Bohemian Rhapsody in Sex Machines Museum
Bohemian Rhapsody in Sex Machines Museum
PRAGUE
In Bohemia, one really should do as the Bohemians do.
by Rosie DiManno
I'm not quite sure how bohemian – as in unconventional and unorthodox and "untroubled by middle-class social standards," according to my Webster's Encyclopedic Dictionary – derived from that half of the Czech Republic that isn't Moravia. But the descriptor, apart from artistic and literary aesthetics, is commonly applied to a free love, hippy-dippy lifestyle: sex without inhibitions. If only.
It takes two (at least) to tango and I am wandering the streets of this sumptuous capital by myself, not exactly beating the men off with a stick. My regret is eschewing a more promiscuous adventurousness back in the day. Should have (insert expletive here) them all, as pithily expressed in a favourite birthday card. Anyway, this is all by way of explaining how I ended up at the Sex Machines Museum here, whilst I'd actually set out in search of culture, art galleries and such. But there suddenly was this come-on shingle hanging over the sidewalk and, inside an alcove, a gold-painted female mannequin sitting atop a tongue-studded wheel going round and round. Having visited similar establishments from Amsterdam to Shanghai – is that a kink in my crane-to-gawk neck? – the lure was irresistible. Besides, how often can a girl contemplate a jaw-dropping assortment of anti-masturbation devices while licking an ice-cream cone?
Further, this museum – opened in 2002 just off Old Town Square – has been morally condemned by city officials unhappy with its "disagreeable" content. Naturally, that made it even more popular with tourists. Much of what's on display is cheesy and of no historical value: props that could just as easily have been purchased at any sex toy shop on Yonge St. rather than pseudo-curated. A dildo is a dildo is a dildo, no? Yet there are, um, instructive bits that speak to the enduring mysteries of carnal desire and the just-as-enduring attempts to squelch such urges. Take this anti-masturbation gadget for boys. Please. From France, circa 1915, it involved an electronic ring being placed on a lad's penis that automatically switched on in case of an erection, the poor thing, resulting in a bell ringing in the parents' bedroom so that maman could rush in and slap the kid.
Conversely, from Germany comes (you should forgive the expression) a peddling appliance used on female inmates "for assuaging fervent feelings of some prisoners." If I recall correctly, this was the same unforeseen consequence – orgasm – that resulted in sweat shops where women churned out garments on old-fashioned pedal sewing machines. God bless I.M. Singer. There are body harnesses and "copulation tables" designed to facilitate inventive, even weightless, fornicating positions; apparatus for stimulating "penile, scrotal, anal, vaginal and clitoral tissue," including a pre-battery crank-up vibrator; wicked finger-spikes that Robert Mapplethorpe would have adored; "coercive" chairs for "absolute domination;" an Asian "Magic Box" palanquin with sliding peepholes so that the fee-paying public could look inside when prostitutes were borne about town; and – how to put this delicately? – throne chairs with a hole in the seat for face-up admiration of a partner's genitalia and golden shower convenience.
I will not comment on the S&M gear beyond observing that pain – well beyond hanky-spanky – is a long-established fetish for the human animal and its elicitation ingenious. But I am charmed by the ancient shoes worn by Greek prostitutes with "follow my steps" inscribed on the soles so that they left an imprint on the ground. Now that's clever.
Upon emerging from the museum, finding it necessary to atone for the voyeuristic indulgence – way down deep I must be Presbyterian – I take myself to a nearby exhibit of Salvador Dali photographs and lithographs, the central component of this show being Dali's woodcuts based on cantos from Dante's Divine Comedy. Maybe I've just got sex and seduction on the brain but, you know, both the artist and the poet – especially cross-pollinated – seem totally obsessed with the carnal way of all flesh, even if only allegorically. These woodcuts and watercolours – The Blind for Envy, The Lustful, The Punishment of Hypocrites, The Tree of Punishment – wouldn't be out of place at that other place. They were engrossed with the gross. So am I, perhaps. But the boho brat in me would still like to draw a Dali moustache on Dante's beloved Beatrice.
Sep 14, 2009 04:30 AM
© 2009 Torstar Syndication Services. Displayed by permission. All rights reserved.
In Bohemia, one really should do as the Bohemians do.
by Rosie DiManno
It takes two (at least) to tango and I am wandering the streets of this sumptuous capital by myself, not exactly beating the men off with a stick. My regret is eschewing a more promiscuous adventurousness back in the day. Should have (insert expletive here) them all, as pithily expressed in a favourite birthday card. Anyway, this is all by way of explaining how I ended up at the Sex Machines Museum here, whilst I'd actually set out in search of culture, art galleries and such. But there suddenly was this come-on shingle hanging over the sidewalk and, inside an alcove, a gold-painted female mannequin sitting atop a tongue-studded wheel going round and round. Having visited similar establishments from Amsterdam to Shanghai – is that a kink in my crane-to-gawk neck? – the lure was irresistible. Besides, how often can a girl contemplate a jaw-dropping assortment of anti-masturbation devices while licking an ice-cream cone?
Further, this museum – opened in 2002 just off Old Town Square – has been morally condemned by city officials unhappy with its "disagreeable" content. Naturally, that made it even more popular with tourists. Much of what's on display is cheesy and of no historical value: props that could just as easily have been purchased at any sex toy shop on Yonge St. rather than pseudo-curated. A dildo is a dildo is a dildo, no? Yet there are, um, instructive bits that speak to the enduring mysteries of carnal desire and the just-as-enduring attempts to squelch such urges. Take this anti-masturbation gadget for boys. Please. From France, circa 1915, it involved an electronic ring being placed on a lad's penis that automatically switched on in case of an erection, the poor thing, resulting in a bell ringing in the parents' bedroom so that maman could rush in and slap the kid.
Conversely, from Germany comes (you should forgive the expression) a peddling appliance used on female inmates "for assuaging fervent feelings of some prisoners." If I recall correctly, this was the same unforeseen consequence – orgasm – that resulted in sweat shops where women churned out garments on old-fashioned pedal sewing machines. God bless I.M. Singer. There are body harnesses and "copulation tables" designed to facilitate inventive, even weightless, fornicating positions; apparatus for stimulating "penile, scrotal, anal, vaginal and clitoral tissue," including a pre-battery crank-up vibrator; wicked finger-spikes that Robert Mapplethorpe would have adored; "coercive" chairs for "absolute domination;" an Asian "Magic Box" palanquin with sliding peepholes so that the fee-paying public could look inside when prostitutes were borne about town; and – how to put this delicately? – throne chairs with a hole in the seat for face-up admiration of a partner's genitalia and golden shower convenience.
I will not comment on the S&M gear beyond observing that pain – well beyond hanky-spanky – is a long-established fetish for the human animal and its elicitation ingenious. But I am charmed by the ancient shoes worn by Greek prostitutes with "follow my steps" inscribed on the soles so that they left an imprint on the ground. Now that's clever.
Upon emerging from the museum, finding it necessary to atone for the voyeuristic indulgence – way down deep I must be Presbyterian – I take myself to a nearby exhibit of Salvador Dali photographs and lithographs, the central component of this show being Dali's woodcuts based on cantos from Dante's Divine Comedy. Maybe I've just got sex and seduction on the brain but, you know, both the artist and the poet – especially cross-pollinated – seem totally obsessed with the carnal way of all flesh, even if only allegorically. These woodcuts and watercolours – The Blind for Envy, The Lustful, The Punishment of Hypocrites, The Tree of Punishment – wouldn't be out of place at that other place. They were engrossed with the gross. So am I, perhaps. But the boho brat in me would still like to draw a Dali moustache on Dante's beloved Beatrice.
Sep 14, 2009 04:30 AM
© 2009 Torstar Syndication Services. Displayed by permission. All rights reserved.
