Οἷον ἡμῶν ἐγένετο τὸ συμπόσιον—τί γὰρ οὐχ ἅψομαί σου τῆς καρδίας;—ὅσων χαρίτων πλῆρες. ᾠδαὶ, σκώμματα, πότος εἰς ἀλεκτρυόνων, ᾠδὰς, μύρα, στέφανοι, τραγήματα. ὑπόσκιός τισι δάφναις ἦν ἡ κατάκλισις· ἓν μόνον ἡμῖν ἔλιπε, σύ, τὰ δ’ ἄλλα οὔ. πολλάκις ἐκραιπαλήσαμεν, οὕτω δὲ ἡδέως ὀλιγάκις. τὸ γοῦν πλείστην ἡμῖν παρασκευάσαν τέρψιν, δεινή τις φιλονεικία κατέσχε Θρυαλλίδα καὶ Μυρρίνην ὑπὲρ τῆς πυγῆς ποτέρα κρείττω καὶ ἁπαλωτέραν ἐπιδείξει. καὶ πρώτη Μυρρίνη τὸ ζώνιον λύσασα—βόμβυξ δ’ ἦν τὸ χιτώνιον—δι’ αὐτοῦ τρέμουσαν οἷόν τι μελίπηκτον γάλα τὴν ὀσφῦν ἀνεσάλευσεν, ὑποβλέπουσα εἰς τοὐπίσω πρὸς τὰ κινήματα τῆς πυγῆς· ἠρέμα δ’ οἷον ἐνεργοῦσά τι ἐρωτικὸν ὑπεστέναξεν, ὥστε ἐμέ, νὴ τὴν Ἀφροδίτην, καταπλαγῆναι. οὐ μὴν ἀπεῖπέ γε ἡ Θρυαλλίς, ἀλλὰ τῇ ἀκολασίᾳ παρευδοκίμησεν αὐτήν· “οὐ γὰρ διὰ παραπετασμάτων ἐγώ” φησίν “ἀγωνίσομαι, οὐδὲ ἀκκιζομένη, ἀλλ’ οἷον ἐν γυμνικῷ· καὶ γὰρ οὐ φιλεῖ προφάσεις  γών.” ἀπεδύσατο τὸ χιτώνιον καὶ μικρὸν ὑποσιμώσασα τὴν ὀσφῦν “ἰδού, σκόπει τὸ χρῶμα” φησίν “ὡς ἀκριβῶς, Μυρρίνη, ὡς ἀκήρατον, ὡς καθαρόν, τὰ παραπόρφυρα τῶν ἰσχίων ταυτί, τὴν ἐπὶ τοὺς μηροὺς ἔγκλισιν, τὸ μήτε ὑπέρογκον αὐτῶν μήτε ἄσαρκον, τοὺς γελασίνους ἐπ’ ἄκρων· ἀλλ’ οὐ τρέμει, νὴ Δία,”—ἅμ’ ὑπομειδιῶσα—”ὥσπερ ἡ Μυρρίνης”. καὶ τοσοῦτον παλμὸν ἐξειργάσατο τῆς πυγῆς, καὶ ἅπασαν αὐτὴν ὑπὲρ τὴν ὀσφῦν τῇδε καὶ τῇδε ὥσπερ ῥέουσαν περιεδίνησεν, ὥστε ἀνακροτῆσαι πάσας καὶ νίκην  ἀποφήνασθαι τῆς Θρυαλλίδος.
(Alciphron, Epist. 4.14.3-6)

What a drinking party we had—why shouldn’t I make you regretful?—full of great delights! Songs, jokes, drinking till cockcrow, perfumes, garlands and sweetmeats. Our place of reclining was shaded by some laurels. Only one thing was missing: you, but nothing else. We have often caroused but rarely with this much pleasure. But what gave us the most delight was that a fierce quarrel arose between Thryallis and Myrrhine concerning which of them had the most beautiful and smooth buttocks. And Myrrhine, having first loosened her girdle—her dress was made of silk—swayed her hips which quivered like junkets through the dress, while she was looking back at the movements of her buttocks. Then she sighed gently like she was making love so that, by Aphrodite, I was astounded. Thryallis, however, didn’t give up, but outdid Myrrhine in shamelessness. “I shall not compete behind curtains”, she said, “nor play coy, but as in a gymnastic contest; for a contest doesn’t like excuses.” She took off her dress, tightened her buttocks and said, “there, look carefully at the skin, Myrrhine, how pure, how spotless; look here at the purple lining of the hips, the slope towards the thighs, which are neither too fat nor too lean, and the dimples at the sides; but, by Zeus, they don’t quiver”—and at the same time she smiled—”like Myrrhine’s”. And then she made her buttocks quiver so much, and she whirled the whole thing around, to and fro, over her loins, like it was flowing, so that we all applauded and declared that the victory belonged to Thryallis. (tr. Patrik Granholm)

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