"The Arts of the Bedchamber: Japanese Shunga," a stellar collection of shocking, hilarious, nasty, super-hot and utterly engrossing ukiyo-e woodcuts and paintings, reminds us that policing and managing peoples’ sexual appetites has always been a losing battle. They will always and forever get their freak on.

Facing the 18-and-over warning and a sliding shoji screen at the gallery entrance, you know what you’re in for even if you don’t know what to expect. To steady those who may become disoriented by intertwining limbs, bodies floating in sumptuous fabrics, and slippery gender roles, the prints are presented in a context of serious authoritative scholarship.

I asked co-curator Stephen Salel the question that will be on everyone’s mind: What’s up with the giant penises and vulvas rendered with fanatic attention to detail?

He explained the anatomical exaggeration as part of a larger mosaic of issues. Beyond the simple mechanics of serving fantasy, a more complete view includes the artists’ conscious effort to disrupt the social order, liven up classical literature and open channels for parody and satire.

Salel has also given us permission to laugh out loud, like the original consumers of these immensely popular images: at cats emulating people, the deliveryman’s slippers conscien- tiously left outside the house, dress-up games, startlingly familiar raunchy pillow talk, the priceless expression of dread on the face of a busted lover, and a gentleman using a very specialized wall as a … well … substitute.

What you won’t see are images of lone women put on gratuitous display like something from a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Observe the portraits of superstar courtesans and their attendants, depicted in absolute splendor from the combs and sticks in their hair to the platform geta on their feet, with gravity-defying kimono filling the volume in between.

Then look closely at the lovers’ faces: Unless the narrative calls for the jilted lover to be outraged as he watches his partner’s indiscretion, everyone involved in these scenes is clearly having a good time. There is no irony or bitterness in the smiles on their faces, no threatening or aggressive undertones masquerading as desire that characterize contemporary erotica.

Where one finds expressions of boredom or impassiveness that isn’t called for by the scene being depicted, the artist may be trying to say something about the social conditions of Edo-era Japan’s sex industry. Because the images are so stylized it can be difficult to imagine the harsh reality of government-sanctioned pleasure districts that make Vegas seem tame. Those realities included STDs, the challenges of contraception and the complex hierarchies of prostitution that included an apprenticeship system for teens.

Ultimately, the viewer of shunga is expected to perceive far more than the act itself. Pleasure is coded in the depiction of couples’ curled toes, profoundly honest facial expressions, the maze of limbs, voyeurism and the virtual (if temporary) transgression of class distinctions.

All of these themes and aesthetics exist in Western erotica, but they are not integrated into a single genre. Instead, they are networked across Cosmopolitan’s how-to articles, sex documentaries on late-night cable and "leaked" celebrity tapes. Even with a dozen browser windows open simultaneously, one would be hard pressed to experience the level of multidimensional sensuality in a scene from Kangetsu Shitomi’s painted hand scroll.

Perhaps the most fascinating thread in the show notes that the celebrated artists featured here worked in genres other than erotica, demonstrating their era’s considerably more liberal attitude. In our culture, only popular singers and rappers (think of Nina Simone or Tupac, whose respective works include pieces dedicated to sensuality and to politics) are afforded a similar kind of mobility and opportunity to innovate across genres.

In the end this rich, dense show takes huge risks that have little to do with the content itself. It takes a chance by not offering visitors the usual comfortable distance between each other and the art. One cannot stand back with arms folded, pulling a face of feigned seriousness. Instead, there will be a lot of leaning in and squinting frowns while inspecting these graphic depictions of sexual intercourse amid gilded maple leaves and floral patterns. With any luck, scholars, Japanophiles, students, tourists and "otaku" (specialization fanatics) will literally bump heads and exchange fertile reactions that might become ideas.