Icky, icky, icky went the reader

Looking at another stupidly busy day at work, but this is too good to wait (Andrea is on the case, sending me these wonderful things when I am too buried to scout)...

Tom Wolfe's I am Charlotte Simmons has garnered the not-the-least-bit-coveted British prize for bad sex in fiction. CNN has the story:

"Slither slither slither slither went the tongue," one of his winning sentences begins.

"But the hand that was what she tried to concentrate on, the hand, since it has the entire terrain of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns -- oh God, it was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest -- no, the hand was cupping her entire right -- Now!"

Judges described Wolfe's prose as "ghastly and boring." Wolfe has said in interviews he intended the book's sexual descriptions to be dry and clinical.

Let me just say this, if anyone described my love patch in Andre Brink fashion as "a large exotic mushroom in the fork of a tree," I'm quite sure I would never speak to them again.