Dan Snow doesn’t just debunk the myth of medieval puritanism—he demolishes it with street names that would make a sailor blush. His evidence? Physical geography frozen in time: lanes where the destination was unmistakable, and church records of priests caught au naturel sprinting from brothels. This isn’t academic speculation; it’s history you can walk through, and it reframes everything we assume about pre-modern morality.
The Geography of Desire
Snow’s sharpest move is using urban topography as his primary source. He writes, "Medieval people didn’t mess around when it came to naming your streets cuz you needed to know where to go." Grap(cunt) Lane, Cock Lane, Sit-Down Hoe Street—these weren’t euphemisms but practical signage. The author brilliantly connects this to the Assize of Bread and Ale (1267), noting how "sex work was as every part of York as much as the minster and the cobbled streets." This wasn’t hidden vice; it was zoned commerce, as regulated as beer quality. Critics might argue this visibility masked coercion, but Snow’s point lands: when brothels operated openly next to bathhouses (the "stews"), pleasure wasn’t a shadowy underworld—it was woven into daily life.
"Sex work: one man at a time really."
That dark quip from Snow’s interview with Dr. Listister cuts to the heart of medieval gender economics. He doesn’t romanticize—it’s a "deeply patriarchal world" where sex work was one of few paths to financial autonomy for women. The church’s theatrical shaming (striped hoods, jingling bells) backfired spectacularly: Vienna’s sex workers turned mandated bells into fashion statements, sparking trends among noblewomen. Snow’s evidence here is airtight—when even lavender became slang for sex workers (from bathhouse linens), you know the trade permeated culture.
The Church’s Double Standard
Snow’s takedown of clerical hypocrisy is where the piece crackles. He cites 14th-century Prague’s archdiocesan records: priests running brothels, keeping concubines, and one fleeing a raid "completely naked and runs down the streets of Prague where all his parishioners see him." The author wisely avoids overclaiming—"Just like our own time, there’s not one distinct attitude"—but his evidence proves the church’s theoretical rigidity (sex only for procreation, missionary position, minimal pleasure) was ignored by the very people preaching it. This lands because he shows how the rules failed: Thomas Aquinas ranking oral sex as "illogical" while parishioners reported priests paying sex workers "right away and make her leave immediately" after services.
The Bathhouse Revelation
Most refreshing is Snow’s correction of the "medieval filth" myth. "They did bathe. Let’s just put that one to bed," he insists, linking mixed-gender bathhouses to social (and sexual) culture. His etymological punch—"A slang term for sex workers... was a lavender that comes from the lavender that was used to fragrance the laundry houses"—transforms a throwaway phrase into proof of ubiquity. This reframes everything: when communal bathing was normal, the idea of "prudish" medievalers evaporates. Counterpoint: some scholars note bathhouses were later banned because of sexual activity, but Snow’s point stands—they weren’t hidden dens of sin but mainstream hubs first.
Bottom Line
Snow’s strongest contribution is using physical spaces—streets, bathhouses, church records—to prove medieval sexual culture was more open in practice than our sanitized textbooks suggest. His vulnerability? Overlooking regional variations (Italian cities vs. English towns). But when he has a historian testing 14th-century pickup lines on York streets, you’ll never hear "courtly love" the same way again.