The history of sex all wrapped up
From the National Post (June 8, 2002)

A few blocks north of Eglinton Avenue East and Don Mills Road, on a quiet, tree-filled Greenbelt Street, in the main hallway of the Janssen-Ortho Pharmaceutical Company, lurks the largest retrospective on contraception in the world.

The dozen or so cabinets that line both sides of the placid alcove contain a mix of historical curiosities, contemporary contraptions and a stunning amount of quackery. In total, more than 650 items form the History of Contraception Museum, including 350 different shapes of intrauterine devices (most of which, luckily, never got to market).

Methods of limiting family size date back 5,000 years, with mentions in the Bible (Onan the seed spiller), the Talmud and the ancient Egyptians (the Ebers Papyrus, of 1550 B.C., goes so far as to provide a recipe involving acacia, wool, honey and dates).

Given the rise of condom culture in the last 20 years, it's surprising to learn that it was a criminal offence in Canada to advertise any method of preventing conception until August, 1969. Before that, birth control products could be "sold only for the prevention of contagious disease."

Canadian contraception ads debuted in a Chatelaine advertisement in June, 1969. The man who placed the illegal ad was Percy Skuy, the curator of the Museum of Contraception. At the time, Skuy was the director of marketing for Ortho Pharmaceutical. He risked a two-year jail term, but his challenge provoked no legal reaction and two months later the legislation changed.

Skuy started working at Ortho Pharmaceutical in 1961 and became president in 1973. The collection began when he was asked to give a speech on the history of contraception at a 1966 conference in Hamilton. Deciding to liven up his talk with slides of past products, Skuy quickly realized how difficult they were to locate. The collecting bug bit him, and he has spent the rest of his life searching and curating.

Now 70, Skuy's unadulterated enthusiasm for intracervical devices and douche cans is in parts infectious and surreal. He kindly provides me a guided tour both frank and graphic -- hearing a grandfather talk about how "smooth pebbles were inserted into the uterus of a female camel to prevent pregnancy during long desert trips" takes some mental recalibration. But often, the objects speak for themselves.

Most are one-of-a-kind, such as the Cerviscope, an innovative attempt at improving the rhythm method that was ultimately a scientific and commercial failure.

The most memorable items veer closer to witchcraft than science. There is crocodile dung and elephant dung on display, along with amulets made from mule earwax or the bone from the right side of a pure black cat. The Canadian contribution to such folk remedies is dried beaver testicle. New Brunswick women would boil it in alcohol and then drink the resultant cocktail.

No detail is too small or too grotesque.

"Everything that's here is authentic," notes Skuy, proudly. "If I say to you, 'That's crocodile dung', it really is. I got it from the Toronto Zoo."

The anecdotes involving the location and capture of certain items are often as interesting, if not more so, than the thing itself. A cervical plug was donated by a Toronto gentleman who found it tucked inside a little black box that came with a set of dueling pistols he inherited from his uncle.

The conversation piece in a room full of conversation starters is a block pessary, circa the 1930s. The six-sided device, made of wood, worked on the hope/principle it would block the cervix. Contemporary literature describes it as an instrument of torture.

Skuy isn't shy about displaying the noble failures that demonstrate the height (and depth) of the human imagination, best illustrated by Australian teenaged boys who, back in 1991, were discovered using candy wrappers as condoms.

Ever the stickler, Skuy wrote to an Australian doctor to learn the chocolate bar brands used (Crunchie and Violet Crumble, for the record).

Skuy admires the creativity behind such acts, going so far as to display a small amount of Saran Wrap in the prophylactic cabinet. The wrap shares space with packaging from around the world, including a German box that advertises itself as an "anti-baby condom" with stereotypical Teutonic forthrightness.

The museum, which receives about 400 visitors a year, is free to view during business hours, but an appointment is necessary. Since Skuy retired in 1995, he normally isn't around to provide a tour, but a three-minute video kiosk and a free, full-colour pamphlet do an excellent job of setting the tone and mood of the collection.

There are no free samples, but those who want a keepsake of their trip will be pleased to learn that, in 1997, Skuy authored Tales of Contraception.

His passion for collecting continues unabated.

"If people have any interesting anecdotes, we're constantly on the search and we welcome hearing from them."

To book an appointment at the museum, call 416-382-5980.

Puns Wisely Removed From This Article by My Editor:

unadulterated enthusiasm

Amassing this fortress of impregnability required no small effort.

No detail is too small or too grotesque to overlook in this child-unfriendly exhibit.

My Suggested Ending

As for the inevitable question? The answer is yes.

Percy Skuy has two children.