Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
The New Good Bad Sex Contest
Props to Gabriele for pointing me to this Guardian Unlimited article on the Bad Sex Award. Pub date may have been December, 2004, but it was news to me.
(Folks who want to cut to the chase (foreplay haters!) scroll down to The Contest in big, bold letters below.)
Here’s a snip from the first place award winner, Tom Wolfe’s I Am Charlotte Simmons:
Slither slither slither slither went the tongue, 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! She must say “No, Hoyt” and talk to him like a dog. . .
You can read the rest of it (and more!) at the Guardian Unlimited link. For now, I have one comment before I get to the contest.
Otorhinolarynological?
Us ear, nose, and throat doctors don’t even use that word. Even its simpler form, otolaryngologist, is anathema. No one can pronounce it. I had to go through five years of residency to learn to pronounce it. It’s true!
Here’s the deal. We used to be ear, nose, and throat doctors. Then the general surgeons started calling us booger-pickers and snot docs, and we decided a la Rodney Dangerfield that we don’t get no respect, no respect at all. Some wag got out his Greek dictionary and figured out,
oto = ear
rhino = nose
laryng = throat
and we became otorhinolaryngologists.
Instant disaster. The Yellow Pages started charging us for the extra letters. ENTs began committing seppuku because, in addition to “Hey, can you see through to the other side?”* and “Huh?”** we now had to hear “How do you pronounce that?” TWENTY TIMES A DAY.
It didn’t help when we became otolaryngologists. If anything, life became worse. The word was slightly smaller than otorhinolaryngologist, having lost the rhino, and some folks thought perhaps they could pronounce it now. They couldn’t.
Some European dude thought ORL would be better. Catchy, easy to pronounce. Everyone loves acronyms. But then some American dude said, “Hey, wait a second. We do a lot more than ears, nose, and throat. We do cancer surgery, too! We’re head and neck surgeons. We’re ORL-HNS!”
Someone, probably a small town private practice doc like me, had the bright idea of going back to ENT, and we lived happily ever after.
So, what’s up with Tom Wolfe’s use of ‘otorhinolaryngological’? I think Mr. Wolfe is trying to say that sex is an ungainly, awkward, breathless experience, rather like saying otorhinolaryngological. And if we say pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism, we may even need to change our underwear.
Anyway, let’s talk about sex. Let’s do better than talk about it; let’s have a contest! Yes, I’m shamelessly copycatting. The Smart Bitches held one not long ago. Demented Michelle has a cool Halloween contest at her place. Mine, naturally, will be about Le Bad Sex.
A. You don’t even have to write a complete scene. Give me a sentence. A sentence fragment. Like that one. Or this one. Just make it reek to high heaven, okay? It’s like the Bad Hemingway contest without the machisimo. Or maybe with the machisimo, if that’s what floats your boat.
B. Two hundred words or less. Don’t get carried away or I’ll hurt you.
C. Use this post for entries only. I will post a chat thread below this one for comments and questions.
D. The prize: a $20 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble books, BUT: if you promote this contest on your blog or website, AND if you win, I’ll make it a $30 gift certificate. (When you post your entry, tell me where you have posted your promo.)
E. Entries will be judged by my ten-year-old son Jake.
F. Just kidding! Jeez, that would be a total buzz kill, eh? No, we’ll judge this like we do at the Writers BBS. Email me your votes for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place. You may not vote for yourself. Scoring will be based on a point system: 1st place is 5 points, 2nd is 3 points, and 3rd is one point.
G. Multiple entries are allowed. In fact, multiple entries are usually necessary to achieve optimal results. *um, sorry, couldn’t help myself*
H. Contest begins: NOW!
I. Contest ends: Midnight, Pacific Standard Time, Tuesday, October 18th.
J. Voting begins: immediately after the contest ends.
K. Voting ends: Midnight, Pacific Standard Time, Thursday, October 20th.
L. You must enter the contest to vote. Sorry, but if any of y’all are as Type A as I am, you’ll probably end up paying winos to go to their local libraries, hop on the computer, and vote for you, just so you’ll win some dumb gift certificate. And besides, I’m trying to encourage entries.
New!!! M. You may enter as many times as you like.
Enjoy!
D.
*The ENT looks into his patient’s ear.
“Hey, doc, can you see through to the other side?”
“Ya know, I could, except there are these two walnuts rolling around that are getting in the way.”
**The ENT says, “So, Mr. Patient, how’s your hearing?”
“Huh?” (Followed forthwith by eager I’ll bet you never heard that one smile.)
I think I should get extra points for being first and for submitting a truly (ob)noxious entry:
Mountains, valleys, naked acres to be conquered and claimed. The explorer scaled a mountain of a breast and left a triumphant dab of spittle as a flag to mark his progress.
He grew cocky enough to breach the dense forest and bush at the swirling heat and soon discovered the jungle’s moist core–and we’re not talking what’s left after making apple pie. Slurp, yum…oh, oops.
Teeth proved to be bad ambassadors to this wilderness. The goddess is not pleased. Captured between mighty thighs, he may not emerge from his reckless reconnaissance intact.
An opposing expedition was quickly launched to explore and chart his own unclaimed wilderness. Ten angry members tipped with long red daggers formed a posse. Someone was gonna get hung.
Here’s my entry…
“Oh, my, “ she said. “That’s some tripod.â€
He said nothing, but pulled her close, crushing her against his hard, muscular body.
She arched her back and pushed on his shoulders. “Careful. We don’t want to pop my implants. They’re already leaking.â€
Kissing her deeply, he guided her to the bed. They fell on the mattress and then on each other, like hungry tigers. With fierce passion they undressed, clothes flying from the bed until they were skin on skin.
He rolled onto his back and with a wicked smile said, “Would you like to see if you can pop _my_ implant?â€
“Cut,†yelled the director.â€How am I supposed to make quality porn if you two keep deviating from the script to talk about your implants? Let’s try it again and you’d both better be moaning in pleasure this time or I’ll show you what an implant is.â€
I think this may very well be my first piece of fanfic–who knew that memories of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles would inspire this sort of smut?
I’d like to call this little oeuvre “Ballad of the Cerebral Lover.”
******
Krang savored the landscape of her delicate, slippery folds, the glisten akin to ripe plums peeled under a honey-mellowed sun and bitten into with pearlescent orthodontal extensions; she would be juicy and ripe, just like those plums—warmth and musk alike mingling in tantalizing slipperings and slitherings. He reached out a tentative axon and caressed the delicate flowering of her prefrontal cortex, causing her to judder in muted pleasure, and the effect on him was of no small consequence, either, as stars of unearthly delight danced and licked over grey matter, then penetrated and massaged in a delicate ballet over into the white, ah yes the white, white, white, white, white—
But he was looking for more than this, he wanted to reach into her essence, the core of her; his axon, Lewis and Clark, Columbus and Marco Polo, Ponce de Leon, conqueror and mystic and undaunted forager forged onwards, tickled into her medulla oblongata, slipping with lubricious ease through myelinacious sheaths and god, it was not enough but too much, their wrinkles shivering and pitching like two whales in the heat of deepest, hottest rut, and the nova sprinkled them with ethereal sensation bubbles that nicked at their receptors.
here’s mine:
The smell rose off him, primal and carnal, like a ram in rut on a steamy summer afternoon. And Mercy was his lady ewe, the wooly curls of her sex damp against the ranch hand’s palm as he worked a callused finger into the untried passage of her fertility. “Hank!†she bleated, her flanks shuddering.
“Easy, Mercy,†he panted, his breath a hot brand against the back of her neck. His other hand reached to caress her teats, pointing down at the ground in shame as she trembled on all fours in the hay. She knew what was coming next: she was going to be covered like Tweedles, her prize Blackface. Except with sheep, such a joining was blessed by Nature herself, not to mention her father. In her world, she would just be a whore. Mercy closed her eyes as her stud continued to work his earthy magic, preparing her for the mating to come. At least she would be Hank’s whore.
thumpa thumpa thumpa…oh that reminded her, she needed a new needle for her sewing machine. The old one was snagging fine fabrics.
She shifted to hurry things along. No, that just made him grind harder. “Ow,” she breathed in his ear, trying for sexy because if he got distracted this would last even longer.
But if he didn’t stop hitting her like that she’d scream. A couple more minutes and then she’d writhe a bit, hoping that would push him over the edge. Oh damn, speaking of edge she forgot to put the binding on that skirt. Well, with the new needle that job would — his rhythm changed and the pain increased. Her leg cramped but if she interrupted now, he’d be in there all night.
She writhed; he finished. Thank god, another week’s ashes hauled. Oh, that reminded her–she forgot to take out the garbage.
***Ha! winning combo of bad sex and bad sex writing!
Her stinky vag was poorly groomed. He hae smelt this odor before, when ha had come back from his trip to Guatemala and the fridge door had stayed open.
“Where the hell is Fabreeze when you need it?”
She was my subject—my idea—my perfect perversion, and I stepped back to admire this thing, this not-person, this art soon to be immortalized in black and white, every shade of scarlet-cinnamon-strawberry dulled away to shades of gray. Rivulets of melting strawberry ice cream ran pink rivers from the mountain-peaks of her breasts, small and hard and strained high by the porcelain bow of her ribs.
She enjoyed the rack: I knew it by the rattle of her breath, the way she gasped around the crimson scarf tucked between her (glistening, ruby, fine princess jewels) lips. And the queen jewels—drenched orchid crowned by fiery topaz, each petal pulsing, pleading, pulling my eyes to that delicate fluttering hole.
My breath quickened with hers, the pumping organ lodged in my chest thumping tandem to the pumping of my fist over an even more eager organ—my heart released its fluid whilst my rod wept its own. I paced myself—the camera’s timer, the flash—took up my weapon and rose to challenge her, to breach her floodgate vulgarly, to lodge the Bomb Pop ™ deep:
She shuddered, whimpered, gasped; flushed—flash blinded, orgasm blinded—immortalized.
The Artist; the Moaning Lisa.
The city is dark at night and a telephone booth is nowhere to wait for call. It was raining down like frightful love-beads when I stated my case. “Look, sugar, get out of the fucking phone booth, I wanna make a call.” Her sneer is still burnt into my aropas. “There’s room for two,” she said, “you want to make a call and I’m waiting for one.” Even Steven. Her lips, as we stood rather squished, dripped with a taunting saliva, not to mention lettuce and a secret sauce. My huge member, by this time entirely relaxed and conversational, said, “I want you tits up, and promise it will always be like this.” She snarled, squeezing my buns like cook. We let the telephone ring as the rain fell on the windy city, and the booth was scented with the intoxicating scent — there’s no other word for it, it was a scent — of a woman excited to be stuffed.
Okay, this is seriously fun! Here’s my entry:
He pressed her up against the window of the tram as it came to a stop for the evening; below, the last visitors traipsed along the quickly darkening paths. She could hear the children’s laughter and the zoo’s inaudible sigh of relief that another day had ended. In the ensuing silence, the orange Halloween lights decorating the zoo’s many habitats pulsed like the cartography of desire. She wanted him, zoologically. She wanted to return to their bestial roots.
He pushed his tongue into her mouth and she thought, “snake-like” as he slithered farther along the roof of her mouth; his hands moved up inside her shirt as she thought, “preening flamingo.” She reached for his hair, pulling it roughly toward her, in orangutangian lust. She half wished he would do a handstand and pee along the door frame, demonstrating his dominance in panda-like devotion. Before she could move to that thought, much too quickly, his opossum tail began to search powerfully for her kangaroo pocket. Her hair sticking to the last tacky remnants of cotton candy fingers on the window, from earlier in the day, she arched her back, and glimpsed, against the setting of the sun, a single orange balloon ascending into the night.
They loved each other deeply, but no matter how hard he pushed, what angle he twisted, he was never deep enough.
They yearned for an intimacy like no one else had ever shared, such was the strength of their undying love. They held each other tightly, the pressure so intense they found it difficult to breathe.
Nonetheless, she insisted, “Closer! Closer!” and pulled his buttocks to her as much as she could, her sharp fingernails piercing the flesh.
“This isn’t working!” he cried. But, he had been inspired with an idea. He reached to the dresser drawer and pulled out a knife.
He traced the knife down her neck, and then pierced the top of her left breast. He pushed the knife in carefully, sideways, and worked his way down and around the contours of the breast.
She moaned.
He worked his way around and removed the knife. Carefully, he reached his fingers beneath the flap of skin, and peeled it off, exposing the soft undertissue of the breast. He kissed it with his salty lips.
The burning and tingling sensation pleased her.
He then worked off the skin of his right breast. Then, they clung to each other tightly, exposed tissue touching exposed tissue.
“This is better!” they both declared.
In their longest act of foreplay ever, they removed all of their skin. They then kissed and caressed and held each other’s truly naked bodies. Blood and sweat soaked the pretty white linens of their bed.
His stripped organ could reach no deeper, but the sensation was ten times anything he had ever experienced.
They loved each other deeply, and reached a level of intimacy no other couple had even dared dream, such was the strength of their dying love.
Damn, I forgot to put the word “molasses” in my entry. It’s the stickiest word in the English language.
Here you go:
In the cold dark, her buttocks felt suspiciously like warm molasses.
Don’t even ask, but I should have worked this into the phone-booth too. Really, I should plan ahead before I write anything.
http://www.campbellkitchen.com/recipedetail.aspx?recipeID=24373
Steam swirled around John as the showerhead’s hot spray sluiced his nude body. He heard movement behind him, but didn’t turn. Instead, he continued sudsing himself with the bar of Lava, his mind on the recent past … getting drunk at the corner tavarn, sex in the parking lot on the hood of his car, a fight with his lover’s husband, the cops. His hands trembled and the Lava slid out of his tenuous grip. Bending over to pick up the bar of soap, he heard his prison roomate sigh behind him …..
Drunken Pork Chops
6 pork chops
salt & pepper to taste
1/2-1 can of beer
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 envelope dried onion soup mix
1 small can mushrooms, drained (opt)
Season the pork chops, and cook them over medium-high heat. Mix beer, soup and onion soup mix together and pour over browned pork chops in skillet. Simmer until pork chops are done. Just before serving, add mushrooms, if desired.
Serve with egg noodles or mashed potatoes over the naked demented throbbing rehab body
Of Courtney Love
He fucked her.
Then what?
After waxing the racing stripes on my woody, she buffed my chassis with hands as smooth as a chamois. I compensated by adjusting her headlights and performing a tune-up, revving her engine until it purred. Her wheels flanking my underbody, I inserted my dipstick to make sure she was sufficiently lubed, then scoped out her spark plugs with my diagnostic tool. She lost all cruise control then, begging for more torque and increased acceleration, pushing me beyond the speed limit with a flagrant disregard for improved gas mileage. No problem with my 6-speed manual transmission. I greased her rear spoiler before she clamped her fenders around my exhaust outlet. I almost lost it while I was tailgating her, but managed to keep my tire properly inflated. I shifted into gear, applying my hydraulic clutch, which sent her anti-lock braking system into overdrive. Traction control became difficult with all the skidding and fishtailing. Then our radiators started to steam so we flipped on the defoggers. When her bucket seat lurched, I ratcheted her safety belt as my rod pistoned her battery. I thrust into fourth gear with a powerful gas emission, blew my horn, and burned rubber across the finish line.
Mine is based on a true story.
Ralph 12694U+
Ralph woke in a strange room. In a strange body.
Exactly how he wanted it.
He had paid the price of a new Cadillexus to travel to the space station, and another to upload a copy of his mind into a female body. Soon, his male self (Ralph1) would arrive, and Ralph would Cheney himself. After a night of zero-gee bliss, Ralph1 would download Ralph2’s female memories and then, finally, would understand women.
Ralph2 floated to the mirror. She was curious, for Ralph had specified only that she
– be beautiful, and
– lubricate heavily.
God! So beautiful! Ralph2 unbuttoned her shirt and played with her nipples. As they grew hard, she sneezed.
…………..
Ralph1 floated into the room. “You’re so sexy!”
“Achoo! I know — my panties are already wet. Achoo! Take me now! Achoooo!”
…………………
All her mucous membranes were amazingly hyperactive.
No otolaryngologist could explain how Ralph2’s nose produced sixty times her bodyweight in mucus. The snot pressure burst the station’s walls, and escaping air jetted the Ralphs into deep space, where they flashfroze in a huge block of snot. This mysterious artifact became the inspiration for several alien religions.
[…] Lots of folks who find me by searching for “sex contest” are doubtless disappointed by our Good Bad Sex Contest. I suspect they would have preferred that erotica site with the story about the two women, each working on each other’s husband to see who could make the other gal’s guy come for the third time first. Hey, I sympathize. I’d like to find that site again, too. […]