Greek writers of sex manuals were treated like the tabloid journalists of the day and labelled with the snappy title of anaiskhuntographo – ‘writers of shameless things’.
This did not deter aspiring sex advisors from putting pen to papyrus, though, and writing love guides became a feminine speciality. An AD 10 lexicon claims that the first Greek to have published a sex manual was Astyanassa, whose official job title was Helen of Troy’s ‘body servant’. She is credited with being both the first person to discover all the workable positions for intercourse and the first to write them down. She was followed by Elephantis and Philaenis. Elephantis, the prostitute-poetess, is supposed to have detailed nine different postures. The Emperor Tiberius is said to have been an avid reader, but tantalizingly, although these postures are often mentioned in classical texts, they remain lost somewhere beneath the mattress of time.
The other leading writer, Philaenis, is also believed to have been a woman (though it might possibly have been a man pretending, in order to boost sales). Only a few fragments from a papyrus of hers, from 2 BC, survive. In her preamble, she claims to have written it all from her own experience, as an objective and scientific guide. On flattery, she recommends, ‘Tell an older woman that she looks young. Tell an ugly woman that she looks “fascinating”. Pick the woman’s worst feature and then make it appear desirable.’ Other writers who appear to have flourished at the time include Paxamus, a general hack who wrote the Dodecatechnon, a book of twelve erotic postures – which is once again sadly lost.
We have more luck with the Romans, particularly the celebrated writer Lucretius, who at around 50 BC seems to have stumbled on the ‘Love Hurts’ idea so beloved of pop songs. The fourth section of his On the Nature of the Universe, dedicated to sex and sensation, warns readers that they must dodge Cupid’s darts: ‘The wounded normally fall in the direction of their wound: the blood spurts out towards the source of the blow. So, when a man is pierced by the shafts of Venus, whether they are launched by a lad with womanish limbs or a woman radiating love from her whole body, he strives towards the source of the wound and craves to ejaculate the fluid drawn from out of his body into that body. His speechless yearning foretells his pleasure.’ Messy.
Lucretius recommends that you try your best to avoid all this. His solution is to evade true love by embarking on a promiscuous sex spree: ‘If you find yourself thus passionately enamoured with someone, you should keep well away from images that remind you of them. Thrust from you anything that might feed your passion, and turn your mind elsewhere. Ejaculate the build-up of seed promiscuously and do not hold on to it – by clinging to it you assure yourself the certainty of heartsickness and pain ... Do not think that by avoiding romantic love you are missing the delights of sex. No, you are reaping the sort of profits that carry with them no penalty.’
The Roman period also brought us the first example of a sex-manual martyr. Poor old Ovid (aka Publius Ovidius Naso) is only the first of a long line of authors whose sullied reputations, trashed careers and broken lives litter the pages of this book. He got himself banished to a far fringe of empire for writing a bawdy guide to sexual postures, theirs amatoria (The Art of Love), which is a lads’-mag treasury of tips on grooming, sex and seducing your friends’ wives.
Ovid was born in 43 BC in Sulmo – modern-day Sulmona in central Italy – and studied in Athens before moving to Rome where he dutifully worked his way up to a decent civil service job. He then decided on a radical career move into the world of art and became a full-time poet. The gamble paid off handsomely and his writing and wit soon won him imperial fame and fortune. But at the age of 40 he made a rather less popular move, by treating his Roman readers to a pornographic poem. The Ars amatoria begins innocently enough: ‘If anyone among this people know not the art of loving let him read my poem and having read be skilled in love. By skill, swift ships are sailed and rowed, by skill nimble chariots are driven: by skill must love be guided.’ But its long closing passage was particularly risqué, suggesting sex-position tips for women that would show off their best parts (viz, if you’ve long legs, put them on your partner’s shoulders; if you’re saggy from childbirth, let him take you from behind; if you’re short, go on top, and so on).
The verses mortally offended the somewhat strait-laced Emperor Augustus. The poem, along with another, undisclosed error, got him banished to the freezing cold, primitive town of Tomis on the Black Sea. (He cryptically wrote, ‘two crimes, a poem and a blunder have brought me to ruin. I must keep silent.’) He continued writing poetry and begging to be allowed home, but to no avail. Ovid died in exile eight years later, in AD 17. The persecution of his saucy poem did not, however, stop there. All Ovid’s works were burned as obscene by the Dominican reformist preacher Girolamo Savonarola, in Florence in 1497 (though Savonarola met the same fiery fate himself a year later, after he upset the Vatican). And as late as 1928, an English translation of Ars amatoria was banned from America by US Customs.
The authorities might well remain reluctant to allow one of the late classical world’s other guides on lovemaking to be published. The Affairs of the Heart is effectively the inner monologue of a bi-curious male. Written by Lucien (or very possibly someone doing a rough imitation of his work) around AD 4, it records the disputes between a straight philanderer and a gay pederast over whose sex life is more honest and pleasurable. The straight guy wins, and the text recommends that male readers should choose wives over young boys – not least because they last longer: a woman is desirable from maidenhood to middle age, whereas boys pass their prime as soon as their beard starts to grow. What’s more, it adds, a woman can be used sexually just like a boy, thus offering ‘two roads to pleasure’. Bonus, eh?
Where to Do It
Outdoors
Marie Stopes, Married Love (1918)
There are some who do realize the sacredness and the value of nature and sunlight. There must be many beautiful children who were conceived from unions which took place under natural conditions of nature and sunlight.
But beware cops and other vermin
Dr Alex Comfort, The Joy of Sex (1972)
Outdoor locations in wild areas are often flawed by vermin, ranging from ants and mosquitoes to rattlesnakes and officious cops.
And certainly not in these places
Ananga Ranga of Kalyanamalla (Stage of the Love God), by the Indian poet Kalyan Mall (16th century)
In the presence of a holy man, a respectable old person or a great man
By rivers or streams
Next to wells or water tanks
Temples
Forts or castles
Guard-rooms, police stations, or other government places where prisoners are held
On a highway
In someone else’s house
Forests, meadows or uplands
Cemeteries
The consequences of carnal connection at such places are disastrous. They breed misfortunes. If children are begotten, they turn out bad and malicious.
Low light, on top of the blankets
Rennie MacAndrew, Life Long Love: healthy sex and marriage (1928)
Intimacy should always take place on top of the bed rather than beneath the blankets, so that each can enjoy seeing the physical charms of the other. Exhibitionism is not a perversion as a prologue to the consummation of love. Ideally, intercourse should be performed in a dimly lighted room, certainly not in the dark.