INDIAN EROTIC PHILOSOPHY

'Pity!' She says, with bruised breasts and disordered hair. With eyes closed and legs still trembling, 'Finish!' she says. She says in a choked voice: 'It is enough!' And now her silence grows eternal. Is she dead or sleeping, is she meditating in delight on what has happened, or thinking of another?

If, lying with her face turned away, the fawn-eyed girl offers you her buttocks and your penis enters the house of love, this is Nagabandha, the coupling of the Cobra.

She whose dark eyes are like fallen lotus petals your penis and guides it into her vulva, then clings tight to you and shakes her buttocks, this is Charunarikshita, Lovely Lady In Charge.

Stretched out like a pole in the middle of the bed, she lies joined to you in lovemaking, her breathless cries mounting as you polish the jewel of her clitoris: This is Mausala, the Pestle

Since your husband has got to depart at dawn, listen to me carefully. He must not see your joy; you must weep, and keep him; you must tell him that you have not the courage to stay in a room his absence leaves most desolate; you must go out and see to his horse, and bid the servant saddle the fastest.

When, straightening her legs, she grips and milks your penis with her vagina, as a mare holds a stallion, it is vadavaka, the Mare, which is not learned without practice.

Last night my kisses drowned in the softness of black hair
And my kisses like bees went plundering the softness of black hair.
Last night my hands were thrust in the mystery of black hair,
And my kisses like bees went plundering the sweetness of pomegranates.
And among the scents of the harvest above my queen's neck the harvest of black hair.
And my teeth played with the golden skin of her two ears.
Last night my kisses drowned in the softness of black hair
And my kisses like bees went plundering the softness of black hair.

If you lie flat with your lover astride you, her feet drawn up and her hips revolving so that your penis circles deep within her sex, it is Bhramara, the Black Bee.

Instead of the deep blue lotus her glance to him, her teeth in a lighted smile instead of the jasmine, instead of the cup one moving breast of hers. Thus, though she has little means, she finds a celebration for his return.

Suavely the wine pouring from your lower lip has called the golden swarm. It is a crimson fruit and has called the bees. The boy who has sucked that carmine fruit is drunken, and I am drunken, and the gilded bees.

Caging your lover in your arms, you part knees and sink into her, crushing her body to yours: this is know as Dadhyataka, or Churning Curds.

The legs are of saja
The frame is of sarai
O girl with tinkling bells
I will make music
On your bed tonight

And my life longs for you
I cannot hold my life in patience
Your body is like a plantain stalk
Sweet as a divided mango

How should we quench love when there is fire
even in the pollen of the lotus under water,
even in wet sandal essence, even in the
dew of the frozen lantern of the moon?

If, lying side by side, you simultaneously kiss each other's secret parts it is the lovemaking of the crow, a sexual technique much practised by slaves, itinerants and other low persons.

If you lift the girl by passing your elbows under her knees and enjoy her as she hangs trembling with her arms garlanding your neck, it is called Janukurpur, the Knee-Elbow.

Seat your lover upon a dais, lift her feet to your shoulders, clasp her buttocks, let your tongue moisten Love's temple and stir it to overflowing: this is Bahuchushita, Sucked Hard.

Her mouth quickens now upon the shaft; when you stir to her lips and tongue-tip, she swallows it as deeply as she can and kisses when you cry out: this is Sangara, Swallowed Up.