I stole my hand upon his thighs, down one of which, I could both see and feel a stiff hard body, confin’d by his breeches, that my fingers could discover no end: curious then and eager to unfold so alarming a mystery, playing as it were with his buttons, which were bursting ripe from the active force within, those of his waist-band and foreflap flew open at a touch, when out it started; and now, disengag’d from the shirt, I saw with wonder and surprise, what? not the play-thing of a boy, not the weapon of a man, but a may-pole.
— John Cleland, "Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure", London 1749
Someone should revive this style of erotic writing.