Dass Norman Mailer dieses Jahr den Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction Award gewann … ich hatte es irgendwie mitbekommen. Besonders interessant fand ich’s nicht. Nun bin ich zufällig auf einen Beitrag in P.J. Parrishs Blog gestoßen, und siehe da: Unter den nominierten Texten halten sich wahre literarische Trouvaillen verborgen.
Bei dem Bad Sex in Fiction Award geht es um die schlechte Darstellung von Sex – nicht um die gute Darstellung von schlechten Sex. Die Juroren haben hierzu nur in der gehobenen Literatur geschaut, nicht bei Thriller oder Romanzen usf.
In den USA sind (waren) große Geländewagen sehr beliebt, kein Wunder also, so denkt man, dass mancher Autor eine sehr mechanische Darstellung wählt:
She felt the cylinder rod of his plunger. Tried to work up a precise rhythm. Felt the sand sticking to her knees through her trousers. She and Lluis-Albert were all there was in the world; she swallowed him centimetre by centimetre (whenever a wave hit the beach) and then immediately let it go centimetre by centimetre (as each wave retreated).
Es handelt sich allerdings um einen Auszug aus dem Buch The Enormity of the Tragedy des katalanischen Autoren Quim Monzo. Weiter kann man die Mechanisierung kaum treiben, denkt man, aber es geht: Robotersex aus Jeanette Wintersons The Stone Gods
Why am I embarrassed about taking off my clothes in front of a robot? I pull the dress over my head like a schoolgirl, untie my hair, and sit down. She is smiling, just a little bit, as though she knows her effect.
To calm myself down and appear in control I reverse the problem. „Spike, you’re a robot, but why are you such a drop-dead gorgeous robot? I mean, is it necessary to be the most sophisticated machine ever built and to look like a movie star?“
She answers simply: „They thought I would be good for the boys on the mission.“
„So you had sex with spacemen for three years?“
„Yes. I used up three silicon-lined vaginas.“
Wer statt dessen lieber Natur bevorzugt, ist vielleicht bei alten Teppichen besser aufgehoben:
She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyes popped out. She hadn’t shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet.
„So, you just gonna sit there?“ Abi asked, and I laughed nervously. I was hardening up, but it was all a bit of a shock really. All I’d planned that night was listening to a selection of records and maybe some homework. I tried to go down on her, thinking back to the Razzle and how the boys did it in that. But my heart wasn’t into it – her cunt smelt a bit like an armpit, and when I pulled the lips open I knew I’d have to shut them numerous times or else I’ll die of Aids or I’d fall into it.
Wobei, dieser Text von Richard Milward aus dessen Buch Fantastic Apples ist eher eine gute Beschreibung von schlechten Sex. Wohingegen Boy Meets Girl von Ali Smith eindeutig berauschenden Sex darstellt.
Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about me became a wing, a single wing, and she was the other wing, we were a bird. We were a bird that could sing Mozart. … I was a she was a he was a we were a girl and a girl and a boy and a boy, we were blades, were a knife that could cut through myth, were two knives thrown by a magician, were arrows fired by a god, we hit heart, we hit home, we were the tail of a fish were the reek of a cat were the beak of a bird were the feather that mastered gravity were high above every landscape then down deep in the purple haze of the heather were roamin in a gloamin in a brash unending Scottish piece of perfect jigging reeling reel can we really keep this up?
Der verzweifelte Kampf etwas ausdrücken zu wollen, kann dann auch dazu führen, dass Leser, wie P.J. Parrish, sich fragen, wo der Unterschied zwischen Sodbrennen und Orgasmus ist, so bei Clare Clarks The Nature of Monsters.
When at last he reached in to touch me, there was nothing else left, nothing in the world but his fingers and the delirious incoherent frenzy of pure sensation they sent spiralling through me, as though I were an instrument vibrating with the exquisite hymns of the angels. Did that make him an angel? My toes clenched in my boots and my belly held itself aloft in a moment of stillness as the flame quivered, perfectly bright. I held my breath. In the explosion I lost sight of myself. I was a million brilliant fragments, the darkness of my belly alive with stars. When at last I opened my eyes to look at him, my lashes shone with tears. He raised a finger to his lips and smiled.
Absurdistan von Gary Shteyngart ist voller kraftvoller Bilder:
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.
Und Will von Christopher Rush ist, so scheint’s, der ultimative Hymnus:
O glorious pubes! The ultimate triangle, whose angles delve to hell but point to paradise. Let me sing the black banner, the blackbird’s wing, the chink, the cleft, the keyhole in the door. The fig, the fanny, the cranny, the quim – I’d come close to it now, this sudden blush, this ancient avenue, the end of all odysseys and epic aim of life, pulling at my prick now, pulling like a lodestone.
Bei P.J. Parrish gibt es zu den Texten schöne erläuternde Bilder.