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Ars Amatori's Public Bath

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ArsAmatori

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Feb 28, 2011
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Friends, Romans, Country Crocks; lend me your rears.

The stone colonnades and ornate flowered verandah many seem a tad pretentious, but let me assure you, this is the place for the jocund and the vulgar, the blithe and blasé. Hell, it even works if you aren't a pompous douche who types with a thesaurus. Here I invite any and all to gather, enjoy the natural spring bath, and talk about whatever thoughts may arise and mingle with the billowing fragrant wisps of steam. I personally like to emphasize the lighter side of classic erotica; works such as the Kama Sutra, The Perfumed Garden, and my own favorite, the Art of Love. It can be humorous. It can even be just plain fun.

Think of this as the new lit hot tub thread, with a snazzy touch.
 
Here is a fun little snippet:

Let your mistress’s birthday be one of great terror to you:
that’s a black day when anything has to be given.
However much you avoid it, she’ll still win: it’s
a woman’s skill, to strip wealth from an ardent lover.
A loose-robed pedlar comes to your lady: she likes to buy:
and explains his prices while you’re sitting there.
She’ll ask you to look, because you know what to look for:
then kiss you: then ask you to buy her something there.
She swears that she’ll be happy with it, for years,
but she needs it now, now the price is right.
If you say you haven’t the money in the house, she’ll ask
for a note of hand – and you’re sorry you learnt to write.

(Some things never change)
 
And speak well of your lady, speak well of the one she sleeps with:
but silently in your thoughts wish the man ill.
Then when the table’s cleared, the guests are free,
the throng will give you access to her and room.
Join the crowd, and softly approach her,
let fingers brush her thigh, and foot touch foot.
 
It’s fine if you tell her what delights, and what gives joy
about her lovemaking, her skill in bed.
Though she’s more violent than fierce Medusa,
she’ll be ‘kind and gentle’ to her lover.
 
Don’t ask how old she is, or who was Consul when
she was born, that’s strictly the Censor’s duty:
Especially if she’s past bloom, and the good times gone,
and now she plucks the odd grey hair.
There’s value, O youth, in this or a greater age:
this will bear seed, this is a field to sow.
Besides, they’ve more knowledge of the thing,
and have that practice that alone makes the artist:
With elegance they repair the marks of time,
and take good care that they don’t appear old.
As you wish, they’ll perform in a thousand positions:
no painting’s ever contrived to show more ways.
 
I hate sex that doesn’t provide release for both...I hate a girl who gives because she has to,
 
See, the knowing bed receives two lovers:
halt, Muse, at the closed doors of the room.
Flowing words will be said, by themselves, without you:
and that left hand won’t lie idle on the bed.
Fingers will find what will arouse those parts,
where love’s dart is dipped in secrecy.
 
When you’ve reached the place, where a girl loves to be touched,
don’t let modesty prevent you touching her.
You’ll see her eyes flickering with tremulous brightness,
as sunlight often flashes from running water.
Moans and loving murmurs will arise,
and sweet sighs, and playful and fitting words.
 
That's all for now. Hope I can compile something to give you a chuckle or brighten your day.
 
When Bacchus’s gifts are set before you then,
and you find a girl sharing your couch,
pray to the father of feasts and nocturnal rites
to command the wine to bring your head no harm.

It’s alright here to speak many secret things,
with hidden words she’ll feel were spoken for her alone:
and write sweet nothings in the film of wine,
so your girl can read them herself on the table:
 
Be the first to snatch the cup that touched her lips,
and where she drank from, that is where you drink:
and whatever food her fingers touch, take that,
and as you take it, touch hers with your hand.
 
And tears help: tears will move a stone:
let her see your damp cheeks if you can.
If tears (they don’t always come at the right time)
fail you, touch your eyes with a wet hand.

What wise man doesn’t mingle tears with kisses?
Though she might not give, take what isn’t given.
Perhaps she’ll struggle, and then say ‘you’re wicked’:
struggling she still wants, herself, to be conquered.
 
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The hoped-for love should not always be declared:
introduce desire hidden in the name of friendship.
I’ve seen the most severe of women fooled this way:
he who once was a worshipper, became a lover.
 
It’s no use giving girls pale drugs:
drugs hurt the mind, have power to cause madness.
Away with such evils: to be loved be lovable:
something face and form alone won’t give you.
 
I found this verse in an old copy of, "Datus, faux pas-us", written by that classic poet, AppyLikesAnalingus.

What you might not know is that the poetic form of the Limerick was actual conceived in the days of Homer, but it was considered too bawdy for the times and therefore was not rediscovered until the late 18th Century.

Therefore this example of Limerickerism in such a classical poet is truly a rarity.


One night, on a date I did welch
Though with reason, I needed to belch!
But as I let rip with a roar
Did he show at my door
In an instant his lust did I quelch

But being the gentleman he were
He pretended what did, didn’t occur
So he smiled and he waved
And I told him I’d shaved
To save him choking on a muff-ful of fur

By now, his face was ablaze
Not surprising, men - I often amaze
As he pulled on my coat
The blush spread down hist throat
As I informed him of my hair removal ways

"First mix some cream in a mug
Then take hold and give a good tug
With flourish, then cut -
From your clit to your butt!
Trimming that carpet right down to a rug.

Remember, spread your legs like a whore
Spend your time, an hour or more
A well tended quim
Is not spontaneous whim!
Razing those pubes right down to the pore."

A thump! – then, truth! I did hear
And found him slumped right down on his rear.
His face pale green
Like a monster he’d seen
And he shuddered when I came near.

"Enough," he shuddered and groaned.
"I’m no match for those skills that you’ve honed
Lets just call it a day
And let me away
I’m going home to get plastered and stoned."

I shrugged, I had my own grog.
Just as a smell wafted up like a fog.
I retreated in house
From the stench awful grouse
And called out, “ ‘twasn’t me, twas the dog!”

:) :)
 
It is amazing what treasures one can amass in a dusty old library!

*Slowly reclines in the bubbly water*

(Or actually the bubbles come later)
 
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At such a time she should take hold of her lover by the hair, and bend his head down, and kiss his lower lip, and then, being intoxicated with love, she should shut her eyes and bite him in various places.

-The Kama Sutra
 
Men who are well acquainted with the art of love are well aware how often one woman differs from another in her sighs and sounds during the time of congress. Some women like to be talked to in the most loving way, others in the most lustful way, others in the most abusive way, and so on. Some women enjoy themselves with closed eyes in silence, others make a great noise over it, and some almost faint away. The great art is to ascertain what gives them the greatest pleasure, and what specialities they like best.
-KS

(Fifty bucks says Appy is a screamer)
 
The signs of the enjoyment and satisfaction of the woman are as follows: her body relaxes, she closes her eyes, she puts aside all bashfulness, and shows increased willingness to unite the two organs as closely together as possible. On the other hand, the signs of her want of enjoyment and of failing to be satisfied are as follows: she shakes her hands, she does not let the man get up, feels dejected, bites the man, kicks him, and continues to go on moving after the man has finished.
-KS

(Oh come on! ya think? If your woman is biting and kicking, you may want to take a hint. I'm glad we have literature to explain these things.)
 
Though a woman is reserved, and keeps her feelings concealed; yet when she gets on the top of a man, she then shows all her love and desire.
-KS
 
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