From my book Metrophilias
A group of rich men convened together. They lay on couches arranged around low tables. They drank and they ate.
“My wife has got herself a lover,” one man said. “An ex-gladiator. An Egyptian with powerful shanks.”
“My wife’s lover is a poet.”
“Mine has a Greek slave who she keeps perfumed.”
“The lover of my wife,” a certain wealthy merchant by the name of Labrax said, “is kept in a pool on our courtyard.”
“It is an octopus, with eight muscular arms, each one designed for love.”
“Well, a happy wife means a happy husband,” said a certain senator, rolling a grape languidly between his plump fingers.