as a coil of excrement." (Eww!) That's pretty awful, all right, but Gary Shteyngart's Absurdistan offers this gem:

"You wanna pop me?" she said. This must have been some new-fangled youth term. The verb "to pop."

"I wanna bust a nut inside you, shorty," I said. "I wanna make you sweat, boo. Let's do this thing."

I'd like to say that she stepped out of her jeans, but in truth it took a while to maneuver two large dimpled buttocks and the accompanying vaginal wedge out of the hard shell of her Miss Sixty denims. We huffed and sweated; I had her hanging off the edge of the bed while I gripped the cuffs of her jeans; I nearly pulled a groin muscle getting her naked; but through it all I stayed hard, a testament to how much I wanted her. She kept her T-shirt on throughout the initial popping, which is just how I like my sex, infused with a little mystery. I slipped my hands beneath the cotton tee and felt the smooth creamery of her breasts while saving the visuals of those brown glossy globes for later. Her vagina was all that, as they say in the urban media - a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? Good Lord, yes it was. Mountains of kinkiness black as the night above the Serengeti with paprika shoots at the edges - the pubic hair alone must have clocked in at half a kilo, while providing the inspiration for two discernible trails of hair, one running up to the navel, the other to the base of the spine.

The short first season of the HBO series, Tell Me That You Love Me, recently ended. Whew! Not a moment too soon. The talky, whiny, pouty people weren't a problem for me. And I pitied the character who'd been married for years, had been faking orgasm all along, and had never managed to learn how to masturbate successfully (as if this is rocket science!)—at least she mastured that skill in the season finale. The show had almost as much sexual content as a Skinemax movie, and yet it was 99.9% unerotic—much like the Bad Sex finalists of fiction.

Good gravy! The world scarcely needs more bad sex.