Webster/Liebgott, Teaching Lieb what good literature is
Ars Amatoria
A German copy of Ars Amatoria by Ovid. Webster set it down in front of Liebgott.
"I found it!" Webster declared, triumphant. He stood behind Liebgott, who was seated at a table. They were in a German house, not long after the surrender.
"It was in this man's library. I couldn't believe it, Lieb. This is exactly what I wanted to show you."
Liebgott gawped at it, apprehensive.
"I can't believe this whole big thing is a fuckin' poem. It's goddamn huge," Liebgott said, tilting his head, observing the volume's thickness.
"You didn't believe me when I told you it was long?" Webster replied, turning the title page so Liebgott could read the author's name and the translator's name. "It's usually a three-book set. This is the only one I could find... See, it's written by Ovid. Remember Ovid."
"Yeah, Awwwved, right. Three books? Hell, what could be so important about a poem that a guy has to go on for three books?" Liebgott asked.
Webster flipped to a page in the poem seemingly at random. He knew this work well.
"Read this out loud," Webster ordered, pointing at a group of lines towards the beginning of the poem.
Liebgott couldn't. He was hypnotized by the illustration on the opposite page. It featured a dark-skinned Roman with a generally aggressive air about him, wrapped in a white cloth, pulling away the toga of another; a woman. She was pale with dark curling hair tied up in a long twist. Her breasts and legs were exposed, and though she seemed to be anxious she was not fighting against the man. Actually, her body language was quite welcoming; she was lifting her skirt herself. The two in the picture were clearly lovers.
"Webster, what the hell is this poem about?" Liebgott asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Well," he replied, still pointing at the passage he wanted Liebgott to read, "'Ars Amatoria' is Roman for 'Art of Love'. Just translate this bit."
Liebgott read.
"I am Love’s teacher as Chiron was Achilles’s,
both fierce-tempered boys, both children of a goddess.
Yet the bullock’s neck is bowed beneath the yoke,
and the spirited horse’s teeth worn by the bit.
And Love will yield to me, though with his bow
he wounds my heart, shakes at me his burning torch.
The more he pierces me, the more violently he burns me,
so much the fitter am I to avenge the wounds."
"Good, good!" Webster said, "now read this." He flipped a couple pages and found a new passage.
Liegott, growing irritated, read,
"Whoever showed too much fight, and denied her lover,
he held her clasped high to his loving heart,
and said to her: ‘Why mar your tender cheeks with tears?
as your father to your mother, I’ll be to you.’
Romulus, alone, knew what was fitting for soldiers:
I’ll be a soldier, if you give me what suits me."
Liebgott turned to Webster, who was grinning, lost inside the imagery of the poem. He asked, "Web, what am I supposed to be getting out of this?"
Webster looked surprised. "Nothing, I suppose. It's just beautiful and interesting. 'Ars Amatoria' was sort of like a self-help book in ancient Rome. It instructs on how to be a good lover and how to make other people love you."
Liebgott scoffed, "Really? because to me this Awwwved guy just seems really horny. I mean, 'as your father to your mother, I’ll be to you'? That's some kinky stuff."
"It's sweet and romantic," Webster insisted.
"What if the broad this Awwwwwved wrote this poem for had a real asshole for a dad? Then how's she supposed to feel?"
"Ovid didn't write it for any specific person," Webster explained. "Listen, remember this part? 'I am Love’s teacher as Chiron was Achilles’s'. That's beautiful. You know who Achilles was?"
"Yeah," Liebgott said, "he had that bad heel."
"He was a Greek warrior. He fought the Trojans. Chiron was like his... well... his mentor, let's say," said Webster.
"His mentor? They were Greek. Doesn't that mean he was probably fucking him?" Liebgott asked.
"Yes," Webster said slowly, "that's the implication."
"Then I'm right huh? Awwved was one horny son of a bitch," Liebgott declared.
Webster sighed. He wasn't sure if his attempt to expose Liebgott to literature was in vain or already going very well. Liebgott at least seemed interested.
Liebgott read the next passage Webster showed him;
"Don’t forget the races, those noble stallions:
the Circus holds room for a vast obliging crowd.
No need here for fingers to give secret messages,
nor a nod of the head to tell you she accepts:
You can sit by your lady: nothing’s forbidden,
press your thigh to hers, as you can do, all the time:
and it’s good the rows force you close, even if you don’t like it,
since the girl is touched through the rules of the place."
Webster unconsciously moved his own hand to Liebgott's shoulder.
"All right, "Liebgott said, "I got that part. So, you take your girl to a show or something and rub up against her there, because she won't be able to get mad if you're in a place where everyone's shoved together. That's actually pretty good advice."
"Yup," Webster replied dumbly. Webster could smell Liebgott he was so close. He hadn't noticed until now.
Liebgott continued.
"When the crowded procession of ivory gods goes by,
you clap fervently for Lady Venus:
if by chance a speck of dust falls in the girl’s lap,
as it may, let it be flicked away by your fingers:
and if there’s nothing, flick away the nothing:
let anything be a reason for you to serve her."
Webster smiled at the thought.
"Yeah," Liebgott laughed, "make everything an excuse to stick you hand between her legs. That's the way to win her over."
Webster's hand had found its way to Liebgott's thigh and there it was rubbing slow, soft circles past the coarse fabric and into the muscle.
Liebgott couldn't ignore it. "Web, what the fuck are you doing?"
Webster snuck his hand between Liebgott's legs, massaging the flesh, encouraging his arousal.
"I'm illustrating Ovid's under-lying message through example," Webster whispered into liebgott's neck.
Liebgott melted into Webster's arms as he angled Liebgott's chin upwards for a confused messy upside-down kiss. Liebgott's tongue pushed between Webster's lips, pulling a gentle moan from his throat. Webster pushed the book onto the floor and helped Liebgott onto the table. There, he put his lips to his in a long, open-mouthed kiss.
They did not find an opportunity to finish reading 'Ars Amatoria' that evening.