When archaeologists began to uncover the buried city of Pompeii in the 18th century, they uncovered an ancient Roman town frozen in volcanic ash. Some of the things (like temples and villas) were expected. But others (like erections on dinnerware and sex scenes in public baths) came as a surprise.

The more they looked into Pompeii, the more they found themselves staring straight into Rome’s libido. This led scientists down a rabbit hole that upended our understanding of Roman society, challenging us to rethink not just the ancient world, but the moral frameworks we bring to it today.

Sex in the City

Pompeii was a bustling Roman city on the Bay of Naples — cosmopolitan, crowded, and vibrant. For centuries, its narrow streets echoed with the sounds of merchants hawking goods and carts rattling over stone. Home to some 11,000 people, Pompeii thrived on trade, agriculture, and craftsmanship. Wealthy elites commissioned elaborate villas with garden courtyards and frescoed dining rooms, while artisans, enslaved workers, and traders lived cheek by jowl in modest apartments and busy workshops.

It was a city of marketplaces and bathhouses, temples and taverns, a representative slice of the Roman world. But tragically, in 79 CE, Mount Vesuvius buried Pompeii under a thick blanket of ash. It was a devastating tragedy which, as a side effect, preserved the city in eerie, exquisite detail. Frozen in time, the city offered an unparalleled glimpse into everyday Roman life. We get to see what the Roman world view was really like; and boy, was it lewd.

Almost as soon as archaeologists started unearthing Pompeii, they came across things they considered obscene. Nude satyrs and nymphs, phallic-shaped objects, and even erotic scenes were, apparently, common. They weren’t restricted to dark corners, but rather featured in practically all areas of the city, from private houses to bath complexes and public places.

This prevalence of sensuality stood in stark contrast to the stringent moral codes of the 18th and, especially, 19th centuries, when the excavations were made. The immediate response to this cultural clash was one of censorship. Driven by the moral sensibilities of the Bourbon monarchy and later, Victorian authorities, excavators systematically removed, covered, or concealed the most explicit artifacts.

This “erotic” art was segregated and hidden, usually in the Gabinetto Segreto, or Secret Cabinet, at the National Archaeological Museum in Naples. But this was a very flawed perspective. By classifying these objects as “obscene” or “pornographic,” the discoverers applied anachronistic labels that had no direct equivalent in the Roman worldview.

To modern eyes, much of Pompeii’s erotic art might look like ancient pornography. But to the Romans, these images weren’t necessarily scandalous. They were part of everyday life.

Erotic displays were part of life

It’s not hard to understand why the initial archaeologists reacted as they did. Picture this: a fresco of Priapus, the god of fertility, greets visitors at the entrance of the lavish House of the Vettii. In it, the deity weighs his oversized phallus against a bag of gold coins. Several statues have oversized phalluses, which were sometimes functional, with holes drilled through them to spurt water as fountains.

High-art pieces, such as the sensual intertwining of a “Satyr and Hermaphrodite” were found adorning a garden swimming pool. There’s even a scene of the goat-like god Pan copulating with a goat. You can understand why early archaeologists didn’t like this.

However, for the Romans, erotic imagery was neither scandalous nor sequestered. In fact, it was integrated into daily life as a symbol of fertility, protection, humor, and good fortune. Phallic symbols adorned bakeries and doorways to ward off evil and invite prosperity. Frescoes of sexual acts appeared everywhere from baths to dining rooms, and bedrooms, often with mythological flair. The Romans didn’t characterize them as obscene or private, but rather viewed them as part of a broader visual language, linking sexuality to abundance, health, and divine favor. To them, the erotic was not taboo but talismanic.

The integration of erotic themes showed up in the most mundane of objects. The oil lamps that Romans used for illuminating events were often decorated with erotic scenes. Ceramic drinking cups, bowls, and even the bowls they ate from frequently had sexual illustrations. This means that men, women, and children would have often viewed these images during meals, and likely not thought much of them. Even the tintinnabulum, a quintessentially Roman type of wind chime, often featured an erect phallus. Sometimes, this phallus was winged or combined with various shapes or characters. This was meant to ward off evil through sounds.

It wasn’t just a commoner thing, either. Recent excavations found two bronze medallions with detailed erotic scenes on a lavish chariot, showing that the highest echelons of Roman society also had similar depictions.

Seeing sex (and women) differently

We don’t know exactly how Romans thought of sex, but it’s definitely incorrect to look at it through a modern lens.

By segregating these artifacts as pornography, modern interpreters imposed a moral framework the Romans themselves did not recognize. They erased the rich social, religious, and symbolic roles this art once played. The very act of considering them erotic hid the fact that for Romans, these images were part of a continuous visual spectrum displayed openly in homes and public spaces alike.

But what did the Romans think about sex?

The dominant Roman ideal cast men as active and penetrating, while women were expected to be passive. But Pompeii’s walls tell a more complicated story.

In numerous scenes, women are shown in dominant sexual positions. The art of Pompeii is one of our only sources for visualizing a wide variety of acts and positions. A varied range of erotic practices are depicted, showcasing practices that were derided or scorned in written texts. These depictions disrupt the literary image of the chaste Roman matron and suggest that, at least in art, women’s sexual agency was not only visible but celebrated.

This seems to offer a strong counter-narrative to the restrictive ideals preserved in elite Roman literature. While poets and moralists often promoted an image of the virtuous, silent, and sexually passive woman (loyal to her husband, modest in public, and virtually absent from sexual discourse) the walls of Pompeii tell a more textured and inclusive story. Here, sexuality is not confined to male desire; it is mutual, playful, and diverse. Sexual encounters (even same-sex encounters) were acknowledged and normalized.

This does not mean that Roman society was sexually egalitarian or free from exploitation. But it does suggest that Roman visual culture allowed space for imagining women not simply as objects of male control, but as subjects with desire and agency.

Of course, there is the notable exception of the Pompeii brothel. The Lupanar, as the Romans called them, was a two-story building with ten small cells (cubicula), each containing a masonry bed. Its walls are covered in all sorts of graffiti and famously, a series of eight erotic frescoes painted above the doorways. The most common interpretation of these frescoes is that they served as a functional “menu” of services. Clients, including foreign sailors who might not share a common language with the prostitutes, could simply point to a desired act. Modern historians believe this would have served as a “pick and choose” menu, but also as a sort of advertising to the clients, appealing to their fantasy and setting the stage for an idealized fantasy rather than a commercial transaction.

Here too, however, women left their mark in their own way: scratched in walls. There’s one engraving that reads “Victoria is unconquered here,” while another proclaims “Here I ****** well and then I went home.”

Seeing Roman society through a new lens

In the centuries following Pompeii’s rediscovery, this art was systematically hidden. Excavators locked away the most explicit artifacts in the Gabinetto Segreto. Most people were explicitly banned from seeing it, and even those who were deemed moral enough to do so, had to undergo a strict application process.

This enforced a false split between “art” and “pornography” that Romans themselves never recognized. It wasn’t until the late 20th century, that scholars began questioning the very categories of sex and sexuality, that researchers started treating Pompeian erotica not as an embarrassment but as essential evidence of Roman life.

Now, the erotic art of Pompeii is considered an indispensable and uniquely rich data set for understanding the complexities of Roman civilization. The fact that it shows up anywhere and everywhere demonstrates a worldview that was different from our own. It did not separate the sensual from the sacred or the humorous from the holy. Their art was fluid, carnal, and very context-dependent. A single scene could function as a marker of status, a tool of commerce, a source of humor, or a magical ward.

This art challenges us reconsider what Roman society was really like, and how gender roles were different from what is written in preserved texts. But perhaps above all, it forces us to confront our own biases.

The cultural disconnect

Modern discomfort with overtly sexual imagery, even as sexuality-related depictions are all around us, would have been inconceivable to Romans, just like an oversized phallus in a public market sounds inconceivable to us.

In many Western cultures, sexuality has long been framed through a binary lens: public versus private, art versus pornography. These aren’t biological or truly old views. They’re relatively new, rooted in religious doctrine and Victorian prudery. Yet, they make it difficult for many modern viewers to see sexually explicit imagery as anything other than lewd or taboo. We tend to assume that depictions of sex must be either immoral or commercial — never sacred, humorous, domestic, or protective, as they often were in ancient Rome.

The lens of modern morality is anything but perfect. Yet, the journey of Pompeii’s erotic art from the locked doors of the Secret Cabinet to the open galleries and academic symposia of today shows that we can do better. We can evolve our capacity and look beyond our biases, at least to some extent.

Today, visitors to Pompeii can see many of these images in context. The House of the Vettii has reopened after years of restoration, allowing the public to view its Priapus fresco just as a Roman guest might have. The Suburban Baths and the Lupanar are also open, offering not just prurient curiosity but vital historical insight.

This art, preserved in the ash of catastrophe, offers more than a vivid portrait of Pompeii — it offers a rare window into the Roman psyche, into how they lived, loved, laughed, and imagined power and pleasure. It also holds a mirror to ourselves. It reminds us that sexuality is not just a private instinct but a cultural artifact, shaped by history, power, and imagination. Ultimately, this art doesn’t just deepen our understanding of Pompeii or Rome — it invites us to reflect on the stories we tell about our own bodies, desires, and cultural taboos.