What makes a sex scene badly written? No doubt we all have our views on the specific offences that make us shudder. A glance at past offenders shortlisted for the Literary Review’s Bad Sex in Fiction award reminds me of some sins that I find personally unforgivable.

These include all too vivid or clumsy euphemisms (I’m still haunted by Morrissey’s “bulbous salutation”, but a special mention is merited for my colleague Paul Mason’s description of his male character “moving in the general direction of her chrysanthemum”); crass or facile metaphor or simile (Ben Okri’s infamous rocket, Haruki Murakami’s mention of pubic hair “as wet as a rain forest”, Nancy Huston’s “sex swimming in joy like a fish in water”); overzealous presumptions of male prowess; and the word “cum”.

But this is all subjective, and there are no doubt readers out there who have, ahem, enjoyed the sex scenes that are shortlisted each year. The award was established in 1993 by Auberon Waugh to draw attention to the “crude, tasteless, and often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in contemporary novels, and to discourage it”. This year the judges remarked that the quality has not only been higher than usual, but the entries were actually “quite good” – after all, the award is limited to contemporary fiction that is otherwise reputable, and no one is saying that these writers do not have talent.

Even this year’s winner, by Christopher Bollen (“Her face and vagina are competing for my attention, so I glance down at the billiard rack of my penis and testicles”), is – while terrible – arguably not as cringeworthy as in previous years.

So if we’re approaching a point where literary sex scenes are getting better, is it then reasonable to ask whether the attempt to discourage bad sex writing is working. And is that really a good thing?

You might argue that shaming authors who embark upon the tricky business of writing about sex is mean and unfair, and will discourage aspiring novelists from going near the subject, despite it being a significant part of experience. Furthermore, is it not snobbish and prudish and, well, awfully English? You can’t imagine the French getting worked up over some writer overusing the word “moist”.

This is the issue the Irish writer Paraic O’Donnell raises in what he describes as his “annual rant” about the bad sex awards. “Literary description is stylised. It tries to show you familiar things in unfamiliar ways. You’re supposed to notice it,” he wrote on Twitter. “It may appear mannered or excessive. It may exhibit certain tics. These effects are often deliberate, and always subject to taste.”

In other words, bad sexual description is not objective – one woman’s chrysanthemum will always be another woman’s cunt. O’Donnell also believes that the mission statement – now tweaked – betrays “vaulting entitlement and the nasty policing instinct”. Certainly it can’t be nice, as a writer, to be on the receiving end of it. The author William Nicholson, shortlisted in 2013, found the experience “genuinely wounding”. Last year’s nominee Janet Ellis was more gung ho, but one detects a certain amount of bruising between the lines.

When writing my own novel, out next June, it has to be said that the bad sex award hovered like a spectre over my shoulder. There are a few sex scenes in it, and they could very well be egregious for all I know, but what I will say is that the award certainly inspired me to think about what makes a good sex scene, and to work at writing something that I felt to be real, and true, and as unhackneyed as possible. And that can be no bad thing, can it?

“One thing that’s striking about this perception of the judges as prudes is what feels like a misplaced sense of the influence they wield, as though the judges are some sort of literary establishment condemning vast swaths of literary fiction,” the Literary Review’s Frank Brinkley tells me. “Most people don’t really bat an eyelid … the award is a spoof and a publicity vehicle and most people treat it as such. And that’s all to the good. We’re well aware that if the award achieves its stated aim – to discourage the poor writing of sex scenes in literary fiction – we’d have nothing to judge.”

Brinkley also points out that the award emerged at a time when writers were, as far as I can tell, being actively encouraged to sex up their novels. “The trend in literary fiction, for a portion of writers, was a sex scene, somewhere, that might be newsworthy. If we’re discouraging writers from feeling that they have to do something or include something, that’s great.”

Perhaps that is why so much sex writing was so poor, but now seems of a higher standard: the writers are choosing to write those scenes, and their hearts are sincerely in it.

I also think that gender is a factor in this. The bad sex award, to my mind, often constitute a mild but much needed puncturing of the male ego. Many women are acutely aware of what bad sex feels like because, I’m depressed to say, lots of us have experienced it first hand, and reading scenes where a female character is in raptures the minute the tip of a penis makes contact will always lead to raised eyebrows. If sex writing is getting better, could it be that male authors are paying more attention to the female experience? We can but live in hope.

• Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist