Whether in art or in writing, the English have a reputation for a stiff upper lip. However, British humor and satire is often quite bawdy. 18th Century England was a heyday for erotic art.
Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure
1748; London, England
|Comments||As the oldest and, potentially, the most pleasurable of professions, prostitution and the lives of prostitutes are one of the most universal themes for erotica writers the world over. Fanny Hill is arguably, one of the most famous classical novels that deals with this subject. In this excerpt, our heroine, reflects upon the various natures of the penis.|
|The feel of that favorite piece of manhood has, in the very nature of it, something inimitably pathetic. Nothing can be dearer to the touch, nor can affect it with a more delicious sensation, that peculiar scepter-member, which commands us all: but especially, my darling, elect from the face of the whole earth. And now, at its mightiest point of stiffness, it felt to me something so subduing, so active, so solid and agreeable, that I know not what name to give its singular impression: but the sentiment of consciousness of its belonging to my supremely beloved youth gave me so pleasing an agitation, and work’d so strongly on my soul, that it sent all its sensitive spirits to that organ of bliss in me, dedicated to its reception. There, concentring to a point, like rays in a magnifying glass, they glow’d they burnt with the intensest heat; the springs of pleasure were, in short, wound up to such a pitch, I panted now with so exquisitely keen an appetite for the eminent enjoyment, that I was even sick with desire. I lay overwhelmed, absorbed, lost in an abyss of joy, and dying of nothing but immoderate delight.|
|Charles then rous’d me somewhat out of this ecstatic distraction, with a complaint softly murmured, amidst a crowd of kisses, to his desires, in which I receiv’d his urgent insistence for admission, where that insistence was alone so engrossing a pleasure, that it made me inconsistently suffer a much dearer one to be kept out; but how sweet to correct such a mistake! My thighs, now obedient to the intimations of love and nature, gladly disclose, and with a ready submission, resign up the soft gateway to the entrance of pleasure: I see, I feel the delicious velvet tip . . . he enters me might and main, with . . . oh! my pen drops from me here in the ecstasy now present to my faithful memory! Description too deserts me, and delivers over a task, above its strength of wing, to the imagination: but it must be an imagination exalted by such a flame as mine that can do justice to that sweetest, noblest of all sensations, that hailed and accompany’d the stiff insinuation all the way up, till it was at the end of its penetration, sending up, through my eyes, the sparks of the love-fire that ran all over me and blaz’d in every vein and every pore of me; a system incarnate of joy all over.|
I had now totally taken in love’s true arrow from the point up to the feather, in that part, where making no new wound, the lips of the original one of nature, which had owed its first breathing to this dear instrument, clung, as if sensible of gratitude, in eager suction round it, whilst all its inwards embrac’d it tenderly, with a warmth of passion, a compressive energy, that gave it, in its way, the heartiest welcome in nature; every fibre there gathering right round it, and straining ambitiously to come in for its share of the blissful touch.
As we were giving then a few moments of pause to the delectation of the senses, dwelling with the highest relish on this intimatest point of reunion, and chewing the cud of enjoyment, the impatience natural to the pleasure soon drove us into action. Then began the driving tumult on his side, the responsive heaves on mine, which kept me up to him; whilst, as our joys grew too great for utterance, the organs of our voices, voluptuously intermixing, became organs of the touch . . .and oh, that touch! How delicious . . . how poignantly luscious! . . . And now! Now I felt, to the heart of me! I felt the prodigious keen edge, with which love, presiding over this act, points the pleasure: love! Without it, the joy, great as it is, is still a vulgar one, whether in a king or a beggar; for it is undoubtedly, love alone that refines, ennobles and exalts it.
Thus happy, then, by the heart, happy by the senses, it was beyond all power, even of thought, to form the conception of a greater delight than what I was now consummating the fruition of. Charles, whose whole frame was convulsed with the agitation of his rapture, whilst the tenderest fires trembled in his eyes, all assured me of a perfect concord of joy, penetrated me so profoundly, touch’d me so vitally, took me so much out of my own possession, whilst he seem’d himself so much in mine, that in a delicious enthusiasm, I imagin’d such a transfusion of heart and spirit, as that coalescing, and making one body and soul with him, I was he, and he, me.