I did not learn about sex in school. I did not learn about it from TV. Aviaries and apiaries played no part in my education. I learned a little bit from the Bible. Song of Solomon says. Game of Thrones , alas, was not yet available. I wondered where babies came from, and why my parents had a second one when I was clearly enough.
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P.S. I Love You
Getting on the Man Booker shortlist, by way of contrast, catapults sales: many shortlisted novels sell well under 1, copies before being selected, and 10 times that afterwards. Actually winning effects a writer's finances dramatically: "I don't have to worry about money anymore," one Booker winner told me. The exception to all of this admiring, hyping and selling, is The Literary Review's Bad Sex in fiction award , which exists primarily to amuse its sponsors, and surely has no affect — unless an adverse one — on sales. I have yet to find "Winner of the Bad Sex award" emblazoned on a dust jacket, and though the chagrined winner sometimes turns up for the rather fancy dinner, and makes a wry speech, that's just being a good sport. We're supposed to give prizes for good writing, surely? We celebrate it and in so doing presume that we honour literature, our writers, and ourselves as readers. Prizes are given by genre generally — best biography, travel book, novel, play, poem, memoir — not for specific passages. We don't reward a terrific description of a sunset, or a tiramisu, or an orgasm, though we're keen on all of them, even all at once. Flaubert once bet some friends that he could make love to a woman, smoke a cigar, and write a letter at the same time.
It would be ludicrous to think otherwise. But, if ever were there were a time to be overly cautious it's with this topic. Men search the world for women that they can stand to be around with long-term.