Kama Mundra

(This was originally intended as Pornography, I think … until I discovered, in remarkably short order, that I am completely incapable of writing Pornography.)

The Kama Mundra
Or, The Way of the Limping Ocelot

As translated from the Manaanan by Sir Rupert Gilhooly FRS
Excerpted with annotation, addentation and introduction by Mr. D.R. Stone


Much has been made, and rightly so, of the translation by Sir Richard Burton of The Kama Sutra in 1883 - so much so that we tend to completely overlook his predecessors in the translatory arts. We forget that, some ten years before, following a gruelling trek through the interior regions of Manaan, the celebrated explorer, terpsichorist and practical pharmacologist Sir Rupert Gilhooly emerged from that dark and fetid sub-continent bearing boxes of intricately-carved onyx, a hatful of dubious mushrooms that turned your water green, and the last surviving copy of the Kama Mundra.

Gilhooly’s first translation of this magical, if not alas ultimately seminal, work did not do well, perhaps because of its unashamedly forthright nature, but far more probably, and not to say plausibly due to the fact that the disgusting practices contained therein were physically impossible if one were not a professional contortionist with ready access to a coconut and a trained mountain goat.

While The Kama Sutra - Aphorisms of Love was riding high on the best-seller lists and Burton himself chatting airily to Sarah Dunant upon the innate semantic self-contradictions of Sanskrit, ritual Nabob nipple-worship and what it was like to be married to Elizabeth Taylor, Gilhooly’s work, entitled perhaps unfortunately for modern sensibilities, The Kama Mundra - How to do Sex like the Wogs do it, was lucky if it could get into the remaindered bin at WH Smiths.

Disheartened by this lack of success, Gilhooly became a recluse. Indeed, as his diaries say at the time: ‘Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.’ He devoted the rest of his short, sad life to goat-breeding, freebasing crack and extensively researching his original Manaanan source material with a view to a possible sequel, tentatively entitled Doctor Gilhooly’s Joy of Shagging. He died of massive rupture in 1885, when two pages stuck together.

The Kama Mundra

This is, I believe, the first English translation of certain precepts and aphorisms contained within the text compiled ‘in modesty and rectal continence’ by Varashanta the Manaanan, embodying the wisdom of that noble people from between 1,000 B.C.E. and 400 C.E.

I find myself unable, I confess, to ascertain the true meaning of certain nouns, the meanings of which have long-since been lost to us. I do not know, for example, what a Super Nintendo Game Boy is, and have not the slightest intention of finding out.

- Rupert Gilhooly KBE, FRS 1873

The Congress of the Fibrillating Raven
The gentleman reclines upon a mat of scented rushes, applying a tincture of pomegranate and green pesto to the lady’s Yoni, all the while that the other gentleman leaps from the pianoforte (a clavicle is perfectly acceptable, though slightly diminutive for advanced tastes), singing a selection from the refrains of the noted entertainer Mr. George Formby, with a preponderance toward the number of surprising adventures involving his little stick of Blackpool rock. This continues until exhaustion, prostration or the untimely interruption by a mythical Manaanan retributive deity commonly known as Old Bill.

The Congress of the Soapy Hedgehog
A number of sad and rather bedraggled gentlemen sit in a circle and make glum and stilted conversation upon some self-imposed topic or other, listening to the occasional bursts of distant happy laughter and shooting the occasional furtive glance to the door behind which the Women’s Group are having all the actual fun. This continues until some gentleman suggests, in the charming patois of the region, ‘sodding off for a beer’.

The Congress of the Ubiquitous Lemur
Not so much an act of sexual congress as a magickal technique for the unobserved conduction of same. Ladies and gentleman of a certain lost and hybrid tribe would join with members of certain far more polarised sub-groups upon some ritual demonstration or other, or to make some common grievance heard. They could then do what the fuck they liked, because, strangely, they upon the instant became completely and utterly invisible. Indeed, such was the success of this ploy that contemporary archival material contains no mention of them whatsoever, and this is almost certainly why they remain lost.

(One detects a note of uncharacteristic spite in this particular translation, possibly as a result of certain unfortunate experiences Gilhooly encountered upon a mass demonstration by the Temperance League for the Social Equality of Maryannes, Uranians, Lunatics, Sapphic Women, Women in general and in Fact Everybody except Mr. Rupert Gilhooly.)

The Congress of Vienna
Oh dear me, I beg your pardon. I couldn’t resist it. Willie Rushdon didn't die in vain.

The Congress of the Big Tin of Swarfega
The lady and the other lady swing from the … oh, what’s the point. I’ve had enough of this. There’s a little green worm inside my head, his name is Jeremy and if we’re very, very good he might sing us his song. We had to avoid certain parts of the room, you see. I hear the tread of Mistress Crabtree on the stair, bringing me my afternoon Largactyl …

(Interpolatory textual note. At this point, and quite without warning, there comes a four-hundred-and-fifty-page-long diatribe against the Corn Laws, interspersed with personal abuse directed toward Messrs. Grablitt, Flatchlock and Swive, the firm of barristers who unsuccessfully defended Gilhooly after the notorious Bath and Wells galvanistical bicycle-pump incident, and just what, precisely, he would like to do to them.

Certain of these passages have induced projectile vomiting in even the most hardened souls well used to slithering in the most unmitigated frightfulness, might cause unnecessary distress to those descendants now living, and have thus been excised.

Only once more does Gilhooly’s text touch directly upon matters of sexual congress - and this, strangely, deals with a variant upon the Hindu ritual of Panchamakara.)

* * *

Those who are expecting a glowing report about how people stick their rampant twonks into other people’s heaving organs of sensitivity until they do a multiple orgasm and the so forth are going to be sorely disappointed. The current authors would be really good at sex, they bet, if they ever got around to actually doing it … but being for the moment complete strangers to the ways of slithering and unmitigated perversion and pretty damned smelly to boot, they shall confine themselves to detailing the so-called ‘infamous’ Panchamakara ritual - as scaled down from eight protagonists to a healthy and readily assimilable three, and improvised upon the spur of the moment and off the top of their heads.

The Panchamakara seems to consist of five stages, the Five M’s, and has apparently shocked and shamed many a European as well as many an Indian writer. Well, fuck ‘em sideways, or indeed upside-down and hanging from a set of manacles. The Five M’s are:

1.) Madya (wine and suchlike intoxicating substances). Protagonist (a) smokes a joint or from a hash pipe whilst protagonist (b) pours wine to taste between (c)’s tits and licks it off. Continue around the circle until the end of the bottle and the joint or until everybody’s at least had a taste. The navel or the small of the back may be substituted the second time around for a bit of variety, of which the spice of life it is.

2.) Mamsa (the flesh of animals). Again working in a circle, every protagonist worshipfully kisses each applicable protagonist’s dick in turn. For exclusively female gatherings, the sucking of nipples is preferable to miming with dildos and the like, since the point is to engorge erectile tissue. We don’t use the ordinarily obvious clitoris because of:

3.) Matsya (fish). Every protagonist worshipfully kisses each applicable protagonist’s cunt. (For boys-only bashes, or for people who just prefer rimming, rimming will suffice.) Our authors would also like to apologise at this point for associating female primary genitalia with fish: vaginas do not, so far as they know, roam the oceans in majestic shoals, know the secrets of the deep and would in all probability be incredibly unappetising if filleted, battered, deep-fried in lard and sold with a bag of chips.

4.) Mudra (grain). Sacred wafers, cream crackers, hash brownies, half a packet of Ritz biscuits or whatever else one has to hand are passed around to be anointed with vaginal fluid and precum and eaten. Yum.

4b.) As (4) save that everybody masturbates and wherever possible comes to anoint said half a packet of Ritz with seminal or vaginal ejaculatory fluid. Culinary artistes should be taking notes. Great British Fuck-off, anyone? Please yourselves.

5.) Maithuna (sex). Everyone just fucks each other’s brains out, and good luck to them. Incidentally, if (4b.) has obtained, with the sexual imperative-pressure off, the whole thing devolves into something far more caring and, ultimately, climactic. Either that, or everybody just feels a bit of a fool and gives up. You pays your money and you takes your choice, basically.

The sacred ambiance of the Panchamakara can be accentuated by several Most Solemn and Magical ritual chants, including the mystical ‘I’ve got a Loverly Bunch of Coconuts’, the sublime ‘Grandad’s Flannelette Shirt’ (lordy, lordy) and the ancient and authentic Hindu text of ‘I’m a Pink Toothbrush, You’re a Blue Toothbrush’. Particularly popular proves one of our authors’, who shall remain nameless, rendition of the concinnately beautiful Tantric love ballad, ‘Frigging in the Rigging’, as one goes down for the third time.

And then we had some very nice tea and unadulterated biscuits. Chocolate Hobnobs, if the memory serves.


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