Because I think we all like to remember that people are people and have been for centuries, which means that people have been obsessed with sex for about as long. Because poetry is fun, and often filthy. Because sometimes it is much more direct than metaphor and innuendo. And because I appear to be in a bit of a weird mood today.
Share your favorite dirty poems!
I give you for your reading pleasure, a piece from the 17th century (a great time for raunchy poetry in England . . . after all, the Puritans were no longer in power. The theatres were reopened and women went on stage! And of course the "Carpe Diem" genre so popular with the Cavalier poets are "have sex with me now before you get old and ugly" poems). This one, an impassioned poem about premature ejaculation:
"The Imperfect Enjoyment" by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Naked she lay, claspt in my longing Arms,
I fill'd with Love, and she all over Charms,
Both equally inspir'd with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire;
With Arms, Legs, Lips, close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her Breast, and sucks me to her Face.
The nimble Tongue (Love's lesser Lightning) plaid
Within my Mouth, and to my thoughts convey'd
Swift Orders, that I should prepare to throw
The All dissolving Thunderbolt below.
My flutt'ring Soul, sprung with the pointed Kiss,
Hangs hov'ring o're her Balmy Lips of Bliss.
But whilst her busie hand, wou'd guide that part,
Which shou'd convey my Soul up to her Heart,
In Liquid Raptures, I dissolve all o're,
Melt into Sperm, and spend at every Pore:
A touch from any part of her had done 't;
Her Hand, her Foot, her very Look's a Cunt.
Smiling, she Chides in a kind murm'ring Noise,
And from her Body wips the Clammy Joys;
When with a Thousand Kisses, wand'ring o're
My panting Breast, and is there then no more?
She cries. All this to Love and Rapture's due
Must we not pay a Debt to Pleasure too?
But I the most forlorn, lost Man alive,
To shew my wisht Obedience vainly strive,
I Sigh alas! and Kiss, but cannot Swive.
Eager desire confound my first intent,
Succeeding shames does more success prevent,
And Rage at last confirms me Impotent;
Even her fair Hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen Age, and make cold Hermits burn;
Applyed to my dead Cinder warms no more,
Than Fire to Ashes could past Flames restore:
Trembling, confus'd, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak unmoving Lump I lie;
This Dart of Love, whose piercing point oft try'd
With Virgin blood, Ten Thousand Maids has dy'd:
Which Nature still directed with such Art,
That it through every Cunt reacht ev'ry Heart.
Stiffly resolv'd, twou'd carelessly invade
Woman or Boy, nor ought its fury staid,
Where e're it pierc'd, a Cunt it found or made.
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and Sapless, like a wither'd Flower.
Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my Passion, fatal to my Fame;
By what mistaken Magick dost thou prove,
So true to Lewdness, so untrue to Love?
What Oyster, Cinder, Beggar, common Whore,
Didst thou e're fail in all thy Life before?
When Vice, Disease and Scandal, lead the way,
With what officious haste does thou obey:
Like a Rude roaring Hector in the Streets,
That Scuffles, Cuffs, and Ruffles all he meets:
But if his King or Country claim his Aid,
The Rascal Villain shrinks and hides his Head
Even so thy Brutal Valor is displaid,
Breaks every Stew, does each small Whore invade,
But if great Love, the onset does command,
Base Recreant, to thy Prince, thou darst not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most, [1680 hatest]
Through all the Town, the common Fucking Post;
On whom each Whore, relieves her tingling Cunt,
As Hogs, on Gates do rub themselves and grunt.
May'st thou to rav'nous Shankers, be a Prey,
Or in consuming Weepings waste away.
May Stranguaries, and Stone, thy Days attend,
Mayst thou ne're Piss, who didst refuse to spend,
When all my Joys did on False thee depend.
And may Ten Thousand abler Pricks agree,
To do the wrong'd Corinna, right for thee.