THE WILD DREAM

Given the ubiquity and frankness of sex in the public sphere at this point in history, it's tempting to consider the past uniformly repressed and hidebound in its attitudes. But of course even in the most puritanical eras people found the strength to carry on doing the nasty. And sometimes they managed to be far more clever and lyrical in their celebration of the flesh than we are today - though to be fair, it takes little effort to out-class the likes of Girls Gone Wild.

The work that follows here is a personal favorite of mine that I've shamelessly taken from The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, 7th Edition. It's a lyric poem from late 12th century France of the type known as a fabliau, and it serves as an artful celebration of eroticism while taking a remarkably modern approach to the challenge of keeping the sex hot in a long-term relationship. Plus it's just pretty damn funny. If the translation is generally faithful to the original French, then Ned Dubin did a bang-up job of maintaining the sassy, informal tone of the troubador's form. Here it is.

The Wild Dream

I'll tell as briefly as I can

about a woman and a man

and what befell them, if I may.

I heard about it in Douay.

I do not know his or her name,

but I can affirm all the same

what fine, upstanding folk they were

and that she loved him, and he her.

The good man had to leave one day

and go on business far away,

and thus for three full months he stayed

in foreign parts engaged in trade,

and he was so successful there

that he returned walking on air

to Douay on a Thursday evening.

Don't think that his wife felt like grieving

to have her husband back again;

the fuss she made over him then

gave proof of her wifely devotion

and of the strength of her emotion.

When she had hugged, kissed and embraced

him, so he could relax, she placed

a low-slung, comfortable chair

near her and then went to prepare

their meal. All in good time they ate

seated on cushions by the gate,

where a fire crackled warm and bright,

without smoke, but with lots of light.

They'd fish and meat, good, hearty fare,

and wine from Soissons and Auxerre,

white linen, and fresh, healthful meat.

It pleased his wife to see him eat;

she saw that he got all the fine,

choice morsels, and, with each bite, wine.

Eager to please her man, the lady

was more than willing, more than ready

to satisfy his every whim,

expecting in return from him

the welcome for which she was aching,

but it turned out she was mistaken

in plying him with all that drink,

for wine made his libido shrink,

and afterwards, when the man got in

their bed, that pleasure was forgotten.

Not by his wife - it filled her head

when she climbed next to him in bed,

nor would he have needed to ask,

for she was ready for the task.

He had no thought for his poor spouse,

who would have liked them to carouse

and stay awake a while still.

Don't think the lady just sits still

while her husband sleeps like a stone:

"Ha!" she protests, "he sure has shown

himself a stinking, oafish creep!

He should be up, but he's asleep!

My happy hopes have turned to pain.

Three months have passed since we have lain

together, and yet, sure enough,

the devil makes the man doze off.

Well, he can take him, if he will!"

She lies there quietly and still;

what's on her mind remains unspoken -

she doesn't wake him up or poke him,

though in her mind she sorely vexed,

lest he should think her oversexed.

This reason makes her disregard her

thoughts of love-making and ardor

which she has entertained tonight.

She turns in, feeling wrath and spite.

She dreamt a dream while she was lying

there fast asleep - don't think I'm lying! -

that she'd gone up to a yearly fair,

the likes of which you have to hear,

for every stall and shop display

there, every house and place to stay,

every exchange and table was

not selling bolts of cloth or furs

or linen, wool, or silks of price,

it seemed to her, or dyes, or spice,

or goods, or pharmaceuticals -

just penises and testicles

in wild profusion, for the sellers

had filled their houses, rooms and cellars

with the commodity, and porters

came toting them across the borders

upon their backs, while down the road

they rolled in by the wagonload.

Despite the massive inventory,

the merchants had no need to worry

of not exhausting their supplies.

The thirty-shilling merchandise

was awesome, good ones cost a pound,

and for the poor folk could be found

some smaller ones, which still could sate

a girl for ten or nine or eight.

They sold in gross and in detail.

The best and biggest ones for sale

were closely watched and very dear.

The wife went looking everywhere

and put much effort in her quest

till at one stall she came to rest

on seeing one so long and wide, it

just had to be hers, she decided.

The shaft was large and well-endowed

with a big head, cocky and proud,

and, if you want to hear the whole

truth, you could toss into the hole

with ease a round, ripe cherry, and it

would go on falling till it landed

down in the scrotum, which was made

like the shovel-end of a spade.

No man has ever seen its like.

The wife decided she would strike

a bargain, and she asked how much.

"If you were my own sister, such

as this would cost two marks of silver.

This penis is no scrawny sliver,

but of the finest Loheringian

stock, both testicles and engine,

a worthy wand for a magician.

You would do well to take possession

of it. Do come give it a feel."

"Friend, why should we drag out the deal?

I'll buy it from you, if you're willing

to part with it for fifty shillings.

You won't get so much for it any-

where, and I'll throw in a penny

for God, that it may bring me bliss."

"A giveaway, that's what it is,

but I'm won over, and so suit your-

self, and I hope in the future

you'll try it out and praise the vendor.

I think from now on you'll remember

me when you pray or sing a psalm."

The woman lifted up her palm

to give him high five, well-disposed

on account of the deal she'd closed...

... and hits her husband in the jaw

with so much force , she feels her sore

hand turn bright red, tingle and burn,

and one can easily discern

the finger marks from chin to ear,

and he wakes up in startled fear

and sits bolt upright upon waking

and his wife also wakens, shaking,

who'd sooner sleep on till tomorrow,

since now her joy has turned to sorrow.

She has no way to go on keeping

the joy she bought herself while sleeping,

so she'd prefer to stay asleep.

"Wife," the man says, "pray do not keep

from me the dream that made you go

just now and strike me such a blow.

Were you asleep then or awake?"

"Don't say such things, for goodness sake,"

she tells him, "sir. Hit you? Who, me?"

"In affection and harmony,

by the strenght of your marriage vow,

what were you thinking of just now?

Don't keep it back for any cause."

I'll have you know, without a pause

the woman launched into her tale,

like it or not, and didn't fail

to lay all of the details bare

of her dream of the penis fair,

how some were good and some were bad,

and she bought the largest they had,

by far more impressive than any,

for fifty shillings and a penny.

"Sir," she explains, "here's what occurred.

To close the deal, I gave my word

and went to shake hands with good grace,

hitting you squarely in the face,

but only did it in my sleep.

For God's sake, dearest husband, keep

your temper, for as I admit

my error and sincere regret,

I beg your pardon for the blow."

"In faith, sweet wife," he says, "you know

I pardon you, and so should God!"

He embraces and hugs her hard

and kisses her sweet mouth as well,

and his penis begins to swell,

for she charms him and turns him on.

He lays his penis in her palm

as soon as he feels that it's ready,

and asks, "By your love for me, lady,

as God may keep you free from sin,

at that fair, what would it bring in,

the one you're holding on to now?"

"As I hope to survive, I vow

that someone selling a full coffer

of them would find no one who'd offer

a speck of money for the lot.
Why, even those the paupers bought

were such that one of them with ease

would equal at least two of these

the way it is now. Look here, sire!

There it would never find a buyer

who'd ask to see the thing up close."

"So what?" he says. "That's how it goes.

Take this one - the other ones don't matter! -

until you think you can do better."

(And so she did, if I am right).

Together they thus passed the night,

but I think his judgment unsound,

for the next day he spread it round

till a rhymer of fabliaux,

Jean Bodel, also came to know

of it, and for its merits he

put it in his anthology

neither embellished nor extended

which means the lady's dream has ended.

Ok, so it's not Penthouse Forum, but still, not bad for an era when people were burned at the stake for heresy and witchcraft. Not that I'd want to trade places with a bunch of Medieval troubadors, for a whole host of reasons. One is cleanliness, which leads me to my next point.

Take-home question for readers: was sex during the seventeenth century (or really, any time prior to the 20th century) ontologically dirtier than today's sex, simply because people were so physically filthy back then? Regardless of your opinion, think how strong the desire to couple must necessarily have been to compel two people to fuck, given how repulsively dirty their bodies no doubt were. This was long before the era of municipal waterworks and indoor plumbing, let alone antibacterial soap, thrice-daily tooth brushing, brazilian wax jobs, sanitary pads, compulsory bathing practices, etc. In fact, I'm willing to wager that most individuals' reproductive organs were coated - nay - encrusted with filth, so meager and delimited were sanitation... alright, there may be more sensitive readers perusing this thread, so I think I'll leave to the imagination how nasty your typical coital romp must have been. Probably made it a lot easier to heed the injunctions of the Church against extramarital sex, at least for anyone who wasn't already too kinky to care. Perhaps we should rethink a bit our judgment of early modern Europeans from obsessively puritanical, to simply grossed out at the thought of getting busy with their effluent-smeared neighbors. Speaking of kink, the following quote is attributed to that dirty bird Napoleon Bonaparte in a letter he sent while on campaign to his wife Josephine: "J'arrive. Ne te lave pas." Translation: "I'll be home soon. Don't wash."

As Rachel Ray would say, "Yumm-oh!" Guess that means both Napoleon and I would have been in that group the Church gave up on. At least with him as my wingman I'd look like a center for the NBA.