In honor of the 2018 Bad Sex Awards, we present another dubious honor: The worst sex scenes we found floating in river trash.
We call this “The Turgid Prose Award.”
Scoured by Fire by Bill Faulkstick
Her flat, tomboyish chest reminded him of Nebraska. Her intricate vagina was like a catchers mitt soaked in chicken broth, salty, ripe with umami, a familiar taste of home that nourished him for the long trip ahead. He was reminded of Field of Dreams: If she built it, he would cum.
The grain silo of his manhood was about to explode, as they did, from moisture and heat and too much pressure, and his urge to go out in a blinding flash of white across her Nebraska plains was too great to bear.
Stop, Alexa by Jeff Ezbos
He knew he would ejaculate, one day. The sex robot was living up to her name. Like a massive python wrapping itself around his penis, little more than a sodden capybara doomed to drown in the South American Jungle of her moist folds.
He was all the things she was, but she was more. More slick. More oily. More soft. More robotic.
He wanted to stand her up. Or sit her down. Or roll her over to listen to her servos protest in a way that always open mouth could not. It was like an avocado without a pit. But not green. Not green. He wanted to tell Alexa to stop this ten minute timer.
Jeff Bezos was fucking a robot.
The America Tree by Shad Chadwich
She started with his jacket and fingering his butthole. She had too many fingers, it seemed, or not enough fingers and too many arms, because they were all over him, removing his suspenders then pulling his turgid masculine tumescence through the boxers she had in her teeth before his pants were around his ankles.
Did he know how clothes worked? His cock said yes. His necktie said no as she swallowed it down like a silk noodle, an appetizer for the platter of eaten ass that was going to come as soon as she figured out how to get him out of his sock garters.
Crystals in the Springtime by Mark Bullox
Getting the blowjob reminded him of the experiment in chemistry class with a stick in a flask of sugar water. Her mouth was the flask, and too much time was passing as they waited on the crystals to change to a satisfying solidity.
Outside, the seasons changed, he felt time become abstract, imagined plants springing from the earth, growing and sending seed into the air and dying and falling down into the deep damp furrows of the fields while clowns pointed and laughed, demanding candy.
In the now, her mouth was full of saltwater taffy. The clowns were satisfied.
The Tool Man by Jim Stirring
His were the tools. Hers was the toolbox. It was full of honey. And he kept putting them in.