I didn’t know such a thing existed, but here it is – the award for bad sex scenes in contemporary fiction. The Guardian presents six very convincing extracts of this years nominees. Read it and loose all your illusions about the musing gifts of fictitious story telling. What, i wonder, drives those poor creatures of novelists to make up such a bore of erotic fantasies? (Unless, of course, they misinterpreted the word „fiction“ and didn’t make it up at all.) Really, there are plenty of nice hobbies aparat from writing. Spare the readers!

They say, women don’t watch porn. Well, count me out, I certainly do! Of course, I mind their aesthetic quality, which does not mean, I need a story and convincing dialogue. It’s sure nice to have both, though. But I need porn for the eye and the ear, those doors of perception, to arouse me carnally and I need it, to set stage for my own private porn.
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A friend of mine gave me a copy of „Belle de Jour. Diary of an unlikely Call Girl“ for my career entry. He said it would be a good reading to enlarge my horizon. So I lodged it at my toilet, the only spot where I find the time to read chick lit. When I started reading, first thing I noticed was many differences between Anonymous and me.
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