Shhh-stack! sang the whip. (Which she bought from the Sentient Whips store on Vulcan)

“His sexual slug lolled against his thigh.”

Neil Gaiman pointed out in Ghastly Beyond Belief, an anthology of bad science fiction writing, that the danger of writing sex scenes set in the far future is that people won’t know what’s metaphor and what’s supposed to be taken literally. 

Does our hero have a pet sexual slug who comes over and does nice things for him, or has the writer thought of a metaphor for a post-fuck penis, relaxed, wet with his partner’s pleasure and some of his own, and lolling happily?

In a similar vein, there’s this:

“He watched, awed, as she took off her space helmet, shaking free her lustrous blonde hair. She removed her space suit, her voluptuous figure revealed in the tight, figure-hugging lines of her satin-velcro skin-suitsuit. As she stripped down to her leotard, he marvelled, admiring the erotic promise of her camel toe.” 

Fortunately, the camel toe isn’t connected to the rest of the camel, and its erotic promise was, “Yep, she don’t mind a smack on the arse, but bite her nipples and she’ll rip both your lungs out.”

Then it jumped off her leotard and hopped, as unaccompanied toes must do if they wish to move around, out of the scene. Phew!

Spang! Spang!

There was a Robert Heinlein science fiction novel, The Number of the Beast, in which the story was told in first person as a woman character. The heroine/narrator had amazing mobile nipples, that went “spang!” every time they erected. That was very often, believe me. I don’t know if he ever explained the nippleesque sound effects, because I couldn’t finish the book. I also never got to find out what her cunt said in moments of excitement. Ah, well.

Heinlein was a good writer, once. But by the time he died he’d managed to make himself into a terrible, terrible one. 

“I can’t make it tonight, honey, I’ve got crabs,” he said, inevitably.

Anyway, my point is that he garooded her firm proud pavanes lustily, causing her to shoockle like a Deleuzian lovecat in its annual droxa-heat. Her seven breasts, like her eight jewel-encrusted eyes, were on fire with passion.

No, really, they were on fire. Everything was extremely flammable on that planet, because of its atmosphere. It was high on oxygen, and therefore too obsessed by the myriad lines on its own right hand to notice as it spiralled towards the sun. In the year 2157!

“Oooh,” she moaned, “lunge that spockle, and floofe me hard!”  

Swiftly he grasped her heaving haunches, and …

Note:

I’ve been caught by novel deadlines. Maddy, our usual Wicked Wednesday guest, will have to wait a week before she returns to the headmaster’s office. Poor girl: they say the worst thing is the anticip

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