Salon.com > Good Sex Awards

Too embarrassed to be sexy?

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 01:00:00 +0000

Contemporary novelists feel a "commercial" obligation to write "detailed" passages about sex, the British writer Julian Barnes recently said on the BBC's Radio 3. That, I thought, explains a lot — not the proliferation of sex scenes in contemporary literary fiction, but fiction's pitiful commercial impact. If today's novelists believe that the money is in writing explicit sex scenes (and the sales of "Fifty Shades of Grey" would indicate it is), then apparently they are running away from the money as fast as they can. Literary novelists write about having and raising children, about eating, about coming of age and making a living, but when it comes to one of life's essential activities and pleasures, they mostly prefer to remain silent.

Why? Barnes, in recalling the great sense of liberation following the collapse of the 1960 obscenity case against the publishers of "Lady Chatterley's Lover," said that there was then a great sense of possibility. British fiction could finally emulate the "truth-telling" of French novels. But being free to do something and being able to do it are very different, and Barnes thinks the results were sometimes awkward and implausible. Plus, the effort went unappreciated. "Expect to be laughed at by subsequent generations," Barnes told aspiring authors, before affirming that he personally forges ahead into this veritable minefield despite all the anticipated mockery.

No. 1: James Hynes’ “Next”

Mon, 14 Feb 2011 12:45:00 +0000

The porch railing creaks under their weight, and even drunk and excited Kevin wonders about the farmhouse's craftsmanship and hopes the Philosopher's Daughter's father is as good a handyman as he is a philosopher. He worries about toppling backward into the bushes, he worries about splinters, but the beer and the anxiety are making him last longer, otherwise he might have come the instant he was inside her. Then Lynda murmurs "Wait" right in his ear, and as he clutches her waist under her dress she unbends first one leg and then the other over the railing, settling tightly against him, taking him in even deeper. She tightens her calves against the railing and squeezes with her thighs, and he groans, because he's deeper inside this girl than he's ever been inside any girl before, and he presses his open mouth against the long, salty curve of her neck. He's inhaling her humidity, she's panting like an animal just above the top of his head. They can't move much -- if she thrusts too hard against him she'll topple them into the bushes -- but the song has finished with words and now it's just a driving sax, and they rock together to the beat, her sweat dripping into the dress bunched at her waist, her hands kneading his back, his face pressed between her salty breasts, her heart thumping against his lips. He can't move much, he can hardly breathe, but he can't stop now, and he hooks his chin over her shoulder, her hair scratching his nose and filling his mouth, and through it he can see the red window where the music's pouring out, he can see pumping limbs and torsos in the red light, hair swinging, heads shaking. There's someone in the window, he can't make out who in the darkness, just a silhouette against the red glow, catching a breeze through the screen, breathing in something other than sweat and beer and marijuana. Kevin wants it to be her, and he thinks, look at me, but he can't be sure, it's just a shape in the window, it might not be her, it might be someone else. Now the music is circling and building, just the rhythm section and an insinuating solo guitar, and as Lynda rocks against him, he surges with each bar of the solo, almost cresting but not quite, and he thinks, I want you to see me. He hopes this lasts forever, he hopes that it doesn't and that he comes like a waterfall, but either way he wants her to know, he wants her to see him. His heart hammers, his breath rasps through Lynda's hair. Turn around, he wills the silhouette in the window, this could have been us.

What makes a good sex scene?

Mon, 14 Feb 2011 12:43:00 +0000

Over the last four days, we've been rolling out our eight finalists for Salon's first-ever Good Sex Awards (to read all the excerpts, click here). Some of the passages were erotic, others clinical and detached, yet each showed that sex writing at its best can capture the complexity or beauty or ugliness of the real thing.

Below, our panelist of four judges -- Louis Bayard, Maud Newton, Walter Kirn and our own Laura Miller -- discuss what they learned from the eight nominees, and how they settled on the winner: James Hynes' "Next," a scene in which a middle-aged Austinite recalls a steamy encounter on a farmhouse porch. (The whole excerpt is worth a read.) But what makes that scene better than runner-up, Jonathan Franzen's "Freedom"? Or eighth-place winner, Jim Carroll's "The Petting Zoo"? Our judges talk about their decisions, their dilemmas and the delicate art of writing about sex.

No. 2: Jonathan Franzen’s “Freedom”

Sun, 13 Feb 2011 12:44:00 +0000

He had so much to think about, he knew he would be thinking uninterruptedly for weeks if he let himself start now. The only way not to think was to plunge forward. Up in Lalitha's slope-ceilinged little room, the one-time maid’s quarters, which he hadn't visited since she'd moved in, and whose floor was an obstacle course of clean clothes in stacks and dirty ones in piles, he pressed her against the side wall of the dormer and gave himself blindly to the one person who wanted him without qualification. It was another state of emergency, it was no hour of no day, it was desperate. He lifted her onto his hips and staggered around with her mouth locked to his, and then they were humping fiercely through their clothes, between piles of other clothes, and then one of those pauses descended, an uneasy recollection of how universal the ascending steps to sex were; how impersonal, or pre-personal. He pulled away abruptly, toward the unmade single bed, and knocked over a pile of books and documents relating to overpopulation.

"One of us has to leave at six to pick up Eduardo at the airport," he said. "Just want to note that."

"What time is it now?"

No. 3: Joshua Ferris’ “The Unnamed”

Sat, 12 Feb 2011 23:01:00 +0000

He came into the room and pulled the chair close and sat down next to her.

"I saw a dog in a purse. I saw bread being delivered, loaves of bread in paper sacks, dropped off in front of an Italian restaurant. Later in the morning I saw a body builder in nothing but a T- shirt and sweatpants, such an enormous pair of arms, leave a health club and trip over himself. He went down with his gym bag, and a woman with a baby stroller stopped to ask him if he was all right. I saw a quiet street where I thought you and I could live very happily, a street of brownstones with good little yards. I saw a man chipping the ice off his windshield with a butter knife. And it was working! I saw the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Even at this time of year, people are sitting on the steps out front like it's the Fourth of July. I saw the last of the last of the light. Should I go on?"

She had her eyes closed. "Close the door," she said.

No. 4: Chang-rae Lee’s “The Surrendered”

Sat, 12 Feb 2011 16:01:00 +0000

Their rhythm ticked loose and various until suddenly it unjumbled, clicked in. All the while June, tightly crouched in the peerless dark between the wall and a kerosene barrel, was suppressing her own breath, her lungs aching for release, the gleaming painting of their lovemaking begun to screen in her mind. Strangely only her belly felt alive, this yawning breaking emptiness that pushed low and hot while the rest of her went heavy, dead, and it was only when they were finally done and surely fallen asleep that she dared move, her hands and feet tingling and shaking enough that she had to crawl on her elbows from the storeroom.

The following day, having returned to the orphanage, Reverend Tanner sat down next to her during the evening meal. June sat alone now, having agreed not to monopolize Sylvie's company. She had completely forgotten about her conversation with Tanner on awaking that morning, her throat parched, her head fogged and aching, as if, like Hector, she had been drinking all night.

"How goes it, June? Is everything fine?" he asked. Sylvie was at a far table eating with the younger children. Hector was not present, being likely out in the field.

No. 5: Jillian Weise’s “The Colony”

Sat, 12 Feb 2011 02:01:00 +0000

Nick expected me to fling open the door and receive him. And if I had? If Grayson hadn't come? Nick wasn't the type to sweep the floor.

I thought: Why are you sweeping the floor when I'm despicable? It's exactly like you've suspected. You have a reason to be self-righteous, entitled, disgusted with the world. The world is disgusting. What are you going to do? He searched through his duffel bag. Moved shirts around. Unpacked and packed. He wasn't going to do anything. I was disgusted with him, and I knew it was fucked up to be disgusted with him, since it was me who'd been caught, and I knew too that I should've told him. I didn't move an inch. I stood still. Grayson played music. It was soft, dark, piano. I decided the best move, the only move I had available to me, the only one I could think of, was letting the sheet drop and climbing onto the kitchen table.

"I'm heading out tomorrow." "Why?"

"I want to see museums in the city. I can write it off. I want to see the MoMA."

We went to bed. I went first. I picked the sheet from the floor and tucked it into the bottom corners. Grayson puttered in the kitchen. I pulled a slip from under the bed and put it on. The piano slowed and the room was quiet. I spread the comforter over the sheet and arranged the pillows. I crawled into the bed.

No. 6: Jennifer Gilmore’s “Something Red”

Fri, 11 Feb 2011 16:01:00 +0000

They took a room in the Marriott Hotel, along East-West Highway in Silver Spring, just a few miles from where she had lived for the past thirteen years. The room was twelve floors above the conference where they had each pledged to have no relations with other LEAP!ers for thirty days in order to let the high of the tenets dissipate a bit. One needs a more solid head, the leader had said. To decide such things.

Elias opened her blouse slowly, twisting each button with his thumb and third finger, then running his finger along her breastbone. When her shirt finally fell open, he studied her, then caressed her breasts. Was he putting her on? He licked her nipples, then moved his lips slowly down her stomach, and Sharon couldn’t have cared less if he was. Elias removed her underwear, and kissing her just above her pubic bone, he slipped two fingers inside her. Sharon moved into his hands until he stopped suddenly, removing his fingers as if he’d thought better of the whole thing. While Sharon propped herself up on her elbows to see what had happened, Elias got up and opened his wallet. Was he moving to pay her? Before? Or worse -- and now she thought of Midnight Cowboy, she’d been so scandalized by that film -- was he expecting her to pay him? She wondered how much a man like Elias would cost.

No. 7: Maggie Pouncey’s “Perfect Reader”

Fri, 11 Feb 2011 02:10:00 +0000

Christmas morning began with sex. Better, longer the second time around, though less stunning. Flora liked having sex with Paul, but she would have preferred to do it in the afternoon or evening, or at least after she'd had her coffee. She felt incompatible with most men she'd been with for this reason -- morning sex. She caught herself missing the sex of her girlhood, which had occurred later in the day. There was something about high school sex. Not skill, of course. And really, she was romanticizing it. She was always doing that, getting the past wrong. But as sex became more competent, more expected, even more pleasurable, it seemed a little less exciting, less dangerous. Gone was the sense of being bad. Where the titillating fear of getting caught? No wonder academics loved adultery (along with the rest of the planet). It saved them from the suffocating appropriateness of the rest of their lives. Growing up, it became harder and harder to feel illicit. So what, you fucked. Big deal, you smoked. Okay, you went on the occasional bender. You were an adult. You knew what you were doing. You used condoms. You understood the risks. You repented with brain-pummeling hangovers.

No. 8: Jim Carroll’s “The Petting Zoo”

Thu, 10 Feb 2011 19:02:00 +0000

She was on her side, gazing with concern at him. She was wearing a peasant blouse, whose neckline had already fallen beneath one shoulder. He hesitantly turned to face Marta and she smiled, saying, "You are comfortable now." It was a statement, not a question.

Imperceptibly, Marta’s upper body curved, like a bow, closer to Billy. He first felt her thick hair weeping across his shoulders, then her mouth damply came to rest against his ear. "Now I too am comfortable," she whispered.

The wedge of light from the door shone on the couple like disturbed moonlight. He inhaled her unique female fragrance as his eyes moved across the supplicating arc of her body. The entire room seemed wet and enveloping in his dark fatigue, encased by this aroma he’d never experienced.

Marta took pleasure in the meticulous curiosity of his eyes as he scanned her body. She could only think of all the time wasted and how this was what he needed now. This was surely what he wanted from her ... it was in the measure of his stare. She straddled his body. Her green eyes pressed down rapaciously on Billy and she flicked her tongue with total abandon along her lips and into the air. Her hands were on his nipples, squeezing tightly, then her thumb receded and her forefinger circled them at varying speeds. Billy was nailed in place. He didn’t know if it was the day, the exhausted vulnerability, or the exquisiteness of her tongue unfettered to the air. This was what D. H. Lawrence was referring to when he wrote the phrase "going to the dark gods."

Introducing: Our first-ever Good Sex awards

Thu, 10 Feb 2011 19:01:00 +0000

Last fall, I wrote a column about the Bad Sex in Fiction Award presented annually by the Literary Review in Britain. "No one raises an eyebrow if you talk about what doesn't strike you as erotic," I kvetched, suggesting that praising good depictions of sex would require a lot more nerve. Writing well about sex -- one of life's most delightful and important activities -- is difficult, so instead of sneering and sniggering at the authors who get it wrong, why not celebrate the ones who succeed?

Several of our readers asked that we step up and do just that, and so Salon's first annual Good Sex Award was born. We canvassed a cross section of our literary friends, asking them to recommend favorite passages about sex in works of fiction published in 2010. After whittling those suggestions down to eight, we enlisted a panel of four judges -- Maud Newton, Walter Kirn, Louis Bayard and myself -- for the solemn task of selecting the winner.

Until Monday, we'll be publishing two of those excerpts per day (on Sunday we will be publishing just the runner up), with the winner appearing on Valentine's Day, along with comments from our judges. And yes, the scheduling is a little bit cheesy, but look at it this way: There isn't a single dopey double-entendre in this entire introduction, which ought to make up for it.