My vote is for Winkler.

"Like Zorro."

I don't know what's more of a mood killer: John Updike's ass or John Updike's nose.

Ace, did you see one of the choices?

Memories of my Melancholy Whores.

Damn if that ain't the story of my life.

Cheers,
Dave at Garfield Ridge

Wouldn't it be the "crow eyes of crows"?

Just sayin'.

"crow eyes of a bunch of crows" I meant. Loose shit on my part.

How about some great writing detailing your bad sex?

"Oooh-la-jolly well-la!"

"Tally-ho!"

That's hot.

What, no Rand? Her scenes in Fountainhead were bad.

I'm still really puzzled about the wang jumping around like a dropped showerhead.

Was it being electrocuted?

he looked down at his prick, silently begging it not to be distracted

I hate when that happens. I get the M of receptivity and my dick starts wandering off.

"I hate when that happens. I get the M of receptivity and my dick starts wandering off."

Its the V of Victory that makes the plume of my rose bud.

So I clicked through.

My gawd that was bad.
Where's Leaonard Pinth Garnell when you need him?

Bad.

Each time I thought I had the worst one of all, the next one surpassed it. But this is brilliantly bad in the same way that it takes a PhD to attain the most Olympian levels of stupidity:

On the night of her birthday I sang the entire song to Delgadina, and I kissed her all over her body until I was breathless: her spine, vertebra by vertebra, down to her languid buttocks, the side with the mole, the side of her inexhaustible heart. As I kissed her the heat of her body increased, and it exhaled a wild, untamed fragrance. She responded with new vibrations along every inch of her skin, and on each one I found a distinctive heat, a unique taste, a different moan, and her entire body resonated inside with an arpeggio, and her nipples opened and flowered without being touched. I was beginning to fall asleep in the small hours when I heard something like the sound of multitudes in the sea and a panic in the trees that pierced my heart. I went to the bathroom and wrote on the mirror: Delgadina, my love, the Christmas breezes have arrived.

Gotta love the opening and flowering nips, man. Me, I never had to kiss a chick to make her nipples open and flower. It's a flash of a smile and a nice conversation. And at the end of the day, she's flowering my nips.

Then I fall asleep. Right away. And stay that way until the trees start all their usual damned panicking.

Let's not forget Jimmy Carter. No, wait, let's all forget Jimmy Carter.

At the end of the day, though, all the arty "too abstractly bad for you to understand my badness" bad and fancy "experience my existentially painful badness" bad has to yield to street level "please, God, make it stop before take my own eyes" bad:

She reached the staircase and climbed the first step but the cold was numbing her mind. She fainted, upright and motionless with seawater up to her belly. Lobster swam to her purple feet. Cut off the bloodless hand with his pincers, and climbed up the inside of the leg as far as the clenched knees. He was amazed at the pleasure he felt from being held in this way. His pincers slipped between the thighs, prising them gently apart. His feelers were just able to reach the satin of the panties. They fluttered, made the labia quiver. Under the shimmering material a hint of life was returning. Angelina's thighs relaxed. Lobster pulled back his feelers. Tensed and released his tail. His strokes were fast and powerful. He was making headway. He sank himself into her warming muscles; his tail did not falter. He moved forward, a centimetre at a time. Yes! Suddenly he could see the fabric clearly, glistening, pearl-like.

Go ahead. Top it. I dare you.

Go ahead. Top it. I dare you.

Actually, that could be a pretty cool contest. And I think Laura owes Micheal a round as a judge.

Nobody, but nobody writes worse sex than Tom Clancy. "His fun noodle", for christ's sake?

This gives me hope that I can succeed as a writer (someday when I pass the amateur stage).

Sorry, Matt. Your fun noodle cannot possibly compete with the Lobster of Love. Although I hear it makes an excellent side dish.

Ah yes, the M of receptivity just like the W of reciprocity and the G of Grafenberg and the Q of ... well, actually I can't even guess what the Q might be. But it's a sexy letter. Especially if you can get a double or triple score with it. (I'm talking Scrabble, guys. But against a sexy opponent.) Nonetheless, P is really the crux of the erotic alphabet. If C is for cookie, then P is for, well, you know. And that's good enough for me.

Anyways, Updike is just turgid prose, if you know what I mean. His very name signifies an patriarchal erotic cliche. 'Updike,' indeed. I'm sure those women were just trying to keep themselves from getting bored until you showed up, John.

VRWC Agent:

"Some people call me the space cowboy, yeah.

Some call me the Lobster of Love."...................

How about some great writing detailing your bad sex?

He already did that.

VRWC Agent: Do I want to know where you found that lobster business?

Yeah, I kept scrolling hoping to see Jimmy Carter.

Although, Marlon Brando was not without its charm.

To wit: "I'm a-comin'!"

I don't want to overdue it with the ongoing jokes, especially so soon after we met Chris Klein, but "Like Zorro" is possibly the greatest two words ever written.

Whoops, never mind--I didn't realize the lobster was among the selections. I had to take a quick "am I going to vomit? Because it feels like maybe I'm going to vomit" break after the Paul Theroux selection. "One whole creature of live slime" equals nausea.

Ah yes, the M of receptivity just like the W of reciprocity and the G of Grafenberg and the Q of ... well, actually I can't even guess what the Q might be.

Queef?

The best sex from a great writer?

Found in Tishomingo Blues by Elmore Leonard.

I quote all 96 words of it here.

Listening to one of carters speeches is like having someone scractch their fingernails on a blackboard UGH