One of the least understood phenomenon's in the erotic life of a woman is the "mothering" instinct. This desire to act out the maternal role with a wide variety of young males is often accompanied by an extreme sexual longing for the object.
In other words, the woman who assumes the mothering role, seduces her "son."
Because American society, to a large extent, accentuates "mother-role" playing among women, this phenomenon of "seducing the son" is becoming widespread. An enormous number of sophisticated women are seeking sexual release among young men who, according to their chronological age, can only be considered children.
In order to lay bare the most important elements of this epidemic, I have included in this book those case histories which I feel would best illustrate the morphology of the situation.
The women in these case histories speak for themselves, frankly and often passionately. They have been caught in a vise of perverse passion which threatens to engulf them in the sudden arousal of their unconscious.
I have taken the liberty of disguising the names of the women since many of them hold responsible positions that could be endangered by these disclosures. At the end of each case history, I will attempt to analyze the case according to classic psychoanalytic principles, when necessary, and also use the insights and experimental findings from other schools of psychology.
Like many "complexes" the "mothering" instinct is remarkably tenacious. It can embrace almost every form of sexual act and the disposition toward a certain act, such as sadism or masochism.
To make matters even more interesting, this instinct is, in itself, an offshoot of the classical Oediups Complex. The woman who possesses the instinct has used it in and as a way to solve extremely unpleasant and unfulfilled sexual longings for the natural father.
In this book, the reader will see how the victim (although she wouldn't call herself that for it would seem to lessen her free will) becomes almost addicted to her passion; how the victim will exchange with the young boy, a whole network of gifts and sentiments that binds them together in almost a primitive rite-the act of giving the gifts assuming an almost magical quality.
One of the strangest aspects of this instinct and its relatives-is the savagery of the sexual play once it is initiated and then accepted by the boy.
Many of the women in this book had perfectly normal and often mundane sexual lives prior to their seduction of the young boy. Usually, these sexual habits continue from lover to lover, but in the case of these women-a veritable explosion took place. Sexual practices that would have been unthinkable to them, suddenly became the norm.
Of course, we must remember that the young boy is the most erotically motivated of the specie. His new emergence from the adolescent state leaves him a network of vague and unfilled sexual desires. His sleeping mind is filled with the wildest erotic fantasies and the warm attention of an elder woman can bring these fantasies to reality-at a great psychic cost, however, to both of the parties involved and perhaps to their other relationships in the future after the present partner is outgrown.
I hope these case histories will open up new areas for research in this important, but little-studied area.
CHAPTER ONE
(Name: Anna B) Age: Twenty-Nine. Place of Birth: New York City. Occupation: Fashion Consultant.)
It was Winter; a dark, cold, unyielding blanket stretched over the city. In Winter I become morose and moody. My job, my life-everything-seems to be of no importance. I slide from day to day, not caring about anything.
That particular winter, my lover was Vincent. He was a lawyer, in his early forties, distinguished, sophisticated, and desperately in love with me. He had just divorced his wife, who was a cow of a woman, and the sudden erotic fact of my body had almost deranged him.
We would spend whole days in bed, experimenting with the most bizarre forms of sexuality. He was insatiable. He could stay there for months, he said, and I believed him.
But even Vincent could not end the moroseness of the seasons. Then, one night, it all came to a head. We had gone to a movie, ate a late dinner and returned to the apartment. I undressed slowly, sipping champagne as I did so. Vincent sat on a chair watching me remove each garment, his eyes burning wildly.
"The more time I spend with you, the more beautiful you become," he said.
I didn't answer. Instead, I moved close to him and rubbed my naked breast against his face. He took my nipple into his mouth and began to suck on it until I closed my eyes and moaned.
He took the champagne glass out of my hand and poured the contents into his cupped palm. Then he slowly massaged the drink into my crotch, letting the delightful liquid bruise my vaginal lips.
"Is it good? Do you like this?"
I nodded and spread my legs wider. He took the nipple into his mouth again and bit down softly with his teeth until the pain from his mouth and the pleasure from his hand between my legs almost made me fall to the ground.
He picked me up and carried me to the bed. At the moment I had no inkling of what would happen only five minutes later. I had needed Vincent to survive the winter and I had no premonition about certain strange occurrences which were boiling in my subconscious.
Once on the bed, he stepped back and admired my body. I could see his glistening mouth, wet with future desire.
He began to undress. His hands became ritualized, as if showing me that the disclosure of his body was a religious undertaking.
When he was naked, he lifted his palms to me as if to say that his body was completely mine. At that moment, at that moment, at that precise moment, I felt a sudden flash of revulsion. It lasted only a second-so brief that my mind didn't even have time to register it. I spread my legs and a second later his face was buried in my crotch. His lips were searing my wet, sweet nest with all the saliva he could muster.
I felt my buttocks being pushed further into the bed and I raised my back, opening the vaginal lips to him. He thrust the tongue in and I closed my eyes with joy.
Back and forth the snake went-back and forth-deeper and deeper-turning my insides into a cauldron.
Then it was out and he was standing on the bed over me, his maleness quivering and erect.
At that moment, at that precise moment, I felt a wave of revulsion so strong that I had to look away. I closed my legs. He was infuriated. He kneeled and spread my legs apart. I could feel the giant member, the muscles and veins like railroad tracks over the taut flesh. He rammed it into me.
I screamed and grabbed hold of the side of the bed. He rammed it deeper. I tried to squirm away, to get that thing out of my body. The fiery tip split me apart.
"No, no more," I screamed.
He cursed me and began to grind it into me, an inch at a time, starting that terrible rhythm of love which forced my body to rise and fall.
My fingers went for his eyes, trying to claw them out, trying to inflict all the pain I could upon him. But nothing I could do would stop him. The shaft was berserk with its own power and the juices of my vagina.
I was impaled; there was no escape. I shut my eyes and let the shaft overwhelm me. I felt a nausea and a sickness through my whole body. Then I sensed the end, the blessed end-and the hot seed poured into my body in a series of convulsive thrusts.
It was all over. We both lay quiet.
"What's the matter?" Vincent asked.
"Get out."
"What's the matter? What happened? Why do you ask me to leave?"
"Get out," I repeated my voice low but potent.
He could see that I had reached the end with him. He tried to keep some of his dignity. Dressing quickly, he didn't even look at me as he walked out the door.
Four days after that I was sunk in a terrible depression. Every time I thought of Vincent, I thought of that muscular shaft-that weapon which seemed to terrify me.
I kept saying to myself that I had to analyze my fears, that I had to respond to those fears like an intelligent, sophisticated woman-but all my reasoning was helpless before the fact of my terror. For the terror was real-as rear as life-and even the sight of an object that resembled a phallus would send me into convulsions of fear.
So it went for weeks, an existence that was cramped and tortured.
And then I met the child, Jason. One afternoon I left my apartment to do some shopping. On entering the elevator, I found a boy about fifteen leaning against the rail. He was dressed in bright colors and his face was wreathed in smiles. He was whistling. For some reason, his obvious happiness disturbed me. I couldn't stand the sight of all that innocent joy.
"What are you so happy about?" I asked, savagely.
"I don't know," he answered, grinning even more broadly.
I turned away from him. About two seconds later he started to whistle again. I shut my ears and mind until the elevator reached the main floor and then rushed out of the house.
During the next week I saw the same boy a few more times-always happy-always whistling. I grew to tolerate it.
Then, ten days after I had laid eyes on him for the first time, I had a dream-or perhaps it was a nightmare.
In the dream I was dressed in a surgeon's outfit and led into a large, brightly lit room. There was a body on the table covered with a sheet. I heard a voice say to me that the child was dead. I pulled the sheet back and saw Jason lying cold as death.
The voice said that only I could save him-that the only thing that could bring him back to life was a song of happiness.
"But I have nothing to play on," I protested.
"There is a whistle between his legs," the voice said.
So I spread the innocent thighs and found the phallus and pressed my lips to it. It was so sweet, so incredibly sweet, that I awoke in a moment.
It was this dream which opened me to the boy. The next time I met him in the elevator I smiled and asked him what song he was whistling.
"I don't know," he said, "I heard it on the radio and I have always remembered it."
As the elevator streaked downward, my eyes drunk up his form. His body was supple and even the clothing could not hide the beauty. I knew then why the great civilizations such as the Greeks were ready to enthrone the young boy as the image of the gods.
And I began to plot to see him, to try to catch him in the elevator or on the street-just to catch a glimpse of him.
My passion for Jason grew like a cancer. It seemed to have no limit or ceiling. One night, as I was lying in bed, I grew so desirous of him that I thrust my hands between my legs and found myself wet and hot. I began to stroke the crotch, thinking of him. The moment his vision was conjured up before me, I slipped a finger into the burning slit and began to twist it, to bring me pleasure, to bring me the joy that his face was evoking. In and out, deeper and deeper with each thrust, until I was weeping with the joy of self-penetration.
As the orgasm exploded in me and left me a shaking woman on the soiled sheets-I vowed to myself that I had to have him, at all costs, even if only for a moment.
The next day I went to the department store and purchased a record player and some records that I thought he would like.
That afternoon I saw him in the elevator.
"I bought some records and I want you to hear them."
"But I can't now."
"You must. They are special. They are records that you will never forget. They are records that will stay with you long after the few minutes you spend with me."
He pursed his lips and thought-trying to reach a decision. I silently prayed that he would accept; he had to accept.
A moment later we were both in my apartment. I was shaking so hard that I dug my nails into my sides. We put the machine on and listened to some records. He seemed genuinely happy beating time to the music with his hands and feet.
"I have to go," he said, suddenly.
"Wait-let me make you something delicious."
I heated some buns and covered them with butter and jam. Bringing it to him with a large glass of milk, I watched him eat.
My eyes sought out every curve of his virgin neck, every shadow that creased his face. I had to touch him, I had to feel his flesh. He finished the buns and wiped his lips. I almost wept as I saw his hand touch his mouth-how I wanted to do the same!
He stood up to leave. I reached out and took his hand.
"Wait, don't go yet."
For the first time I saw the look of fear in his eyes. I was wearing a dress that buttoned down the front and in an instant I had released the buttons. I pulled his hand inside so that it was resting between my warm, fertile breasts. His face grew white; the blood seemed to pour out.
"There is nothing to be afraid of-nothing at all."
The hand lay rigid there for the longest time but eventually it began to move. He began to explore the breast, his fingers moving lightly from one to the other, feeling the softness and roundness and beauty of the white mound.
Then he touched my nipple and I almost cried with joy.
"Yes, yes, they're yours."
He began to grab, to twist, to turn-the flesh responding to his greedy little fingers. I lay down on the floor of the room and opened my dress wide.
"Suck them," I begged.
He kneeled down on the floor beside me and I could see the pink roof of his mouth as it opened. He began to kiss the nipples, to chew them and tongue them. He turned into a little animal, using my breasts as the weapon to free himself from the repressive chains of adolescence.
My points became erect-they quivered and danced in his mouth.
"Oh suck, suck," I moaned and he became more hysterical. I was in absolute ecstasy-I was giving myself up to his youth.
Suddenly he broke away from me and ran to the end of the room. His face had a crazed look on it and he was trembling.
"My body is your home-come back to it," I whispered, holding my breasts up toward him.
He couldn't answer. He was standing there gasping for breath.
"Come back."
He shook his head and I could see tears moving down his eyes. The sight of him like that almost destroyed me.
I began to crawl toward him. My mouth was burning with a sort of fever. My lips were like twin prongs, white hot and then red hot with passion. I remembered the dream and I visualized what would be between his legs, hidden by that obscene clothing.
"Jason, Jason," I called to him, my tongue oscillating in my mouth.
Finally I reached the trembling child. When I placed my hand on his he shivered so violently that I was afraid for him-terribly afraid.
"There is nothing to fear. This is love. This is love."
My hands undid his pants and slid the horrid material off his god-like body. He was naked from the waist down.
At first I couldn't even look at him, the anticipation was too great. But then, overwhelmed by my need, I gazed at the sweet maleness between his legs, nestled in the soft, dark patch of his crotch.
I cupped my palms and held his globes. He shut his eyes and began to moan. They were small and perfect and incredibly soft. I squeezed them with great love and tenderness.
Then I bent over and kissed each globe, letting my lips coat them with saliva. I took them into my mouth and sucked them and played with them as a dog plays with a bone.
My hands were behind him, pinching that sweet ass, feeling the juices begin to run though his body.
The shaft was near my face. It was no longer the sickly, childish penis-it was a growing, pulsing weapon-the tip arcing, out towards me-the tip aching for the sweetness of my lips.
I let the globes slide out of my mouth. I was trembling all over, my body wet with perspiration. I kissed every inch of the shaft, my fingers digging into his buttocks to keep him steady. I kissed it again and it grew with each touch. He was moaning and weeping but it was too late for that.
I kissed the tip-tasting the grandeur of his nascent male juices.
Then, mouth open wide, I let his penis slide in. My lips and teeth bruised it as it slid deep. The virgin splendor of its shape almost made me lose consciousness.
"Don't," he cried once.
It was too late to stop. It had been too late from the first moment he entered my apartment. I began to suck on it, to make long, shuddering draws of his flesh as if I was smoking a priceless cigarette. The poor child had never experienced such passion and he began to flail his arms and moan as if I were tearing him apart.
His maleness was my destiny. I swallowed it as if only that could bring me life. I tortured it and tortured myself and expended all the love I possessed on that piece of manly flesh.
Then, almost without warning, I felt the shudder of his body and a second later his juice flooded my mouth. I drank it up greedily, sucking every last bit from the exploding shaft.
All was quiet. He lay in my arms, weeping, occasionally peering up at me as if I were a mother and a demon all rolled into one.
"Will you come back again?" I asked him.
He struggled to get up and put his pants on.
"You must come back."
He ran out the door and down the hall. I stood up, buttoned my blouse, and closed the door after him.
For three days after that it was obvious he was hiding from me. He stayed away from the elevator; from anywhere he thought I would appear. I knew this would happen and I understood it. The child had undergone the most tempestuous erotic experiences of his life and he had to rest, like a wounded animal.
As for me, they were days of ecstasy. I was happier than I had ever been in my life. The child's penis had brought me more pleasure than I had ever experienced, and even more than that, had brought me a sense of peace of mind that is priceless.
On the fourth day I began hunting for Jason again-for by the fourth day my memories had been used up and I needed the flesh again.
I found him in a library about eight blocks from the house. He was sitting off to one side with an open book on his lap, although it was obvious he wasn't reading. His face was wreathed in frowns.
"I want you to come back with me," I said, sitting down quickly beside him.
"No."
"Was it ugly? Did it make you unhappy?"
He couldn't answer. The librarian looked at us as if we were about to disturb the peace. I slipped my hand between his legs. He flinched and then all his defenses seemed to crumble.
"Come back for a while."
After I said those words I stood up and walked out, praying that he would follow me. He did-and we walked back together-silently.
Once entering the apartment this time, there was no need for preliminaries. My hands were upon him, stripping the clothes from his body. I was like a bird of prey who had suddenly swooped down on some innocent and unsuspecting lamb. And Jason was a lamb, only instead of virgin wool, his body was naked in its glory.
My tongue was on his stomach, his face, his neck. I wanted to cover every inch of that magnificent body. I swept my tongue into his navel, into his mouth, under his arms, into and over every part of his flesh. I was a wild woman, my long hair streaming behind me-my arms flailing as I positioned the child for the tongue.
But one part was untouched and that waited for something else. I stepped back; his erection was a vibrant, stiff weapon.
His eyes were open and this time they were begging for my mouth. His hands were half-raised in the air.
My bottom lip began to tremble. I slid my hand down my thighs and rubbed my crotch. The nest was hot and wet. My fingers played with the vaginal lips.
"Jason," I murmured.
His hand turned into a claw, seeking my flesh. I moved close to him again and the claw raked my crotch.
He raised his head to kiss me there and I felt the tender mouth as it grazed my nest. He started to suck but I eased him down lightly.
Then it was time. I forgot the gentleness of my love. I became an animal. My teeth sunk into his child-like globes. He screamed; they sunk deeper, cutting through the scrotum until he was weeping.
My nails raked his naked body and something in his collective unconscious sent his body moving. He was looking for my mouth. Hovering above him, I opened the lips wide and let my tongue graze against the roof of his mouth.
The child rammed it in. He lurched his body so that he drove deep. I closed my lips around the pulsing organ and allowed myself to be raped. He drove it in and out-burning the saliva from my mouth. This was what I wanted-that was what I had always wanted. The cock was my salvation. It sent his innocence into my mouth. It cauterized the roof of my throat with its fiery tip. Moans came from my body, from somewhere deep inside. I lay on my back and let the child go berserk-his body convulsing with lust and rage as he gathered all his strength for those thrusts.
I sucked on the shaft as it went in and out. The taste was indescribably sweet. My lips could feel every muscle and vein.
His body tensed and then he screamed. I felt his organ lurch and then my mouth filled with the warm seed. I wanted every drop; I sucked every drop from him. Then, when he lay back, I caressed his body with his own seed, rubbing it into his ears, mouth and nose with my tongue.
Jason was captured. He was to remain my prey for almost a year until he felt that he had outgrown me. I bid him goodbye without malice for he had brought me great joy. But he had done more than that, for Jason was the bridge between my past erotic life and my new one. He gave me the confidence to bring my love to children-secure in the fact that if I were gentle and if I were good, they would respond.
I will stay with the young boys for they have the innocence and the child's wisdom that makes life worth living. When I think of sleeping with an older man, my mind and body become suffused with cynicism and I know it is no longer possible. I am an emancipated woman.
* * *
In one of Freud's most basic works, BEYOND THE PLEASURE PRINCIPLE (Bantam Books, 1959, New York) he writes:
"It is clear that in their play children repeat everything that has made a great impression on them in real life, and that in doing so they abreact the strength of the impression and, as one might put it, make themselves master of the situation. But on the other hand it is obvious that all their play is influenced by a wish that dominates them the whole time-the wish to be grownup and to do what grown-up people do." (p. 36)
We must remember this passage when we deal with the two most important facts in her case. The first is her sudden revulsion for the phallus of her mature lover. The second is the strange dream she had where the penis of the child is described as a whistle.
The first fact can only mean one thing; Anna became unconsciously convinced that the penis of her lover was really the penis of her father. This is a classic syndrome in unresolved Oedipal situations.
The second fact is more complex. It must have something to do with her regression into childhood (the 'play' that Freud speaks about) and also the need to mother the young boy Jason. In a strange sense, she is actually beginning to mother herself and the whistle is both the child's penis and her own clitoris.
During the seduction, itself, we can see the elements of play even more clearly. She uses the boy's penis as a chess player would use a chess piece.
At the end of her testimony she states that she can never go back to mature lovers. This, of course, has no basis in psychological fact-it is merely a justification of her own actions.
There is no doubt that with competent psychiatric care, Anna's problems will be resolved. But, until she experiences a "bad" erotic episode with a young boy, she will not accept such help. In such cases, reason is futile and will only elicit even stronger defenses of her position.
CHAPTER TWO
(Name: Sylvia L. Age: Thirty-four. Place of Birth: Chicago. Occupation: College Professor.)
Few people realize the dreariness in the life of a college professor; the incredible boredom of teaching the same subject year after year. I lived for the winter, spring and summer vacations-those blessed intervals where I could travel and think, free from the pressures of the academic life.
Four years ago, the rhythm of my life was dramatically changed and in place of the boredom and despair-a new quality was substituted.
It began with a simple present from a colleague. I received a Mexican letter opener, carved from bone. There was, however, a special feature of this object. The top of the letter opener was carved to resemble the head of a young falcon. It was a magnificent piece of work and I would stare at it for hours, as if mesmerized by the subtlety conjured up by some simple Mexican peasant who had no notion of the intricacy of art.
The letter opener was in my possession for about three weeks when my relationship to that inanimate object took a bizarre turn. It had been a specially trying day on the campus and I felt that I needed a drink when I got home. Sitting in my favorite chair, I sipped some brandy after kicking off my shoes. I felt incredibly weary, almost, I imagine, as a housewife feels after a hard day. Although I had no desire to marry and assume the usual mantle of the woman, the notion of the housewife often came to mind. Perhaps because I hate it so much. The brandy burned in my throat and made me all warm inside. I had another glass and another until I was pleasantly stewed.
The letter opener was on the small table next to me. I picked it up and held it in my hand, running my thumb along its form. When I reached the falcon head, I shuddered, as if there was something alive in that artistry.
Suddenly, my whole body felt cramped, imprisoned, almost as if it had coiled into a wretched ball. I placed my drink on the table and held the letter opener up to the dim light. The bone glinted and gleamed.
Without thinking, I pulled up my dress and slipped my hand into the elastic band of my panties until I reached my crotch. My hand rested there-in the jungle of hair-quiet and alone.
With my other hand, I turned the object, and as I turned it to catch new and more daring beams of light-I very slowly began to rub myself-to feel the juices rise between the thighs.
Back and forth, back and forth with the palm of my hand until my eyes shut and moans came from somewhere deep inside of me.
When I realized what was happening, I tried desperately to stop myself. But it was too late. Slowly, inexorably, the letter opener moved downward until the falcon's head was pressed against my vaginal lips. A tiny bit more and the lips were spread and the bone was circling my wetness, sending convulsions of lust racing up and down my body. Then I stopped fighting and gave myself to it.
I rammed the end of the opener deep and I moaned with joy. I held it with both hands and began to pump, squirming in the chair so that my whole body rose to meet the falcon head.
It was so good. It was so beautiful. I forgot everything except my wet, hot passion and the carved penis that was bringing me joy. Faster and faster, deeper and deeper, until the room seemed to be spinning.
Then my body tensed and the vaginal walls constricted around the falcon's head. A second later my body was suffused with orgasm and I lay on the chair, totally exhausted.
The letter opener was covered with the juices of my body. I dipped it into the half-filled glass of brandy and stirred it. Then I drank the brandy and sunk into a deep sleep.
In the days following that event I began to hallucinate, to suddenly conjure up visions of a particular phallus. It was as if something in my unconscious had broken through and given me the details of a desire which I had never thought of before.
These visions consisted of a young, brown penis. Sometimes the penis was quite and sometimes it came to my mind erect and quivering. It would happen in the middle of teaching a lesson and I would have to excuse myself and walk out of the room. There, I would stand against the wall, every fibre trembling.
I limped through the term, crippled by those visions. At home, in the evening, I tried to keep away from the letter opener and what it represented. I tried to suppress the terrible need I felt to love my own body, to let my fingers pry open the trembling nest and sink the hard, good bone of the object into the flesh.
Then the term was over and I was faced with two months of freedom. After much thought, I decided on Mexico. Perhaps it was the fact that the letter opener was from Mexico or perhaps it was because of my visions, in which the phallus was always of a young brown boy--but whatever the reason-a week later I was headed south.
After spending a day or so in Mexico City, I left for the countryside, choosing the rugged and beautiful west coast of Mexico.
I traveled alone, hoping that among the simple people of that area I would experience an intellectual and emotional revival. I was sick from too much teaching and too much civilization.
Then, one night, I found myself alone about five miles from a certain village. There was an inn in the village which I was planning to utilize but I felt that there was no hurry.
The sun had already set but there were still a few rays of light dancing against the horizon. I came to a small, free-flowing brook. It had been a hot day and I was totally exhausted. Stripping my clothes off, I waded into the inviting water. About fifteen minutes later I came out and stood naked on the bank, waiting for the heat of the night to dry me.
There was a pale, beautiful moon. I felt as if I had stepped into an unreal world, where time stood still.
Suddenly, I heard a movement in the brush off to one side. I turned and saw a young Mexican boy stepping into the clearing.
He seemed as startled by me as I was by him.
"Good evening," he said in Spanish, politely.
"Good evening."
"I have come from the village," he said.
"And I go to the village shortly," I replied.
For some reason I took a step toward him and the boy became more frightened, like a young deer. I took another step and another, until I was not more than a foot away.
"It's beautiful here," I said.
He stared up at the moon for a moment, then at the fast flowing stream, and finally at my body.
"Yes, it is beautiful."
There was an eloquence, a simplicity, a classical quality about his voice and figure that no sophisticated American could ever duplicate.
"Are you afraid of me?"
"No."
"Do you like me?"
"I don't know you."
I laughed when I heard that response for I didn't even know myself.
Suddenly, I felt the need for him. I felt that my body would fall into a thousand burning pieces unless I could know him, in the sexual sense. I moved closer and closer until I could feel his breath on my body. I was taller than he and so my breasts brushed against his lips. He parted them slightly, more in fear than in desire and with one savage thrust, I rammed the nipple into his mouth and pushed the white mound of flesh so deep that he began to gag.
I didn't know what I was doing. I had to push it even further in-I had to feel his virgin mouth around my tortured point.
He was caught. He began to suck on the nipple as if I were the ancient mother who had come back to redeem his people. I was familiar with the legends of the Mexican peasant and I knew that a fair-haired, blue-eyed stranger played a great role in their folklore.
"More, more," I whispered to him and for the first time I heard the moan of desire escaping from his child-like body.
My naked breast twisted in his mouth until the saliva poured over it and the wetter it became, the easier it was for me to manipulate it in his mouth. I was waiting for the joy of his teeth. The moonlight seemed to burn into my naked back and say that all was well.
Then his white, pure teeth clamped down and I felt the sudden thrill of pain. My nipple fairly screamed as the blood trickled down the white pulsing breast and drowned the point.
"Yes," I screamed, "yes."
He spat the breast out and he stood there, choking from my blood.
"Here, here is your god," I said to the child, pointing between my legs.
"Kneel," I commanded him.
He stood looking at me dumbly, refusing to accept my commands.
"Kneel," I said again-only this time there was the plea of a tortured woman in my words.
He was on his knees and I spread my trembling thighs so he could kiss the nest.
I closed my eyes and waited. It seemed an eternity, a million years of agony before I felt his sweet lips begin to burrow in my crotch. I closed my legs slightly and he was caught; the nest filling his joyous face. He was mumbling something and I squeezed tighter. When would he spread the lips? When would he dare to probe for the hidden juices?
The child moved his face and the vaginal lips spread for him as if they were no longer part of my body-but a separate entity that had developed an erotic life of its own.
"Now, now," I whispered, my yearning so strong that my muscles of the thigh and arms seemed to be corroding.
The tongue of innocence moved out of his mouth through the nest-it cleaved into my vagina-its pinkness like a sword, curling as it entered, going deep and true like some primeval snake.
"Yes, yes," I said, the tears falling down my face as the tongue impaled me. The child had his fingers on my buttocks and he was spreading my cheeks apart in his joy.
He slipped it deeper, the tongue spreading the hidden vaginal pools, those delicate assemblages of erotic liquids which lay dormant until a male force was ready to pierce them.
I began to push my body into his face, wanting more and more action from the tongue.
Then, suddenly, with a cry of rage and fear, he pushed me away from him and ran into the bush. I stood there in astonishment, unable to believe what had happened, my body poised on the edge of a glorious explosion-but cheated at the last moment.
Almost insane with desire, I ran back into the fast-flowing stream and pulled a root from the side of the bank. Ramming it into myself, I let the water join with my body juices and then floated on my back while the orgasm overwhelmed me.
Afterwards I dressed and walked into the village where I registered at the inn. It was small and clean and my room had a lovely patio.
Lying on the bed, trying to recover from the episode, I suddenly remembered all the visions I had of a brown, child-like phallus which would bring me more joy than anything I had ever experienced. I sat up in bed. That child had been the culmination of my vision. He had been sent to me by some strange source. He had been the object of my unconscious.
I used some very unlady-like words and then buried my head in the pillow. For, in spite of all that had happened, his penis had eluded me. I had never even seen that brown splendor which lay so demurely wrapped in his clothes.
That night was a sleepless one; I kept ruing my lost chance but I vowed to find him the next day. That next day turned out to be blazing hot-the sun hung in the sky like a medieval torture instrument. I ate lightly and began to ask about the town for the boy. Even though I described him minutely, no one seemed to know who he was or where he lived. After a while I began to think that I might have dreamed the whole matter, that the incident by the brook might have been a product of diseased imagination. When all chance of finding him in the village seemed futile, I began to walk slowly toward the brook, hoping that I would stumble on him. Reaching the sight of the brook, I stood where the beautiful acts had taken place and caressed my own body.
Remembering everything, I realized that I had to find him, that I would sacrifice everything-my health, my career, and even life itself, to catch one glimpse of that brown penis-the object that had become part of my waking life.
I started walking through the brush, in the direction from whence he had appeared. The going was rough and the bushes tore at my clothing and flesh and the sun seemed determined to suck the last bit of juice from me.
From time to time I would stop and try to rest but stopping was just as bad for it seemed to give the sun a chance to focus. My mouth was parched from lack of water and every limb ached. Finally, I reached a clearing and in the rear of the cleared land I saw a small hut. There was an old man sitting in front and he just stared at me as I stumbled toward him.
"Where are you from?" he asked.
I mumbled something and pointed back to the brush.
"I am thirsty."
He nodded his head toward a small well and I ran to it, drinking up the brackish water as if it were the purest champagne.
The old man stood up and grasped a farm implement which seemed to be a form of hoe.
"You may stay here and rest," he said, simply, and then he moved off into the brush.
I walked inside the hut. There was a mat covering some straw and I lay down. I must have fallen asleep instantly for the next thing I remember was a sound at the entrance to the hut. I thought it was the old man returning from his chores and I sat up to greet him.
It was not the old man, it was the young boy. He stood rigid when he saw me.
There was no time to lose in silly foreplay. I called him immediately to the bed and parted his white clothes until that golden brown organ peeked from the fabric.
"What are you doing?"
"Be quiet."
"I am afraid."
I ignored his statement. I held it in my hand and kissed it. The brown gold of his flesh made my lips sing with joy. He began to back off and I grasped its soft shape with both hands. It was beginning to grow, to flex, to discover its manhood. I felt that I had reached the end of a bottomless pit and was on my way to a dazzling light that would totally create a new life for me.
With a sudden wrench he released himself and slowly backed up. I stood off from my bed and dropped my clothes to the floor. I began to present my body to him from a distance as he backed away-fondling my own breasts-stroking the nipples with my own fingers until they were pointed and quivering-rubbing my crotch so that he could see the vaginal lips as they unfolded.
But still he backed off-still his world was too limited for him to see the great gift that I was presenting him. Now, I began to stalk, following him as if he were some exotic animal who had to be stroked and steadied. He reached the far wall and could go no further. The penis was erect-it stood out from his white garments like some beautiful plant.
My hands moved up and down my body, yearning to show him the great love I bore. He shut his eyes and held up his hands as if such a futile gesture would stop me. He was barefoot and I kneeled in front of him and lifted his foot in the age-old gesture of submission.
"Don't-stand," he said.
I wrapped my lips around his toe and sucked as if it was a surrogate penis. My body was aching for that brown shaft, every fibre of my being was waiting for the penetration.
I stood up. My body was totally open to him but he just stood there, unable or unwilling to move. I kissed him, my tongue going deep inside his mouth and tasting the naturalness which lay there. I sucked on his mouth, forcing his lips to purse.
He would not take me. Each second that passed in front of that pulsing shaft was a second in hell. I had to have it; I had to be impaled by it, I had to feel it cleave in to my shivering, waiting body.
Still, he would not move. I rammed my finger into my sex. It was hot and wet and full of love for the child.
I had to have him now. I gathered my strength and flung myself at him, crushing him to the wall of the hut. He cried out once and then as his shaft plunged deep into the vaginal flesh-his cries turned to moans. The walls of my love wrapped around his young manhood and sucked it into the core of my body. I began to drive my body into his, pumping and weeping and flailing with my arms. Yes-it drove deep-the fiery tip of youth scorched the waiting flower.
I could feel it grow. I could feel every vein and muscle as it struggled against engulfment by the nest. I could feel the strain of his body as my mature frame pushed him against the wall.
This was what I had waited for; this was the joy of penetration. My whole body was trembling. I pushed harder and harder until the tip was a tongue of flame in the hot juices of my body.
I began to grind my buttocks, to slowly crush him into the wall. His frail body was a wisp to be demolished, to lose itself in the fury of my flesh.
And then his shaft tightened and filled the love core. A second later I heard him cry out and then the seed of his passion poured into me. My flower sucked it up, reveling in the hot seed. I stepped back and the child fell to the ground.
I sat on him so that my nest was over his lips and forced the tongue out. One brief entry, one brief flick of that serpent and I exploded into orgasm, falling over his prostrate body. There was silence and then I crawled to the mat on the other end of the room. I feel asleep, instantly, to be woken from time to time by the memories of the penis. It took all kinds of shapes in my mind-vulgar shapes, beautiful shapes, poisonous shapes-until I fell into the deep, dark sleep of satisfaction.
Hours later I awoke. He was lying where he had fallen. I crawled over to him, my body feeling hot and exhausted.
I licked his maleness, extracting the dry seed which wreathed it like a bouquet.
"Why have you chosen me?" He asked, weakly.
The passion was slowly building again and I laughed at his question.
"Let's just say it has something to do with crazy Americans."
I played with his globes, letting them rest on my lips and then roll off. It was a moment I shall never forget because it brought me close to the center of our strange relationship.
"I must go," he said.
"Why?"
"To work."
"You are too young to work," I said.
He started to rise but I held fast to his garments.
"Please, I must go."
There was only one answer I could give him; the weight of my body full on his-until that brown glory once again began to unfold and cut through my body with a force that set the rhythm of love into action.
This time there was nothing to hold me back, no action that I would not do in order to satisfy myself, no thought that I would keep from my head on a moral pretense.
We rolled about the room, joined, and then, as I was wedged against a table, he asserted his manhood-climbing on me and driving the seed into my vagina with a series of fiery thrusts. I lay on my back and exulted-the brown flesh was mine. Everything seemed clear.
* * *
This case is an extremely difficult one to analyze because of the lack of information we have concerning her early childhood and her erotic relationships prior to the hallucinations about the brown penis.
Our most important clinical help will come from the famous German-Swiss existential psychologist-Ludwig Binswanger-who, in his THE CASE OF LOLA VOSS (Selected Papers of Ludwig Binswanger, Basic Books, New York, 1963)-wrote:
"We described Lola as a 'burned-out' crater, that is, as a person in whom almost all freely flowing, immediate feelings were extinguished. Instead, the existence was dominated, even consumed by anxiety. But this anxiety (as I have emphasized repeatedly) is basically not feeling or affect, but an expression of existential anxiety, that is, of the draining of the existence, and of its progressive loss of World. Of course, loss of world is accompanied by loss of self. Where the existence is no longer in a position to design the world freely, it also suffers the loss of the self." (p. 337)
This is, admittedly, a difficult passage but the "loss of self" which he speaks of is crucially important to this case.
The reader will recall that when Sylvia finally achieves the concrete desire of her hitherto-fore hallucinatory dreams, she speaks of a falling into a deep pit and then coming out as a completely new person.
This type of language is, of course, the typical language of certain psychotic states which stem from this "loss of self."
The penis (in this case a young brown penis) which she so pathologically desires is the ladder or the safety rope that can bring her back into the world and bring her close to her own self. This is the escape from the bottomless pit. Her fixation on a child's penis is closely tied to the despair which she admits to at the beginning of her narrative. Everything about her life disgusted her. Usually, this type of despair and disgust is closely tied to a pathological relationship between a girl and her mother in early childhood. Such a relationship is strongly lesbian. Thus, when Sylvia desperately needed erotic stimulation and fulfillment, she turned to the child rather than to the man because the former would enable her to maintain her strangely perverse relationship with her mother. Of course, all this is merely an educated guess because we just do not have the facts about her growing-up years.
I would venture to say that Sylvia will be able to handle her perversion quite well. No doubt, she will continue her teaching career in college and continue her erotic career in Mexico with young boys during her vacations.
There is a strong possibility that the attraction to young boys could change to the opposite sex. If something like this does happen, then there is a good chance of psychic breakdown.
CHAPTER THREE
(Name: Bea M. Age: Forty-one. Place of Birth: Atlanta, Georgia. Occupation: Interior Decorator.)
I'm not bragging but I've worked hard to establish a reputation. Go into any fine home in Atlanta and ask who provided the services-who was the interior decorator-and they'll mention my name.
Now I'm expensive but when I first started out I was willing to work for nothing. Don't get me wrong-I love my work and I like a lot of people I work for, but I'm getting a little cynical. People's tastes change so quickly and their love change just as quickly.
I always kept my career separate from my personal life. I sort of constructed it to be a place of sanctuary. Whenever I was so hurt in my personal dealings with people that I wanted to die, then I'd throw myself into work and there'd be something to take me out of the depression.
Women need this kind of thing more than men because women are more prone to disappointments in love. That's why you read about so many housewife's killing themselves; they just don't have the outlet I have.
But there was one period in my life when even my career couldn't help. It was only about five years ago and I guess you can say that I had a nervous breakdown. I had been working very hard, on about three jobs at one time, and I decided to take a week-end off in the country. I left Atlanta early Friday afternoon and arrived at a well-known vacation lodge a few hours later.
There was nothing on my mind except rest; a few days of doing nothing, of lying in the sun and recharging my body. I went to sleep early the first night there and the following morning I was up early and spread out near the pool on a mat.
"Enjoying yourself?"
I turned to the voice and saw a young man sitting beside me. I smiled; he obviously thought I was ready to be picked up.
"Not interested," I said.
"In what?"
"In whatever you have to offer."
"But all I did was ask you whether or not you're enjoying yourself."
"Oh, don't be difficult," I said, testily, and turned away from him.
The next time I looked he was gone. The day passed slowly and deliciously and I enjoyed every moment. About an hour after dinner I decided to take a short walk in the trails. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and started off. It was dark on the narrow trail but there was enough light from the night sky to make the path clear. I must have walked about a half hour when I heard a strange noise in the underbrush. I felt no sense of fear, only curiosity.
About ten feet away from me was one of those clearings which the lodge had landscaped; a small space of soft grass with a few benches-surrounded by small trees.
There were two figures in the clearing. I heard moans, soft, drawn-out moans which could only mean one thing; the sounds of sexual love. I wanted to turn back, it was none of my business-but my body shivered in expectation.
I moved closer-it was two men-or rather, a man and a boy. The man was the young one who had accosted me by the pool. The other one was a young boy who couldn't have been more than twelve years old.
The man had his arms around the boy, from behind, and I could see the pulsing length of his manhood. I broke out into a sweat. T was absolutely captured and infatuated by the scene.
I could see the member slip between the trembling buttocks of the child. He cried out once, like a wounded bird, and then was silent as the flesh cleaved deep. The child seemed to crumble around the shaft and then the man threw back his head with a silent laugh of joy-and began to pump.
They were quick, savage thrusts that bit deep into the body. It lasted only seconds and then I saw the seed pour between the child's bruised and tortured buns. The child fell to the ground. The man stood over him, laughing and kicking at him gently with his feet as if the child were a piece of garbage. Then, the man vanished into the trail.
I stood in the clearing, trembling, exposing myself to view for the first time. But the child had buried his face in his hands.
"Are you well?"
He didn't answer-all I could hear were some incoherent groans from him.
"Speak to me, are you well?"
Finally he turned over and I could see his tear-stained eyes. The child was beautiful, the face of a madonna on a boy, with long yellow hair that seemed to frame his face.
I reached out and touched his bruised, naked body. The moment my finger met his flesh I shivered so terribly that I was forced to withdraw.
"What was his name?" I asked, suddenly furious at his brutal seducer.
"I don't know."
"You know," I said, my voice even more threatening.
"His name is Carlo."
"And yours?"
"Billy."
I left the child lying on the ground and ran down the trail, back to the lodge. I burst into the office and asked for the room of a man called Carlo. It took them a few minutes and they told me they had only one guest whose first name was Carlo and he was in room 307.
I disdained the elevator, climbing the steps and knocking loudly on the door.
A second later it opened and he was standing there, calm and collected, with a drink in his hand smiling at me.
"I was waiting for you," he said.
"What?"
"Did you enjoy the show?"
He led me into the room. My head was reeling from his questions.
"I saw you on the trail," he explained, "even before you saw me."
"You animal!"
He laughed at my description of him and placed a drink in my hand.
"Not really, I mean, perhaps I'm a human animal, in that I allow my sexual appetites to be expressed. Not, obviously, like you."
"My sexual appetites are my own business."
"Ah, then you have some," he joked.
I was so furious that I didn't answer and sipped my drink.
"I have peculiar tastes. I like young boys like Billy and I also like older women like yourself."
He smiled wickedly beneath his drink and then refilled mine. There was something about him so charming and so delightfully wicked that soon I forgot completely about the incident and listened to his stories of sexual prowess. He kept refilling my drink until my head was spinning and I felt a warmth at the base of my spine.
"That's right, let yourself go-that's why you're here-all women should get away from their careers."
The room and his body were beginning to swim in my mind. I felt warm and good and relaxed. He kept speaking, always telling a different story, always keeping my attention riveted on him. For the first time I admitted to myself that I did find him attractive.
Suddenly, he shut out a light.
"Why did you do that?"
"My eyes are sensitive," he laughed.
I started to sit down but he pulled me up.
"Look here," he said.
I saw that he held an empty whiskey bottle in his hand.
"Remarkable shape, isn't it?" he asked.
He kept turning the bottle over and over in his hands and then lit a match and applied the flame to the neck of the bottle.
"See how the glass responds to the flame. I love the shape of bottles. I love the way they deal with their own shape, the curves, the twists-if only women were so sophisticated."
Suddenly he moved behind me and one arm went across my chest, grabbing my breast through the fabric and squeezing me savagely.
"What are you doing? Are you insane?"
I tried to escape from his grip but he was too powerful.
"Let me go."
"I can't. I have to do something," he laughed, "something you will find quite pleasurable."
I felt his hand moving under my skirt. It reached my panties and pulled them down. I fought and bit and squirmed but he was too strong for me. His hand stroked my naked buttocks.
"Your flesh is beautiful," he murmured in my ear and then I felt his tongue trace a thin line along my neck.
He squeezed the buns, making me shiver with expectation in spite of myself.
Suddenly I felt something hard and hot against one of my buttocks. At that moment I realized what was about to happen.
"No, you can't," I screamed.
It was too late. He slowly slid the neck of the heated bottle between my buns. I began to weep, horrified by what was taking place. I tried to close myself but his force was too great and the glass neck kept going deeper and deeper.
He started to twist it inside of me. I could feel the contour of the glass as it caressed my core.
The pain started, a terrible pain that seemed to lift me off the ground.
"Be quiet, don't struggle, relax your body. Feel how beautiful it is, relax and feel the shape."
He was deep inside. I began to weep. He twisted the bottle again and again until my body was like a funnel for his perversion. Then he took his glass of whiskey and poured it over the bottle so that some of the liquid penetrated me. I could feel the burning fluid being sucked inside.
He started to ram it with one hand, the other hand sliding to my front and burying itself in the crotch hairs. I could feel his finger moving into the hot, tormented vagina.
I was impaled from the front and the rear and I was trembling so that only the object in my rectum kept me up.
The finger moved with the bottle, faster and faster. A second later my body exploded from orgasm and the bottle slid out. I fell to the floor and sobbed.
"Well, you've had your fun and now it's time to go."
He literally dragged me from the room and threw me outside.
I crawled to my room like a beaten dog. It took me hours before I could make a rational response. My body hurt terribly and as the whiskey began to wear away-a deep feeling of shame and guilt came over me. I took a hot bath and tried to sleep but sleep was impossible. Soon, all my emotions turned only to one-hatred of the man-and the desire to revenge myself.
There was only one way I could do it and that was through the seduction of Billy. I was sure that he loved the golden haired child and my removing the latter from the beast's caress would be something he couldn't stand. Finally, I slept, and did not awaken until the sun was high.
It was the first anal contact of my life and I was unable to come to terms with it. The only fact that soothed me was the coming seduction of the child. I had only a few hours, a day at most, to realize the goal. Every time I sat down or leaned against something, I felt the results of that penetration and I flushed with shame and hatred.
But, to be quite truthful, there had been a moment during the assault when everything was beautiful, when I welcomed the pain and the degradation. The bottle, heated by the match, slipping through the darkness of my ass, crushing the buttocks as it rammed free-all that was somehow the high point of the evening. Yes, I could not hide the fact that the thrill had been there-until it had been dissolved by the brutality.
Three hours later I found Billy by the pool. He was sitting in the sun, his glorious face turned up, and a smile creasing his lips.
"Who are you waiting for?"
"No one," he answered shyly.
"I wish you were waiting for me."
"Perhaps I am-anyway, I could be."
There was a freshness about him, an innocence that is almost impossible to portray. I leaned close and could see the blond fuzz on his cheeks. I had a terrible temptation to lick the fuzz, to touch his body with my tongue.
"Did you eat yet?"
"No," he said.
"Would you like to?"
I stood up and offered him my hand. He laughed and then took it and we walked off together as if I was a visiting Aunt and he was my charming nephew.
"Did you see Carlo?" he asked.
"No," I answered.
We walked until we came to a snack bar in the lodge. I ordered two hamburgers for him and a large chocolate malted. He wolfed his food down like a young animal.
"Where shall we go now?" I asked him.
"I don't know."
"Come with me," I said, holding out my hand.
For a moment he hesitated, looking at me quizzically, as if he were debating whether or not I was to be trusted.
Then we walked up to my room. It was the beginning of the afternoon and the room was flooded with light. His blond hair seemed to merge with the sun's rays and I was dazzled by the combination.
"I am better than Carlo," I said to him suddenly, moving close and beginning to peel his swimming trunks off. He didn't struggle-instead, all he did was close his eyes and tremble lightly. In a moment he was standing naked in front of me. I bent over and kissed those precious buttocks where Carlo's maleness had so brutally penetrated. Then I stepped a few feet back and undressed. He was so young and I felt the difference-I felt the beautiful agony of being his erotic mother.
We were both naked-staring at each other, the fires in our bodies growing.
"Come close," I said.
He was in my hands, his slender body bending like a reed beneath my fingers. I kissed his penis and then the small, sweet globes. I kissed the insides of his thighs and then the curve of his neck. It was as if I had finally come into contact with an incredible statue-which had come to life for me and only for me.
I kissed him until the shaft stood out from the blond bush, its tiny red tip glaring at me through the light in the room. I sucked on the tip until the child moaned.
I gave him my breasts but he would not squeeze them-all he would do was nibble at the nipples as if those naked points were twin candies.
The desire I had for the child seemed to well up in me like some terrible storm. The idea of revenging myself on Carlo through the child no longer meant anything to me.
He opened his mouth and I licked the teeth and then placed my fingers under his arms to feel the blossoming down.
I took his hand and led him to the bed. He didn't struggle but followed like a tame animal. I lay down on the sheets and he sat beside me. Taking his hand, I guided it into my crotch and then let him play with my vagina, running his thumb along the wet lips, bringing me exquisite shafts of delight.
I was ready to be mounted. I brought my knees up so that my nest was open wide for him; so that he could see the maw of love which was waiting. And, the child began to mount me.
Suddenly, inexplicably, I flipped over on my stomach and the young, pulsing member sunk between my buttocks, going deep into the core.
I screamed and grasped the sheets with my fingers, biting the pillow in front of me. But it was too late to stop; the child was in his mating frenzy, throwing his body upon me with a vengeance, cleaving into the hot buns until he found the liquid center of my rectum and the drive began-the slow, torturous rhythm of joined flesh which only those who have experienced it can understand.
In and out-using all the instincts that thousands of years of sexual experience have given our race. I could feel the penis driving with its fiery point just as a whale feels the harpoon spiraling deep into its body.
Then the child cried out and a second later I felt the seed pouring between my cheeks. He rolled off me, gasping for breath, his eyes wide with fear and lust, his body shaking from the effort. I began to soothe him, kissing him to sleep.
We lay like that for hours, the child resting in my arms while I tried to understand why I had suddenly turned over and offered him my rectum. But there was no solution and that night I left the lodge, hurrying back to my business, trying hard to forget all the strange and unpleasant acts.
For about a month all went well and the episode was pushed back into my consciousness.
I was working hard, decorating a complex of new office buildings. Then, one afternoon, as I was resting in an office, sipping a container of black coffee, my eyes caught the light which was coming into the window. Suddenly I remembered the blond youth. I remembered that beautiful moment when he had sunk his meat into the waiting buttocks. The coffee spilled out of my hands and left a brown stain along the floor. I cleaned it up as best I could and rushed out. People called to me but I ran past. I had to be alone; I had to get away from them.
Finally I was free of them and walked along a deserted street. I walked for hours, trying to sort out my feelings. No matter how hard I tried to forget, it was futile. My body shook with the memory. I had to be impaled again; I had to feel the hardness, the sudden cruelty, the splintering of my anal walls.
At that moment I became an animal. I threw over all my fears and inhibitions and became a hunter. I was on the prowl. The streets of the city were my jungle and I would gain only what I was able to capture.
Five hours later I found my prize. There was no thought of love; he was a street urchin, a pathetic young thing who was starved for some bright, jingling objects in his hand. I would have given him every dollar I possessed.
We searched for an alley and once found-went deep into the tepid darkness. He was frightened and held my hand as if I could bring him help.
I guided his hands as they undressed me, shivering at the innocence of his fingers uncovered each area. Then-a moment later-I was naked in the brutal night.
The child didn't know what to do. I knelt in front of him and kissed his penis into consciousness, tasting the briny love which was growing, lolling my tongue around the shaft and becoming one with the pulsing veins. He closed his eyes when it stood erect. I placed my hands on the concrete wall and began to gyrate the lower part of my body. He knew what I wanted. He hesitated.
"Do it now," I begged.
The child came closer, his body trembling with his first view of the anus. The tip of his maleness brushed against my buns. I leaned over and spread them wide, desperate for the moment of penetration.
"Now," I ordered, my voice husky with emotion.
The child rammed it in, deep into the love core, splintering all opposition, driving the virgin shaft as if it was some demonic thunderbolt. I was pressed against the concrete wall. I was driven to ecstasy. He began to grind it into me and I moved my own body so that I could extract joy from every inch of that serpent.
He was a stranger-a young fawn that I had plucked from the street-but the motion of his penis and the intensity of his body behind me-made him more precious to me than all the friends I have ever known.
There, in the darkness, my body joined with the cruelty of the alley, I tasted the most complete joy of my life. The anus seemed to open in love, to surround the entering organism, to secrete its own juices around the shaft of maleness. He poured his seed into me and my buttocks closed around his member in one last gesture of love-then I fell to the ground and wept.
It was too late for me. There, in the alley, I could see my future and I was prepared to follow it.
* * *
Sandor Ferenczi, the great Hungarian psychoanalyst, has observed in his seminal classic THALASSA: A THEORY OF GENITALITY that:
"It is extremely striking to observe with what regularity and in what a variety of mental constructs (dreams, neuroses, myths, folklore, etc.) coitus and birth are represented by the same symbol of rescue from danger; especially from water (amniotic fluid); how the sensations of swimming, floating and flying express at the same time the sensations in coitus and those of existence in the womb, and finally, how the genital is so frequently equated symbolically with the child." (page 42; W. W. Norton & Company; New York; 1968.)
We will have to use these important insights in our attempted analysis of this difficult case.
One thing is quite clear and that is the fact that the initial impetus for her movement into analism was the scene she witnessed at the lodge; the actual homosexual encounter between Carlo and Billy.
Why should such a neutral event dramatically change the course of her own sexuality? The statement above, as to the relationship between coitus and birth, gives us a key clue.
Bea was an extremely repressed woman although she maintained a loose and satisfied front. The sight of the anal homosexual contract suddenly opened the subconscious reflections concerning birth-concerning the birth trauma she and all of us carry within us.
Then, in an incredible projection, she subconsciously became addicted to the thought that she had been born of her father rather than her mother. This, usually, is a psychotic mode of thought but in her situation she was able to transcend the psychosis.
Once that incredible thought had gained credence, she went quickly and easily into analism because every anal encounter was really a symbolic recapitulation of her own birth and the attempt to show her father that she, too, could substitute the anus for the womb. Her use of young boys for this purpose (except for Carlo, who really gave her the courage) rather than mature men is to avoid an eruption of the Oedipal desires. There is no possibility of her confusing those young, innocent boys for her father.
Although analism is, itself, a valid and enjoyable expression of erotic love, when it becomes tied to morbid fantasies, such as birth through the anus, we must classify it as a nascent psychosis and one that calls for immediate treatment.
CHAPTER FOUR
(Name: Veronica S. Age: Thirty-five. Place of Birth: Duluth, Minnesota. Occupation: Housewife.)
How can one tell a story that begins in innocence and ends in complete depravity? But I must tell it, in order to bring out into the open the incredible needs and desires that have subjugated me.
I was one of those housewives you read about in the magazines; secure, happy, basking in the light of my husband and children. I believe that description of myself with all of my might. And then, suddenly, my life was shattered with a rapidity that was almost beyond belief.
Who can I blame? Surely, not my husband. He loved me, but the constant pressure of his work made it impossible for him to bring me that sexual excitement which the housewife, above all women needs and craves.
I remember the exact night the first seeds were planted in my mind. It was a Thursday evening and he came home late. As usual, he was completely exhausted and he just fell into the easy chair.
Placing a drink in his hand, I sat back and watched him consume it. He seemed like a stranger to me and my eyes sought out the familiar places of his body for comfort.
"The kids asleep?" he asked.
It was the same question he always asked and it always brought the same response.
"Sound asleep."
Then he reached out and searched for my hands. We joined for a moment but there was no excitement in the touch, only the tenderness of shared memories.
"I'm beat. I have to sleep."
I took the glass out of his hand and we walked into the bedroom together. He sat on the bed and I helped him undress, pulling off one shoe after another as if he were a child. Then I pulled back the covers and he crawled in.
"Good night," he said, and closed his eyes.
I just sat on the side of the bed and watched him slip away. His body began to rise and fall slowly and soon he was breathing evenly. As I sat there, the tears suddenly began to flow. They just rolled down my eyes and stained my robe. I didn't know why I was crying at that time. The whole thing seemed fantastic.
But then, as I watched him, I had this terrible longing to be loved. It wasn't a need for some spurious romantic love-it was the desire to be loved in the flesh. I wanted my husband's body to show me that love. I was weary of all the words of endearment which pass between husband and wife and which become the substitute for lust. I wanted him. I wanted his body. I wanted the feel of marital flesh, that sudden cleaving and joining, that sudden opening of my body like some water starved flower.
I dried the tears and reached out. My hand crept under his pajama bottoms until I found the soft, sweet shaft of his manhood.
He was still asleep but my touch disturbed him and he rolled to one side. I placed my other hand on his globes and felt the life-giving substance.
His eyes opened and there was a question in them. I pulled back the covers and slipped the pajama bottoms off his body. "What are you doing?"
I couldn't answer him with words. Words would not mean anything to him. He was too tired.
My face went between his legs and my lips sought out his globes. Then I crushed them with my tongue and mouth until he began to moan. I wanted to be one with him-I wanted to be joined as I never had been joined. I could taste the delicate male odors of his scrotum. They seemed to wift up to my nose until I was dizzy.
"I'm tired, I'm tired," he moaned. But I no longer cared about his tiredness. I had to be satisfied, I had to be shown his love.
My lips moved off his globes and onto the shaft which was slowly coming alive. I kissed the veins and muscles which were beginning to pulse through the flesh. It was growing, it was beginning to expand, to assert its own freedom.
"Stop it, Veronica, not tonight," he said.
I could see the tip staring at me in the dim light. It seemed to contain all the promise I needed. It was red and vibrant with lust.
I opened my mouth wide and slid my lips over the weapon. It plunged deep and I lost the sense of balance-the room seemed to be spinning around me. I sucked on his maleness until he moaned like a wounded animal. My wet lips coated every inch of his penis, depositing the saliva in hot, furious gasps.
Then I let it slide out and straddled him. My hands went to my own breasts and I squeezed them until the nipples were stiff. I bent over and let him taste the points. He sucked on them until I wept with joy.
I slid off him and rolled over. My legs were spread apart and I raised my hands, calling to him in the silent gesture of love.
The moment I did that, all of his aroused lust seemed to vanish. He looked at me like a beaten animal and whispered that he was sorry but he was too tired.
I could not be cheated of love that night. I climbed on him once again and grabbing his shaft, thrust it deep inside my nest. I began to pump my body into his, impaling myself on his maleness.
But it was I who did all the work. It was I who twisted my body so that I could feel every nuance of his erect flesh. I drove my body against him so that it went deeper and deeper, crushing the flower, filling the erotic spaces, torturing the vaginal walls.
Then I felt the blessed release of orgasm and I rolled with it-feeling his seed at the same time. I rolled off him and lay there, unable to speak, luxuriating in my pleasure while at the same time hating his indifference.
In spite of the fact that I had achieved satisfaction, I felt cheated. I felt as if he had betrayed the marriage vows. Our bodies were supposed to be one, to be constantly searching for the erotic joys that marriage allowed. And, instead, I was forced to use all of my energy just to excite him.
That evening something happened to me. Something within my subconscious rebelled and gave me the courage and inclination to taste forbidden fruit.
The next few days were a period of dormancy; I seemed to be absorbing the new direction of my unconscious. I felt that something important was about to happen to me but I didn't know what.
On the following Monday, in the morning, after my husband had gone to work and the children were off to school, I heard the front door bell.
Upon opening the door, I thought that I had lost my mind. Standing in front of me were two young boys, not more than fifteen, and they looked so much alike-they were such incredible duplicates of each other that I had to blink my eyes again and again.
"We'll rake all the leaves together for a dollar apiece," said one.
I couldn't answer because I was still absorbed by the phenomenon.
"What's the matter, lady?"
"Oh, nothing," I finally said, "it's just that...."
"We're identical twins," they interrupted.
I gave them the assignment and they went about their work. From time to time I would pull back the living room curtains and watch them work. They were like young animals, using their bodies were like effortlessly and without consciousness that they were, in fact, beautiful. They wore their hair long and they would sweep the shock of black hair out of their eyes in the most innocent gesture.
I couldn't take my eyes away from them. The way they bent their bodies, the way they moved about the yard, the gestures they used as they speared a loose leaf that had escaped from the pile-all of these things seemed to raise a strange excitement inside of me.
They were finished and they knocked at the door. I gave each of them a crisp dollar bill. They thanked me and started to walk away. I had to call them back, I couldn't see them leaving.
"Wait," I cried.
"What?"
"If you want to make more money, come back tomorrow. I have a lot of work for you both in the cellar."
"Sure," they said, their faces breaking into smiles of delight.
That whole day I spent trying to erase the memories of their bodies. I began to drink, to try to blot out the sudden thrill I had when I watched them work. In desperation, I went up to my son's room and sat among his things, hoping that would bring me solace.
I picked up a toy soldier that was in the corner of the room. It was a toy he had loved when he was very young but now he Was no longer interested.
My mind seemed to flood with memories, of my honeymoon, of those first glorious weeks of marriage, of the look on my husband's face when I told him I was pregnant. I brought the toy against my cheek.
Suddenly, I was shaking, I opened my dress in order to breathe. I felt a terrible sense of oppression, as if my lungs were being crushed by a heavy weight. I buried the toy between my breasts. It felt good there, the nakedness of my mounds covered it.
The feeling of being crushed grew worse. I had to free myself of the burden of my clothes. I ripped the dress from my body-yes-I literally ripped it off and I stood naked in the room. The toy soldier was burning into my breasts. I held it and slid it down so that it rested in the pit of my stomach. The trembling and suffocating seemed to lessen a little. I placed the head in my navel and twisted it just a bit. Everything seemed to be spinning. Nothing seemed to make sense, my life, my love, my children and my husband.
The toy moved further down, and then, in one terrible move, I let it find shelter in the jungle of my crotch.
I held my breath and let the wickedness of the action flow over me. I stood absolutely still, not daring to move even a limb.
But my hand took over as if it was no longer attached to my body but somehow plugged into my unconscious desires.
I spread my legs apart and the head of the toy began to play along the perimeter of my vaginal lips. Hot and cold chills were going through me. Did I dare? Did I dare to push it further? The decision was no longer one I could make rationally. All the juices in my body seemed to be rising, to be flowing toward the center of my sex.
I rammed it deep inside so that the walls of my hot nest almost screamed with the penetration. I began to pump, to send the object deep inside, to let it spin and twist and screw against my willing sex. Like a demonic trap, my body closed around that toy, sucking it deeper, coating it with the strange liquid of my passion.
And as I did that-as I achieved a wondrous orgasm with that object-it was the vision of the two young boys who appeared before me. As my body was sobbing with the delight of the explosion, I could see their faces and their forms and they seemed to want me-to reach out their hands for me.
Afterwards, I lay on the floor. The toy was only inches from me but it seemed like a foreign object, not one that had plunged into the sanctity of my flesh.
I believe that the single act of masturbation was the one that broke down every defense I had and sent my mind working along the path of seduction. I know that I couldn't sleep that night, I kept thinking of how it would be when those twins came back-I kept thinking of how it would feel to have those bodies in my house.
The next morning, after my husband had gone to work and the children off to school, I sat down to await my guests. I was nervous but I felt sure of myself, as if there was a hidden reservoir of sexual confidence that I had only recently developed. The living room clock ticked away. What if they do not come? What if they had felt something strange about me, something they could not define but of which they were frightened?
Suddenly, the bell rang. I opened the door and saw them standing there, innocent, open, incredibly similar. It was one of those strange miracles which nature performs and which we have come to call twins. But that word does not describe the bizarre perfection of two young men, in the prime of their young manhood, just blossoming in body and mind and saddled with the fact that they are the same-that the symmetry of face and body is exact.
I stood looking at them until they became uneasy-
"You told us to come to clean the cellar," one said.
"Yes, yes, come in," I answered quickly, snapping out of my reverie.
They walked past me into the living room and the closeness of their bodies almost made me weep. I felt a sexual desire beyond anything I had ever felt in my life.
"The cellar is here," I said, beckoning them to follow me. We walked down the narrow staircase and into the small cellar. They looked perplexed, for the cellar was clean.
"I just want you to wash and wax the floors," I explained to them, moving off to one side.
It was a strange fact but I had no desire to know their names. I had no desire to know anything about them, all I wanted was the gift of being able to watch them-and perhaps to touch them.
They obtained brooms and mops and began to work. I stood off to one side, like a predatory bird watching the movements of the prey.
Gradually, they began to sweat and one removed his shirt. The other one followed a few moments later. I tried to pull my eyes away from their smooth white torsos but it was impossible. They began to mop in rhythm, their arms moving together, and I felt as if they were driving the mop into me; as if they were using my body for their goal.
They stopped and rested, holding their mops gently by their sides and breathing heavily. One of them wiped some sweat from his eye.
I shut the light off.
"What are you doing?" I heard one of them call. And then there was silence.
I walked slowly to them until I was standing not more than six inches away. My hand reached out and touched the chest of one of the boys. It was wet with sweat. I shivered and almost wept with happiness. My fingers roamed over the skin, rejoicing in the stench and feel of his animal wetness. Then my hand moved to the other boy and my fingers rubbed the sweat into his nipples.
They were both frightened and unsure of themselves. Even in the darkness I could feel that they were somehow communicating with each other-that silently they were expressing their fears and their hopes in the mystical language that only twins have developed.
"Don't move, don't move," I begged them.
There was silence; the heavy silence of anticipation.
Each of my hands rested on each of their bodies. I could feel their blood begin to heat. Just standing there, touching them so lightly, I could feel what was beginning to take place. They had never been approached like this. They had never been touched by a woman. I was not one of their squealing girls who laughed and danced with them. For the first time in their young lives they were face to face with a mature eroticism and they were afraid.
Slowly, I unbuckled their pants, one at a time, until they dropped to the floor. With expert but trembling fingers, I pulled their underwear down. In the darkness, I could make out only the shape of their maleness.
I kneeled in front of one of the boys and kissed him long and deep-hearing his quick intake of breath and feeling the maleness begin to rise. I moved to his twin, and kissed the genital sac, making sure that I coated it with the sweet saliva of love.
I stepped back. The room was tense. I found my body trembling so hard that I could scarcely stand. I could see the tips of their organs, the exquisite shape of young manhood. They were like red-tipped wands in the darkness. They were panting for my kiss again.
Once again I kneeled between them. This time I moved from one to the other, kissing, licking, mouthing those beautiful shafts. They cried out for me, they cursed me when I paid too much attention to one at the expense of the other. I licked the muscles of one penis and then sucked the scrotum of the other.
My mouth was hot and burning-strange liquids seemed to be forming on the insides of my cheeks. I swallowed one and it went deep and then slid out with the juices from my lips coating it.
I began to nibble one, to sink my white teeth into the juicy spear. The boy cried out once and then went silent. I kissed the pain away.
First one and then the other-from one member to the next-improvising-using every wile I possessed and inventing hundreds of others. It was a time of extreme joy for me. I seemed to have reached some plateau, to have been able to articulate my desires without words.
Then they were so excited that when I opened my mouth to receive the shaft, they pumped it into me, violently and deep. They rammed it home, into my bruised mouth, first one and then the other. They were desperate and they fought to have the deepest plunge.
I wanted all they could give me; I wanted every inch. I sucked and bit and fought back and gave those young shafts the most incredible experiences of their lives. Then I softened and their seed shot into me; my mouth filling with great waves of liquid, filling my cheeks, coating my gums, and I rolled on the floor away from them.
There was silence. I could see their bodies and their exhaustion. But they made no move to dress or to leave. I would have fought any such attempt because I was entwined with them. It was no longer a cellar in my house; it was a jail cell and I was both their jailor and their prisoner.
I thought of the ancient legend that Rome was founded by two children who suckled at the breast of a she-wolf. In the darkness, that legend seemed to overcome me, to grasp my imagination with such a force that I squatted on all fours. I could feel my breasts swinging loose after I divested myself of all my clothes.
"Here is your mother," I whispered to them, and began to crawl to their waiting bodies. They sensed my need and their bodies tightened. I called to them, a pathetic, half-animal cry, and they moved under me.
Each of them took a nipple in their mouths and they began to suck gently. I was a she-wolf, I had metamorphosed myself into one. I purred to them and began to sway my body back and forth.
My nipples grew hard and aching in their lips. They sucked harder and animal moans came from somewhere deep in my past.
I pushed down so that the whole, white splendor of my naked breasts was crushed into their lips. They had to bite to save themselves; they had to bite to give themselves room for air. I felt the sharp teeth go deep in the flesh and I loved every painful stab. Their teeth were like saws and my own nipple blood mixed with the juices of their mouths.
I wanted all they could give me; I wanted every bit of pain they could give me. Their hands were clawing at my stomach and back as they tried to live, as they tried to breathe with the white flesh pushing down-always down.
Underneath me was a mass of swirling flesh. They were groaning and twisting their limbs. I felt like the wolf of Rome, I felt like I was giving life to two children who would one day use the juices from my breasts to bring something to the world.
And then they opened their mouths-almost in unison, and I slipped my ravaged breasts out-and crawled to the corner to nurse my wounds.
Would they come to me again? Would they lose their newfound confidence and run like scared children up the stairs and out of the house?
I called to them in a slow, soft voice. I could make out their naked shapes, their disturbed, questioning bodies which seemed like one body which had been cut apart. What was going on in their minds? What were they planning? What had I done to their relationship to each other?
Reaching down, I rubbed my crotch and could feel the hot sweet passion rising.
There were sounds in the room; sounds of bodies crawling. I felt like a vine that was about to be consumed. A yard away-a foot away-and then they were both close. I stood up and turned slowly around as if showing them what they could have. Their eyes were like tiny searchlights in the dark.
I knew that they were mine. It was a triumph of will and desire. My whole other life-as wife, as mother-seemed unreal. This was the true life; this was the use of the body that was almost religious.
One grabbed me. I whirled out of the child's grasp, not because I didn't want him but because I wanted to make it hard, to give him a taste before he could have the fruit. He came back and his young hands began to stroke my buttocks. I could feel the nails over my buns and hear his heavy breathing. Then he grasped each buttock with one hand and spread me apart.
I moved away. The other one came to the front and placed his hand between my legs. He began to rub me there, to breathe heavily as he fingered the vaginal opening. He was almost desperate with the force of his young lust.
I began to circle the room, the two young men following, their hands trying to get me, to probe, to spread, to finger.
One caught me and violently rammed his finger up into my nest. I shivered and stood still-wave after wave of lust encompassing me. I began to move on the finger, to grind down so that he could feel what was really deep-so that he could feel the beauty of the vaginal well.
I touched the child in front of me and forced him to his knees. I could feel his face twisted in a mask of horror and need as for the first time in his life he faced the point of birth; the organ from which he had come. The other was behind me, also kneeling, kissing my buttocks, biting the succulent buns as they quivered from his presence.
"Kiss me," I whispered to the child in front of me. He would not move-he was frozen by his innocence. I spread my legs so that he could see the live nest and catch the subtle odors of erotic love.
His tongue was like a gentle sword as it moved in. I could feel his body shudder as he gasped for breath; as he came face to face with his origins. The tongue snaked deeper, lancing the hidden pools of glory, tormenting me with its thrust, bringing me a beauty I had never thought possible. I reached down and clasped my own hands in back of his neck, pulling him closer so that his face was buried in the vaginal jungle. His muffled moans were like the most potent aphrodisiacs.
Slowly I released my grip on him and he stayed burrowed there-his tongue searching for something he would never find.
At that moment I remembered the boy behind me, and reaching back with my hands, I felt the length of his shaft. It was in space-quivering, desperate-and I let my fingers touch the muscles and veins which stood out on that erect flesh.
He didn't know what to do. He couldn't act. The lust of his body was corroding his will.
Slowly I guided the weapon until it rested in the crack between my buttocks. I could feel his whole body tense, like some young boar that had been flushed from cover. He knew what he had to do but he was frightened.
I waited for one massive thrust of the tongue in my nest and then I pushed back. The shaft slid past my buttocks like a knife through hot butter.
The children had me from the front and the back. The tongue was like an embryo, driving toward the womb through vaginal contractions. The penis in the anus was like some ancient debt that I had to pay-and only then would I be purged.
I gave myself up to their youthful ardor. I was being raped by virgin children. The thrust of the shaft was exhilarating-the tip was like an untried faggot of burning embers. It burned. It sliced, it cut through every inhibition about anal sex I had ever entertained. The child in front was weeping from exertion and love. I could feel his tears drip down my bush and cling to the hairs. He couldn't get enough of the strange fruit which had suddenly been given to him. I shuddered as he reached the marrow of my wound-as he dug and twisted and let the tongue tip spear a thousand chills.
I felt it coming! I felt the flood of energy; the slow building and then the peak. An instant later his tongue sent me over and my buttocks contracted, pulling the seed from the young penis.
Rolling on the floor, laughing and shaking, they must have thought I was some obscene old whore who had gone beyond the line of sanity.
After I had quieted down, they began to whisper among themselves. Their secrecy infuriated me.
"What are you talking about?"
"Who are you?"
It was such a pathetic question they asked me that I laughed.
"The wolf who suckled you."
They didn't understand the reference to classical mythology and I was too secretive to tell them. I enjoyed their perplexity for a few moments.
"Are you unhappy? Are either of you unhappy? If you are-just leave."
Again there were whispers but neither of them made an effort to leave.
"I need a lot of work to be done in this house. You can both come often."
Even in the dim light I could see them grinning their adolescent grins.
"Who is the older brother?"
"We're identical twins."
"Yes, I know, but one of you had to come out first."
"I'm the older one, by five minutes."
"Then you come here."
He lumbered over to me, trying to give his frame the weight of maturity.
When he was standing next to me, I lay down and pulled him close.
"Play with me," I whispered.
I gave myself to him as if I were a toy. His hands and feet and tongue were all over me. A second later he was joined by his brother and they both used me. The more they tormented me, the more they degraded me-the happier I was. All day that went on, until, toward evening we were all hollow shells, all the juices having been drained.
They left quietly, without saying goodbye, as if the house were a nest of vipers that one left as quickly as possible. But I knew they would be and back; and I knew that there would be others like them.
In the days that followed, every vision was a double one. When I played with the fevered sex between my legs, desperate to escape the tyranny and boredom of my lot, I would insert two fingers to stand for the two children who had showed me a world, in their innocence, that I had never experienced before.
I knew that I would have to live two lives; that I would have to maintain the sanctity of the family while striving with every amount of strength I possessed to procure the children that were necessary for my survival.
* * *
The British psychiatrist R. D. Laing is one of the most important new voices in the fields of Schizophrenia and behavioral disorders. In his new book, THE POLITICS OF EXPERIENCE (Ballantine Book, New York, 1968) he writes:
"In over 100 cases where we studied the actual circumstances around the social event when one person comes to be regarded as schizophrenic, it seems to us that without exception the experience and behavior that gets labeled schizophrenic is a special strategy that a person invents in order to live in an unlivable situation. In his life situation, the person has come to feel he is in an untenable position. He cannot make a move, or make no move, without being beset by contradictory and paradoxial pressures and demands, pushes and pulls, both internally from himself, and externally from those around him. He is, as it were, in a position of checkmate." (p. 114-115)
In other words, the man or woman creates his illness in order to avoid a situation that would mean his or her actual or emotional death.
It is quite obvious that this applies to Veronica. Her hatred of her housewife tasks could have been solved a hundred other ways, but instead she chose to seduce young boys-children that symbolized her own children. Furthermore, she chose a pair of identical twins which is one of the most incredible examples on record of how a woman will search for schizophrenia until it catches up with her.
Why did she choose twins? It is obviously because the symbol of the twins stood for the schizophrenic condition which she needed to have in order to escape from the disinterest of her husband.
The reader will notice that she reports very few of the words the twins spoke during their two days together. It is probably that she withheld reporting those words in order to keep her perception of the twins as schizophrenic symbols-pure.
Even at the end of her narrative she reports, almost joyfully, her decision to lead a "split" life-as if that were the most important outcome of her infidelity. There is a good chance that once her considerable sexuality is satisfied by a succession of young boys, she will revert back to the role of being a housewife.
But once the forbidden fruit is tasted, there can be an eruption at any time, since the subconscious has already dealt with any guilt which had accured.
CHAPTER FIVE
(Name: Terry G. Age: Forty-one. Place of Birth: Boston. Occupation. Psychiatric Social Worker.)
I laugh when straight middle-class people give me advice about how to run my life or when women who know nothing about sex except what they learned from their husbands tell me how fulfilled they are.
I've been through the whole game and I'm talking about the game of sex. There's only one thing I've learned and that is-you have to let yourself go and do it. By 'do it' I mean a person has to act out whatever erotic fantasies get dredged up from the unconscious.
Most straight people would consider me a pervert. This is nonsense. I do what I have to do. If I didn't perform the type of sexual acts that I find necessary, I'd be in a mental hospital within six months.
And believe me, in my job, I see all kinds of nuts. I know from personal experience what happens to people who are too afraid to dare, people who spend year after year nurturing their desires only to see them all go up in a cloud of psychotic smoke.
Let's be quite honest; I dig young boys, and I dig them in a special way. It gives me an intensity of erotic feelings that few people ever experience in their lives. I consider myself one of the lucky ones. As to the reasons why I have developed such peculiar sexual appetites; that is beyond my knowledge. And I don't believe that twenty years of psychoanalysis would solve the problem either. But I can recount the various incidents which led up to my current situation.
After I got out of college I didn't know what I wanted to do and I went from job to job. Then I decided that I'd like to do something real-something that would have an effect on society so I decided on psychiatric social work.
I went back to school for a graduate degree. It wasn't hard work but it was boring. I became good friends with a very strange girl named Mona, who was in all of my classes. We used to have coffee together in the cafeteria and talk a lot about what we would do when we got in the field.
During midterms of my last year, she invited me to her apartment to go over some work. We were both taking the same exams and we thought it would be good to study together.
She made some drinks, put on a soft record, and we began to question each other about various topics that we thought would be on the test. The drink she had made was strong and soon my head was spinning somewhat. I dropped the book to the floor and started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" She asked, in a insulted voice.
"I was just thinking about our future clients. All those thousands of people in the slums, suffering all kinds of physical and emotional pain-and waiting for US. What are we going to do for them?"
Suddenly, I noticed that her face drained of all color and the hand that held the drink was shaking.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she said, but she began to shake harder and harder.
I got up, went to the closet, took out a heavy coat and threw it around her shoulders in order to stop the shivering.
"I'll be all right," she kept muttering.
I sat beside her and waited. Every now and then she would turn to me and try to smile.
"What do you know about pain?" she asked.
"As little as possible, thank God," I said.
She threw the coat off her shoulders and rolled up one sleeve of her long peasant blouse.
"Do you have a cigarette?" she asked.
I lit a cigarette and gave it to her. She held it in her hand and looked at the flaming tip without smoking it. Then she handed it back to me.
"Hold it steady," she said.
I didn't know what she was doing but I obeyed her wishes. Suddenly, before I could say anything or do anything she thrust her naked forearm against the burning end. I could smell the flesh burning. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be transported to another realm. I pulled it away quickly.
"What are you doing? Are you insane?" My voice was shaking from what I had seen.
She didn't answer. Resting her head on my shoulder she began to moan; a low, soft sound that seemed to be coming from the center of her body. Her hand went to my breast and rested lightly there. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to handle it.
The hand began to move down my body until it crept under my skirt. It slipped into my panties and I felt the strangeness of her fingers on my crotch. A strange, wild thrill raced through my body. I stiffened and then relaxed and stiffened again.
"Don't move, don't move," she whispered.
Her blouse was open and the naked breasts tumbled out. They were a dazzling white and the nipples hung like two ripe fruit on the apex. She leaned forward into the lit end of the cigarette again and I saw the flame scald her breast. She cried out and moaned again.
The hand between my legs began to move, slowly rub the crotch. I wanted to run away, to remove the hand, to do anything-but something held me back. The rubbing motion became more and more regular and I could feel the heat rising in my body.
She leaned forward again, eyes closed, breathing heavily, and this time the lighted end caught her nipple. I could smell the burning point. She moaned and at that instant her finger slipped into my wet, quivering nest.
We began a strange dance of pain and lust. The finger scalded my vagina, twisting and turning and probing-and her body moved again and again into the fire. She was laughing and crying and I was shivering with pure joy as I felt the liquids churning in my core.
Faster and faster the finger went until I lay back with my lips parted-totally overcome by the erotic moment. The burns on her breast grew deeper and deeper and she became a dervish of pain.
Then the finger made one deep thrust-so deep that I felt the room spin-and a second later my body exploded into orgasm. It was a total, dramatic conclusion, my whole body feeling purged with the intensity of love.
"Heal me," she finally said. I looked at her without comprehension.
"Heal my burns," she said, tears filling her eyes. I leaned over and kissed the pain from her white, lacerated breasts.
That experience, my first with any sort of erotic joy associated with pain, was one of the most important events of my life. Of course, being young at the time and shocked by what had happened, I broke off our friendship.
After graduating I tried to develop normal erotic relationships. There were many men and I found all of them unsatisfactory. Even though I achieved orgasm with them, there was something missing; something which I couldn't define. I began to get more and more morose, throwing myself into my work until even my supervisors cautioned me.
To keep going, to keep my strength, I began to take amphetamines, or "ups" as they are called. Each week I increased my dosage until I seemed to be riding a wave of hysteria. Every part of my body became alive, every sound was magnified a thousand times, every touch seemed to explode with all sorts of inner emotions.
During this episode, I met Jose, a young Cuban boy who was assigned to me. His family was slowly splintering and it was my job to put them together. Jose was one of those silent children who refused to commit himself to anything. He merely watched everything and was silent. His calmness, his coolness, began to infatuate me. Because of my dependence on drugs at that time, I was able to develop relationships so intense that the average person would consider them insane. I was incredibly sensitive to the actions of other people. If Jose picked up a pencil and then dropped it on the desk, I would consider that a momentous event because every part of my psyche was operating on a greater level.
It was inevitable that this drug perception would eventually spill over into eroticism, and Jose would have to be the first 'victim' because he was the one who had usurped my time.
One afternoon I decided that the best thing for Jose would be to take him to a museum and get him away from the incredibly brutal family relationships in which he was entwined. We left early and spent a pleasant day, although Jose did not show much interest in museums. We had lunch in a small restaurant and I tried to get him to speak, but as usual, he was silent.
I tried place after place and event after event but still I could get no spark of interest from him. Finally, I asked:
"What do you want to do, Jose?"
He looked at me a long time before answering, his incredibly wise face furrowed as he thought.
"I want to play checkers," he said.
I laughed so hard I almost fell down.
"Then you shall play checkers," I said.
We went back to my apartment and I set up the checker board and made him some sandwiches. I was at the height of my drug reaction and so tense and alert that I could scarcely sit and play. He beat me the first game and then the second game. He seemed genuinely involved and happy.
"How many times do you want to beat me?" I asked him, laughing.
"Many times," he said and at that moment I saw the hatred he had for me and for all social workers. His hatred shriveled me and I began to weep. He just stared at me, not offering a word or a gesture in solace.
I threw the checkers off the board. He bent down to pick them up. I caught his arm but he threw me off. I grasped his arm again, this time pushing it in the hollow between my breasts. I don't know why I did that, it just happened. He turned and looked at me, his soft brown face, questioning. Still holding his hand, I guided it under the sweater I was wearing so that the boy could feel my breasts. His fingers grasped my nipples greedily, as if it were a place for him to come home to.
"What do you want Jose?"
He shook his head.
"Do you want this, Jose?" I asked, letting his fingers play with my nipples until they became erect.
He turned his face away from me. I let his hand fall out. He was standing by the table, his body shivering. I walked to him and kissed him lightly on the neck. What am I doing? He's a child. What is going on? I kept thinking all those things and a thousand other thoughts raced through my drugged mind. I kissed his face. I kissed the inside of his arm. I kissed his throat.
I felt that I had to disclose something to Jose; something that would show him that I cared about his plight and his people.
"Jose, look," I whispered.
The child turned to my voice. As he watched, I slowly began to remove my clothes. Garment after garment came off as if they had been imprisoning me all my life. The boy had to look, he had to see what I was made of.
I have never felt so exhilarated in my life; the feeling of his eyes on my body, the feeling that he was looking at me as he had never looked at another person-all that gave me a sense of lightness-a sense of using my body as I had never used it before.
"Come closer, Jose," I said to him.
He took one step and then another one-until he was standing by my side. He reached out and touched my stomach. I laughed and turned around. He reached out and stroked my buttocks, letting the fingers linger there.
"Take your clothes off, Jose."
He stiffened. I had made the initial gesture; I was telling him that we were equal. I could sense the struggle in his mind; his hatred of being patronized and his need for the incredible body which had been presented as a gift for him. I was no ghetto whore-I was something new and dangerous.
As he thought, the power of the drug seemed to reach a crescendo. My feet were literally gripping the floor as if I were an ape.
"Jose," I whispered to him, "your clothes-they are a burden."
He began to undress. The sight of his young brown body as it revealed itself to me was almost more than I could bear. I believed in him, I believed in my relationship to him-I felt that the meeting of our bodies would end the spurious antagonisms that had arisen.
We were both naked, both on that threshold where one false move destroys what had been built. I watched his body, I watched the softness of his member which lay between his legs like some ripe root.
I was so much older than he but I no longer felt that he was a child. It is difficult to explain. Our nakedness was more than a great equalizer, it was also the beginning of communication.
"What do you want, Jose?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want this, Jose?"
I was in his arms. My lips were pushing against his half-open mouth and I let my tongue slide past his teeth. His taste was fresh and good and I flicked my tongue back in order to taste him again and again. My fingers were on the side of his head, sliding in and out of his delicate ears. I rubbed against him and felt his penis begin to move, to grow, to assert its maleness.
"What do you want, Jose?"
Again that question came to my lips. I licked his neck and asked it again. I slowly got to my knees and asked it again, just as I kissed the tip of his vibrating shaft. I sucked on his maleness, bring a crazed and drugged lust into my embrace.
He moaned-it was the first time I had ever heard something so human, so full of need. I opened my mouth and the shaft slid slowly in. I felt as if my whole body was expanding with joy.
Together, like some grotesque joined insects, we crawled across the room until my buttocks were resting against the wall. He started to pump the shaft into my mouth, to cruelly and brutally give me what I wanted. My head throbbed with pain as the young organ crushed the roof of my mouth. But still I held on, sucking and swallowing, unable to release that living flesh.
Then I slid my lips off and he closed his eyes in ecstasy. I pressed back against the wall and spread my legs. He charged at me, more like an animal than a youth-and impaled me on the wall-his penis ramming through the vaginal lips without subtlety.
Deeper and deeper, the wall crushing my back, all of his strength rolled into one great ball of lust. I squirmed and lashed out with my feet but the nail had me, only the nail was of human flesh.
My fingers slid down his back to grasp his buttocks and try to ease the thrusts. But the feel of my hands only drove him into a greater frenzy.
He began to sob, his face in the hollow of my neck as he pumped. Each thrust of his shaft seemed to send me onto another psychic level. It was as if the drugs I had taken and his maleness were working in tandem.
Suddenly, without warning, I felt a demonic rage come over me. Why-or from whence it came-I shall never know. I searched wildly around the room for something sharp, for something that would wound, and as I searched he began to drive with such a frenzy that the breath was forced out of my body. With a sudden lunge I freed myself and ran to the far side of the room. My fingers wrapped around a light bulb that lay on the table. It was a bulb I had replaced and neglected to throw away.
He came to me-angered by my withdrawal-his penis standing out in front of him, livid with rage to penetrate again.
I backed up, my head spinning, my body alive with something I could not understand.
He rammed it in again, this time so hard that I fell on his shoulders and my feet were lifted off the ground. It was a moment I shall never forget. The drive of his shaft against my vaginal walls sent incredible shivers of lust racing through my body.
But then-in my psyche-the lust was replaced by coolness and I shattered the bulb against the wall, holding on tightly to a jagged piece of glass.
His fingers were spreading my buttocks in his passion, spreading them to the rhythm of his penetration which became fiercer and fiercer with each passing moment. The flesh grew within me. He cursed me as he pumped, waiting for the orgasm of my body that would not come. He twisted and drove and performed every erotic maneuver that he could think of and my body responded but not with that simple explosion which would tell him I had been satisfied. The sweat covered our bodies and interchanged.
Slowly, almost as if I were performing a religious ritual, I slid the jagged glass over the back of his shoulders and watched the blood bubble out.
He screamed, a high, terrible scream, and the moment I heard that sound my body lashed itself into a terrible shudder and the seed of my body exploded. I fell to my knees, shaking and weeping.
Jose stood over me, the penis so inflamed that it looked like a devil's body.
Reaching up in my shame and joy, I touched the flesh with my fingers and then held my mouth under the shivering member while the seed poured out.
Then I blacked out. When I regained consciousness, the first thing I saw was Jose's brown body, sprawled on the floor beside me. Between us was a pool of blood which had flowed from his wound and the corners of the pool were touched with his seed, which had dripped down from my ravenous mouth. I went quickly into the bathroom and obtained a damp towel. Wiping his wounds, I kept whispering to him how sorry I was. The drug state had completely left me and I was struck with the knowledge of what I had done.
A week after that incident, I requested to be taken off Jose's case. In fact, I completely left field work and obtained a temporary assignment in the office where my job was to evaluate the reports of other workers.
It was boring work but it gave me the chance to get myself together. I realized that something had happened to me that would change the course of my erotic life. I realized that by digging the broken glass into the boy's flesh in order to achieve orgasm, I had taken an irrevocable step into a whole new realm.
At first, I tried to reason out my predicament, to convince myself that the desire to inflict pain on Jose was only a temporary illness, much like a cold that disables a person but is gone in a few days or weeks.
When that failed I turned to "normal" sex. I actively sought out men and allowed myself to be used in any way by them. I gave myself hungrily and ferociously, hoping I would find the one who could break me of my needs, just as an expert rider breaks a problem horse.
But these experiences only left me exhausted and bitter; even as they slipped their flesh in, even as my thighs rose to clutch their maleness, I remembered that one moment when the glass had cut into the waiting flesh and whatever was happening no longer interested me.
"You're the coldest woman I ever met in my life," said one.
"You're frigid," said another.
And then, one day, I stopped avoiding my destiny. I accepted it as one would accept a chronic disease. I requested to be transferred out into the field again and I took a renewed interest in my work.
As for the needs of the body, I just bided my time, waiting for the proper moment and the proper child. About three months after the incident with Jose, I met Louis. He was fourteen, shy, and beautiful. His fingers were long and delicate as if they were born to pluck some obscure instrument. He was intelligent but unable to express himself except with a series of gestures and inarticulate half-sentences. He desperately needed help and it was my job to provide him with that help, but once up close, I realized that I would provide him with many other things.
He tried to fight me off but the contest was too unequal. How can the defenses of a young boy hope to stem the passions of a mature woman?
There was, of course, weeks of preliminaries, during which I gathered all of my sexual and intellectual resources. I probed and asked questions; I had to make sure that he would be the proper object, that he wouldn't crumble or be permanently damaged by my affections.
And then, one afternoon, as we were riding together in a taxi, the whole structure of my new sexuality appeared so suddenly and so violently that it almost swept both of us away.
We were sitting close together in the back seat of the cab. Louis was looking out of the window and I was staring straight ahead, my mind on a million things. Suddenly, my eyes moved downward, into his lap. I felt a longing to be there-to be between his legs-and it was a longing so powerful and so sudden that I began to shake. Swiftly, I turned away, trying to stem the tide of feeling.
But it was no use. I turned again and my eyes drank in that triangle of knees and crotch.
"Look," he muttered, pointing to something outside of the car. My eyes followed his hand for just a moment and then I slipped my hand down so that it rested on his crotch. Instantly, he froze, his body growing rigid. He wanted to turn and look at me, to rebuke me, but he wasn't able-instead, he just looked straight ahead, and muscles in his neck throbbing.
The taxi driver said something to us but neither of us answered. My hand began to rub him there, softly, feeling the flesh below the fabric.
Slowly, I slid the zipper down. His face was contorted, the eyes shut. I reached inside carefully and found the inert penis. Grasping it suddenly between my fingers, I felt his whole body wince. I held it-and began to move the loose skin back and forth. I could feel the passion growing in that young flesh. I could feel every muscle and artery as it began to throb.
My hand slid down and I found his sweet globes which rested in my palm like some exotic fruit. The taxi swerved to avoid another car and Louis was thrown closer to me. For just a moment he looked at me but the face was so pained that I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
My hand slid deeper and I felt the crack between his young buttocks. From globes to shaft and back-my hand worked like some demonic animal, stroking, exciting, bringing his organs to their pitch of maleness. The movement of the vehicle sent us into a strange sphere, as if the sexual organs were the motors which were moving us.
It was stiff, so stiff that it could hardly bear to remain in the pants; it struggled to be free. I spread the opening wide and his shaft leaped out. I could see him looking at it in astonishment.
I leaned over and let my tongue pay tribute to it, spreading my saliva evenly up and down the magnificent form. The child was desperate with fear but the feel of my tongue brought him something he had never experienced before.
The taxi swerved again and I buried my face deeper into the sweet, velvet crotch. There was the smell of young manhood, the incredible smell of purity and strength. I nuzzled it, kissed it, tongued it-the child unable to understand what was happening to him-his eyes darting wildly from the window to my body and back again. The motion of the car entwined itself in our bones.
It was futile to hold back my desires any longer. I could feel the tenseness at the base of my spine, the need to inflict upon the child a memory that would be beyond his comprehension.
I was swimming in his sex. I was being swept up by the glory of male odors which slid off the shaft and into my mouth. It had to be then-it had to be the moment when I would realize my needs.
I slipped my hands under his young globes, holding them up like two ancient offerings; then I grasped the loose skin of the scrotum in my mouth. It was gentle at first, so gentle that the child moaned.
But a moment later that gentleness passed. I fastened my teeth on the flesh and clamped down-so hard that my jaw muscles ached. I felt the rending and tearing of flesh and then I tasted the blood as it flowed into my mouth. I twisted my face in his crotch to look up at him; his face was cast in a terrible mask of pain but he withstood the need to cry out because he was aware of the driver.
That was all-there was nothing more to do. I sucked on his shaft until the young seed poured into my mouth and then I sat back, as if nothing had happened. I felt the wildest feeling of exhilaration I had ever experienced in my life. I felt as if I were totally free, that the miseries and traumas of the psyche had been resolved.
We were close to our destination and for the last few moments I sat back with my eyes closed and remembered the tasting of his blood and the rending of his delicate flesh.
"I don't understand," he said, after we had gotten out of the cab, his face twisted to one side to avoid my gaze.
"Why should you understand?" I replied, reaching up with my hand to move his face so that he should look at me. I saw in his face both fear and acceptance.
It was a week after that before I took Louis to my apartment. He was reluctant to come, afraid that the scene in the taxi would be repeated. But he came, because he wanted it as much as me.
I was completely relaxed because I was no longer fighting the strange desires. It was an evening that I shall never forget. When I opened the door to let him in I felt an incredible surge of lust for the child. As he walked with me to the living room, I stroked his neck and leaned over and thrust my tongue into his mouth. He pushed me away. I laughed and told him to sit down.
The meal was eaten slowly. I watched him chew every mouthful, excited by the motion of his teeth. Even with his clothes on, I could visualize the promise of his body. My palms were wet with sweat.
"Do you want more?"
He shook his head and pushed the plate back. The lights in my apartment had been dimmed and I could see a small twitch which had developed in his jaw. I reached over the table and kissed the twitch away. I took his hand and let it slip inside my gown for just a moment, so he could feel my ripe nipples. The child closed his eyes.
"What would you like to do?" I asked him.
He was unable to reply. I held out my hand to him and kept it steady until he took it. We walked into the bedroom.
Everything had been prepared by me as if it was a play. The child lay down on the bed and I undressed him, kissing his virgin limbs as they appeared. When he was naked and trembling on the bed, I covered his body with a thin silk gown-except for his head. There was a look of fear in his eyes but I soothed him and kissed his toes and fingers and eyes.
Then I undressed in front of him and watched his eyes gleam with lust. There was no passion as powerful as that of a child; it burns through space and time, shriveling the flesh.
I climbed on the bed beside him and then straddled his face with my naked thighs. I could feel his face tense and he moaned and gasped for breath. I pressed hard so that my vaginal nest was against his lips. I could feel the lips churning and the juices of my body began to rise.
There was a candle on the table next to the bed. I picked it up and lighted the wick, holding it away from the silk covered body until it was burning freely.
The feel of his face in my crotch made me squirm and I began to gyrate my vagina into his face, feeling the joy of his mouth, hearing the hairy bush caress his eyes and nose.
I held the burning candle close to his body, The heat began to move from the candle to the silk and his body began to react. I moved my thighs more quickly, until his moans were drowned out by the gurgling of his saliva as it formed over the vaginal lips. He thrust his tongue inside me and I cried out and pushed the candle closer to the silk, over his quivering maleness.
I could feel the heat seeping down. The child began to squirm and thrash his legs and the more he struggled, the deeper his tongue sank into my wet hot being. Slowly, terribly, his flesh was beginning to roast under the silk. My eyes gleamed as I watched the flame and every increase of heat brought an increase of joy.
I brought the candle closer and closer until the threads of the silk began to unravel. He began to scream from the pain of the heat but each scream was lost in my enveloping maw. I shut my thighs around his head to force the tongue deeper, to make his lips and teeth bruise my nest. Then, I threw the candle to one side and pulled back the silk. His penis was erect and quivering, its flesh red from the candle torture. I drenched the pain with the saliva from my own lips. At that moment, as the burning penis slipped into my mouth, I felt his tongue probe once more deeply and then my whole body exploded in the pure joy of orgasm.
Never again would I deny myself the fruits of my own subconscious.
* * *
In one of Freud's most important empirical contributions, FROM THE HISTORY OF AN INFANTILE NEUROSIS (Originally published in 1918. Reprinted in THREE CASE HISTORIES, Collier Books, New York 1963) he writes:
"The sadistic-anal organization can easily be regarded as a continuation and development of the oral one. The violent muscular activity, directed upon the object, by which it is characterized, is to be explained as an action preparatory to eating. The eating then ceases to be a sexual aim, and the preparatory action becomes a sufficient aim in itself." (p. 302)
The reader will remember three distinct phases in the development of this case. At first, she merely played the role of passive spectator as a friend performed masochistic actions upon herself while at the same time employing digital manipulation upon our subject.
In the second phases, during the seduction of the boy, Jose, she cut him with a broken bulb. But the sadistic act was only an afterthought of the genital act.
The third phase is a full-blown sadism, in which the pleasure is afforded primarily by the sadistic act.
It is quite obvious that these three distinct phases in her development correspond to the three stages of sexuality in the child as postulated by Freud; the oral, the anal and the genital. This, we have in this case a unique instance of sadistic recapitulation.
The woman, slowly and surely, divested herself of her normal erotic inclinations and embraced a sadism that gave her an erotic joy-centered in the vaginal orgasm-which she was unable to obtain by any other way. Although we know little of her past life, it is obvious that the sadism was a partial regression to the anal stage. This is observed by the constant fondling of buttocks in all the sexual episodes, although no actual anal contact with the lover was made, such as penetration.
The use of candle and silk in the erotic-sadistic act was an attempt on her part of subconsciously utilizing past memories to achieve present orgasm. The candle was obviously the phallic Father with the silk being her own body which she always wanted to give to the Father but which was prevented because of the incest taboo.
The combination of regressive anal acts and arrested Oedipal development almost insures a future breakdown. Unless there is swift and effective therapy it is doubtful that the subject can continue to live her "normal" life.
CHAPTER SIX
(Name: Patricia V. Age: Thirty-two. Place of Birth: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Occupation: Waitress.
Note: This interview was conducted with the subject at her home. Although the substance was gained in three separate interviews in as many days, I have combined them in order to facilitate reading. Except for deleting redundancies, the manuscript has not been changed in any manner.)
INTERVIEWER: Can you give us a brief idea of your sexual development before you embraced young boys as erotic objects.
PATRICIA: There is not really much to tell. I lost my virginity when I was fifteen.
INTERVIEWER: But these things are quite important. They often give us clues that are invaluable.
PATRICIA: Sure, if you want a description of what happened-I'll give it to you. I was in high school and we had the usual groups of giggling girls and awkward boys. At one point in the school year I just made up my mind that I was going to lose my virginity. It was probably because I was tired and frustrated of all the necking and petting, without consummation. When you're fifteen, and constantly being titillated by touch and taste, you want to feel a real orgasm, not the kind that is brought on by your own finger beneath some sheets. I remember the night exactly. A group of girls had been to a movie and we stopped in for an ice cream soda at a local candy store. We were giggling and flirting with the boys inside when I saw a much older boy sitting at one of the tables, drinking a cup of coffee. He didn't seem to be paying much attention to us and that annoyed me. I don't know where I got the courage but I left the counter and sat down opposite him. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He was much older and he didn't listen to a word I said. Finally, he pushed back his coffee and stood up. There was a promise in his glance and I followed him out of the store. We climbed into his car and we drove. It was faster than I had ever gone in my life and the wind whistled through the half-closed windows. We drove for about an hour and then he pulled off the road into a glade. The trees were dark and menacing and I shivered. He shut the ignition off and turned to look at me. For the first time I couldn't meet his glance. He opened the door and ordered me into the back seat. I followed his orders meekly but for the first time I felt fear; I felt a strange sense of doom.
INTERVIEWER: Did you want to leave?
PATRICIA: No, it wasn't that-I don't really know how to explain my fear but it was there-as strong as an odor. Once in the back seat, he very slowly and expertly began to unbutton my blouse. Then he unhooked my bra and slid it off. He stared at my breasts for a long while and then reached over and kissed one nipple. I felt an electric shock go through my body. He kissed the other one and took it gently in his mouth. I could feel the saliva of his lips as they caressed the point. He swallowed the whole nipple and then the breast, sucking on the white mound. I leaned back, caught up in a whirlpool of emotions that I had never experienced before. He lay me down on the back seat and removed the rest of my clothes. I was naked and shivering and I kept my knees locked together. He began to talk to me in a whisper, telling me that everything would be all right, and slowly he slipped his hand between my knees and forced the legs to spread open. The hand travelled down my thighs until it rested in the hair of my crotch. I was completely spread, completely open. He bent over and buried his face in my vaginal hair. I felt like an animal was between my legs and I struggled for the first time, trying to push him back, trying to close my legs around his head, to crush the life from his probing mouth. But it was futile. He was there to stay. His mouth probed my vaginal lips, dropping saliva along the inside, sucking at the nest. I could feel the sharp point of his tongue as he probed. I began to weep, to whine like a sickly child. His tongue would not listen; it danced inside my nest, sending incredible pulses up and down my body. His hands went under my buttocks and lifted me a few inches off the seat in order to make a feast out of my womanhood. The soft flesh on the inside of my thighs was burning with lust. I reached down and entwined my hands in his luxurious hair and he sucked so hard on my nest that I felt the vaginal walls were caving in. If I close my eyes I can still remember it now, the heat in the car from our bodies, the sense of being torn apart by a tongue, the sharp fleshy point as it plucked and furrowed like some erotic bird. Then he slid it out and I lay weeping and moaning on the seat. His eyes were wild and his mouth was wet with the juices of my body. He kissed me and I could taste the dark, musty odors of my womanhood. Then I saw him fumble with his pants and the column leaped out. It stood dancing in front of my eyes not more than a few inches away. I reached out with my fingers and touched it-then pulled back as if I had been burned. I reached out again and this time folded my palm around its pulsing body. It was alive and furious. It scalded my hand and I began to rub it; to feel the shape and promise. I had to taste it, I had to taste the thing which I had waited so long for. I arched my back and came up to meet it, touching the tip with my lips. It tasted of meat, of cooked, ravenous meat. I licked the sides, tasting the muscles and pounding arteries. Then he pushed me back down on the seat. I spread my legs for him only this time it was not the tender tongue which was inserted-it was the violent penetration of the penis, digging deep, tearing through my virgin opening. The pain made me open my mouth wide and my body shivered from the terrible shock. He was inside, deep inside and I was being impaled on the seat covers. It hurt, it hurt so much that the tears flooded my eyes. But then there was that moment of break-through, that moment when the pain vanishes and I am caught up in the rhythm of love-the incredible erotic rhythm where both of our bodies moved together. It was growing inside of me and I screamed and moaned and scratched him with my nails as he drove it into me. I couldn't get enough, I wanted every inch of that erect meat. He gasped once, and then stopped-a moment later the seed shot into me and I fell back. He had come too early and I was suspended there. He eased himself down and pushed his tongue into the wet, misty core. Twisting and turning it, he exploded my crotch into orgasm and I felt myself being transported to a land I never thought existed.
INTERVIEWER: Is that all?
PATRICIA: Everything-as it happened.
INTERVIEWER: Are you sure you left nothing out?
PATRICIA: Nothing.
INTERVIEWER: Was there one sexual experience in your life that would fit in the category of a hinge experience?
PATRICIA: I don't understand what you mean by a 'hinge' experience.
INTERVIEWER: An erotic experience that you believe had a crucial part in the eventual development of your passion.
PATRICIA: Yes, I think I understand.
INTERVIEWER: Usually every person has one such experience. With some it was a hidden incestuous act, that the mind has repressed. With others it is a homosexual experience which dramatically changed the course of their life.
PATRICIA: I do remember something. It was about five years ago. An old friend had come into town, one I hadn't seen since our high school days. I had been invited to a party so I asked her if she would like to go along. She was delighted so we arrived early and began to drink heavily. Most of the time we sat in a corner together, talking over old times and asking each other questions about people we hadn't seen for so many years. The party, however, was getting wilder and wilder. A woman in the center of the room had stripped and was dancing to the music. Men kept staggering over to her and pawing her body. The music got louder and louder and like it or not we found ourselves being swept up in the general insanity. A lot more people were stripping and everyone was grabbing.
INTERVIEWER: Did your friend protest?
PATRICIA: On the contrary, she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. There is something seductive about being in a group of people who are getting rid of all their inhibitions. It's almost like a disease, a drug that overcomes any resistance you may have. Anyway, our faces flushed, we joined in the general chaos. We were drinking more and more, our heads spilling, our bodies reacting violently to the heavy beat of the music which was so loud we couldn't hear any voices above the din. I went to get another drink and when I came back my friend was gone. She seemed to have completely vanished. I walked through the whole room, stepping carefully to avoid the naked bodies, separating clinging forms to identify them. A man grabbed me and ripped the front of my dress so that the breasts tumbled out. He grabbed them greedily and pushed me against the wall. I escaped from his grip and ran back to the other side. Then I noticed that there was a door open, just a little. I pushed against it and found myself on the terrace. My friend was near the railing. She was absolutely naked and her body was swaying in time to the music. I began to walk toward her and she turned to face me. She was full-blooded woman, her breasts heavy with the weight of maturity. Her nipples were like twin brown medals at the base of the white peaks. I walked closer and I saw that she was crying. I didn't understand. I had never seen a person in the throes of erotic passion while at the same time weeping terribly. Then I noticed something else. The front of her body was soaking wet. There were rivulets moving down her flesh, down her legs and arms, into her crotch. It was obvious what had happened; in a fit of passion she had poured whiskey over herself and now she was weeping over what she had done. I don't know what memories it had evoked from her past but they were potent enough to make her hysterical, with a kind of hidden grief.
INTERVIEWER: How do you know it was grief?
PATRICIA: It had to be.
INTERVIEWER: Perhaps it was some other emotion. Aren't you projecting?
PATRICIA: I'm telling you, it was grief-a grief that few people know about.
INTERVIEWER: I'm sorry to interrupt-please continue.
PATRICIA: I called her name and asked her if I could do anything but she didn't hear-or if she did-she didn't respond. Her tears kept coming, staining her body. I felt an odd sense of disgust combined with a desire. I'm not a lesbian and I've never been one but the sight of her full, ripe body made me tremble. Her thighs were large and well formed. I could see the jewel nestling in her crotch. Suddenly, I felt that I had to do something; that I had to ease her pain and grief.
INTERVIEWER: Did she come toward you?
PATRICIA: No, she just stood there-her palms out-stretched and turned out in a gesture of despair.
INTERVIEWER: Did you see her clothes?
PATRICIA: Yes, they were scattered all over the floor of the terrace as if they had been ripped from her in an animal frenzy.
INTERVIEWER: What did you do?
PATRICIA: I moved closer, so close I could inhale the strange mixture of sweat and whiskey. Her arms were still outstretched. I reached over and licked the tears from between her breasts. I felt difficulty in breathing, I felt that something was pressing me from behind. I was insane with the desire to lick away her pain; to take the whiskey and sweat and tears off her body. The moment I touched her flesh I felt as if a spike had been driven into my head. There was nothing I could do to fight it-there was nothing I could do to prevent myself continuing. My tongue moved down her body, furrowing in the navel like a worm. She began to weep harder and I slipped my hands around her quivering buns to draw her close. I couldn't get close enough, I couldn't absorb enough of the powerful odors that were coming from her body. I was like an animal that had been driven crazy by chemicals. Downwards-always downwards-as if there were a compass in my head which would tell me where the most delicate areas were waiting. Then I buried my face in her wet jewel, sucking up the moisture that lay like an absorbent net among her crotch hairs. She was trembling so hard that I thought she would fall. I held her more tightly and my tongue finally found the ultimate jewel. I pried her vaginal lips apart and fastened my mouth to it. Slowly, I began to suck, to pull the tears and juice out. She was crumbling and my nails went into her ass, giving her strength through pain. I slid my tongue deep inside of her. She moaned and then began to laugh. It was the laugh of a deranged woman. I slid it deep and twisted it so that the tip would lance the hidden areas. It was warm and dark and it made me drunk with a passion I had never felt before. I began to bite her crotch, to chew and mouth the delicate flower. I wanted to rip it from her body. My tongue seemed to never stop, to carve out a niche for itself deep inside her body. She no longer cried; she kept pushing her body into my face as if we were making love. And then I felt her body tense and a second later the orgasm engulfed her, leaving her a trembling wreck upon the ground. I stood over her, breathing heavily.
INTERVIEWER: What did you feel then?
PATRICIA: I felt shame-a terrible shame. I wanted to throw myself off the terrace.
INTERVIEWER: Did your friend say anything?
PATRICIA: Nothing at all.
INTERVIEWER: Nothing?
PATRICIA: All she did was dress. And after she dressed she walked out of the party and I never saw her again.
INTERVIEWER: All right. Now let's explore the first time you were attracted to young boys and the incidents surrounding your first commitment to that type of activity.
PATRICIA: I was working as a waitress in a diner. It was a terrible job but the tips were good and I was making a lot of money.
INTERVIEWER: Was that your first job as a waitress?
PATRICIA: NO, there had been other ones. I had slipped into that kind of work more out of laziness than anything else. Anyway, at that particular diner, there were a lot of children who used to eat lunch there. A large private school was right down the road. Most waitresses hate to serve kids but these weren't bad. All they used to order was a hamburger and a coke.
INTERVIEWER: Before you begin-was there any interim experience with a child-one that was not necessarily sexual.
PATRICIA: I don't know what you mean.
INTERVIEWER: Do you have a young nephew you're close to? Did you do any community work with disturbed children?
PATRICIA: No, nothing at all.
INTERVIEWER: Did that last incident you described, the one at the party, continue to play a large role in your life?
PATRICIA: How could it? She left.
INTERVIEWER: I mean in your dreams.
PATRICIA: I rarely dream.
INTERVIEWER: Are you sure?
PATRICIA: I know whether I dream or not.
INTERVIEWER: All right. Please continue.
PATRICIA: There was only one child who gave me trouble. He was a real spoiled brat. Whatever I brought him, he would send back, as if he owned the diner. I don't even recall his name but he plagued me one whole summer.
INTERVIEWER: How old was he?
PATRICIA: Around fourteen I think, but I can't be sure. Anyway, one day I grew so furious at him that I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a small linen closet off the kitchen. He kept laughing as I pulled him and making faces at me. Once the door was closed, I shook him hard and warned him not to bother me anymore or I would make it so miserable for him that he would regret it. He just stood there and laughed at me. Then, to my astonishment, he took out a piece of fruit and began to eat it. At first I couldn't even see what it was because his hand hid it but then I saw it was a ripe persimmon. His grinning mouth made deep cavernous cuts into the gaping fruit. He was eating it that way to mock me. I leaned over and snatched the fruit from his hand. His face took on the look of an injured saint. I held the ripe fruit in my hand, the weight of its body and seeds exerting a strange effect on me.
INTERVIEWER: Did the boy try to escape the room?
PATRICIA: No.
INTERVIEWER: Did he struggle to get the fruit back?
PATRICIA: Not physically.
INTERVIEWER: Were you sexually excited?
PATRICIA: Not until I held that half-eaten piece of fruit in my hand. Until then I was just mad, but the moment my fingers closed around it, really I knew something was happening to me. "Do you really want the fruit back?" I asked him. He stood there, watching first me and then the fruit. There was a strange play going on between us but neither of us knew the script. I asked the question again, screaming at him this time: "Do you want the fruit back?" He just stood there and grinned at me. What happened next was so incredible that I want to make sure I get it exactly right. The moment after he grinned I felt an overpowering sense of both hate and passion. The child seemed to grow in my eyes, to become something he was not.
INTERVIEWER: What do you mean to "become something he was not."
PATRICIA: I don't know.
INTERVIEWER: Do you mean he became your father?
PATRICIA: No!
INTERVIEWER: Then what?
PATRICIA: I don't know. Let me tell you what happened next. I took the ripe fruit in my hand and crushed it against his face. The juice and flesh of the persimmon made a red scar on his white flesh. Then I crushed the fruit more and ground it into the back of his neck. I was like a crazed woman, the application of the fruit gave me the most exquisite pleasure I had ever experienced. The juices and pulp moved down his face in small rivulets and for the first time I noticed that his eyes were closed. Suddenly, I had this terrible degrading desire to remove what I had done, to lick away the degrading juices. I pressed my lips against his face, almost without thinking, and began to lick the residue from the fruit off his flesh-a little at a time-my tongue corroding his skin. He backed up and opened his lips a little. I let my tongue slip inside, depositing some pulp, as a worker bee feeds a Queen bee. I fed the child like that, an incredible ritual of sex and fulfillment-catching the bits of stray pulp on my tongue and then slipping past into his lips and into the waiting maw. I loved every moment of that ritual-I felt both a beautiful erotic surge and also the feeling of art-of making something beautiful and permanent.
INTERVIEWER: Did he at any time close his mouth?
PATRICIA: No, he kept it open to receive the honey.
INTERVIEWER: You mean the persimmon pulp-there was no honey.
PATRICIA: Of course you're right-I was just using honey as a word to describe my actions. I had become like a bee.
INTERVIEWER: Please go on.
PATRICIA: I had to have something more. The feeding ritual had almost driven my body insane with lust. I felt tingling and alive, I felt that my body would explode from my clothes. My mouth was filled with the scattered juices and pulp and the sweet saliva from his own mouth. The child was moaning now, splintered by the continual thrust of my tongue bringing him food. Suddenly, I was down on my knees, without thinking. I swiftly opened the child's pants and let his maleness slip out. It came toward me slowly, almost reluctantly. I let it rest in the palm of my hands and began to twirl it until the heat caused it to rise. It rose and rose, the muscles and veins beginning to pulse and the child staring at his own organ in wild-eyed terror. Then it was large enough; and I slid my fruit-stained lips over it. All this happened so quickly that neither of us could reflect on what we were doing. I tasted the incredibly sweet flesh of his maleness and my lips massaged the pulp into it. The small room was filled with the fog of our passion; I gulped him down, sucking it into my mouth with a fury beyond my wildest dreams. The flesh became sticky from the coating, the juices from the persimmon making the child moan as they were lovingly folded over the penis. He grew large in my mouth and each extra inch sent new tremors into my body. Then, a sudden jerk, and the seed poured through the fruity covering and I choked on the substance. It was over. We looked at each other in pain. I turned quickly, walked out of the closet, and out of the diner.
INTERVIEWER: You mean you quit the job?
PATRICIA: I just walked out. I couldn't stay there any longer. I had completely lost control and my nerves were shredded.
INTERVIEWER: When you finally regained control of yourself-what did you think-how did you interpret what had happened to yourself?
PATRICIA: I refused to think of it at first. I just wanted to bury it deep in my unconscious. But gradually, to remain sane, I had to think of it and rationalize. I thought that I had been temporarily unhinged by the pressures of the job. I vowed to quit being a waitress.
INTERVIEWER: Did you in fact quit?
PATRICIA: No, I didn't. I slid back into another waitress job.
INTERVIEWER: That was a preliminary event in your erotic development. Can you relate the experience that captured you for this style of erotic life?
PATRICIA: I had been working in a good, downtown restaurant, making more money than I had ever made in my life. The only trouble with it was that I would get out very late-sometimes three o'clock in the morning. Well, one day, after I had finished work I decided not to take a cab home even though it was very late. It was one of those magnificent spring nights where everything seems perfect, the temperature, the moon, the position of the stars. I felt alive and I felt good. It was about a forty-five minute walk from the restaurant to my house and I set off at a brisk pace. Occasionally a drunk would stumble out of an alley and make comments to me but there was really no danger. I was about halfway home when I saw something peculiar on the far side of the street. A young boy was obviously trying to break into a car. He was standing close to the front window, hunched over, his eyes darting up and down the street like a furtive animal. Then a patrol car passed and saw him. The boy took off like a thunderbolt, racing off the street into an alley. The policemen got out of their car, checked the vehicle that the boy had tried to break into, peered once into the alley and then rode away. I continued my walk but I hadn't gotten more than ten feet when I heard a terrible moan coming from that alley. I didn't know what to do. I was frightened, but by the sound the boy seemed to be hurt badly. I walked softly into the dark passageway. My eyes grew accustomed to the light and I saw the boy stretched out on the ground. He had tried to scale a fence that was topped with barbed wire. The wire had bit deep into his calf. He was lying on the ground moaning like a stricken animal. I felt a chill in my body and then a flood of warmth so powerful that I can't describe it. I kneeled and looked at the wound. It was open and bleeding freely. I reached out with one finger and touched the blood. I was shivering all over. The boy had turned over on his back and was staring at me, his face wide with fear and astonishment. He had a cruel young face and his unruly hair spilled over his forehead. I touched the wound again and this time the warmth of his blood caressed my hand as if it was the sweetest medicine. Something in me was forcing me to extremes. I felt a sense of abandon, as if I was close to death, as if I needed some total and purifying experience to survive. I bent over and kissed the wound, and the hot blood scalding my lips. I closed my eyes and a dizzy sensation drove me along to a new plateau of consciousness. I lay down on the cold ground beside the boy and lifted up my skirt. His eyes were narrow slits. I took his hand and pushed it into my fevered crotch. He grasped the hair as if it was life itself. I forced him to rub, to explore the perimeter of my being, to thrust his fingers into the scalding, moist vagina. Then I moved up his body and rammed my nest into his face. He began to breathe heavily and I started a sort of berserk rhythm. His tongue shot out and impaled me. The cold of the alley swirled around us as the snake probed. I crushed his face with my hot sex. I spread my legs until he could see the very center of my vagina and the small pools of joys which waited for him along the erotic walls. Thrust and twist-a carnal tongue destroying my insides, shattering all my illusions. Then I withdrew my body and the child lay on the ground, his tongue still wet from my vaginal embrace. I returned to the wound and filled myself with his blood, letting the liquid coat the insides of my mouth. Then I undid his pants and bared his manhood. A slight wind passed over us, as if the erotic angel was giving us her blessings. I burrowed between his legs and found the sweet globes encased in the scrotum. I picked at the loose flesh until it was between my teeth, like a mother cat picking up her babies by the nape of the neck. I bit softly until the blood from his scrotum joined with the blood from his leg. I was growing even more dizzy, even more unable to stop myself. Then I kissed his penis with my bloody lips until it had risen. Squatting on all fours, I swallowed it, forcing it slowly and lovingly into the roof of my mouth-sucking it until he screamed, lathering it with blood and saliva until I wanted to bite it off chunk by chunk. He was bringing his body off the ground, even in his pain, to pump the living shaft deeper and deeper. When it was near explosion, when the veins and muscles were like things of steel and fire, I slid my mouth off and gave it my buttocks-screaming with joy as the shaft cut through the buns and plunged into the vortex of my anus. A shudder-a scream-the folding of bruised flesh around the lance-and then the seed inundated my core, leaving me exhausted and satisfied on the hard ground.
INTERVIEWER: Then what did you do?
PATRICIA: I ran, I left him on the ground. I escaped.
INTERVIEWER: Did he follow you?
PATRICIA: No, he was hurt.
INTERVIEWER: Did you know his name?
PATRICIA: No.
INTERVIEWER: Did you ever see him again?
PATRICIA: No.
INTERVIEWER: And when what?
PATRICIA: And then the whole deadly game started in earnest. The breakthrough seemed to have been made. I no longer deluded myself into thinking I was normal. I became a furtive person, working hard, having no friends-living only for those moments when I could find a child and let my tongue and body pay tribute to him. It was not easy, and as the years go by it gets more difficult. I feel weary with my passion, as a cripple feels with a deformed limb. It seems never to stop.
INTERVIEWER: Thank you.
* * *
In the now classic work on Genitality, THALASSA (W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 1968) the great Hungarian psychoanalyst Sandor Ferenczi writes:
"According to the conception here present, the pro-creative function thus concentrates a whole series of elements of pleasure and anxiety into a single act; the pleasure of liberation from disturbing stimuli of instinctual origin, the pleasure of return to the maternal womb, the pleasure of happily accomplished birth; and the anxiety, on the other hand, which has been experienced in the course of birth and that which one would necessarily feel in connection with the (fantasized) return to the womb." (p. 43.)
Using the 'return to the womb' model of the above passage, we can begin to understand this important case.
Patricia uses her tongue as the focal point of her erotic acts. The tongue is the sharp, the boring instrument which will bring her back into the womb. By using such a weapon, she can also relieve the strain of such a return because the tongue is also a key organ in normal oral sexuality.
Her strange syndrome of coating the organ to be sexually attacked either with the pulp of a piece of fruit or the blood from the wound is merely her way of erecting an alternative to the fluid which accompanies the unborn child for nine months in the womb. In order to return to the womb she once again has to submerge herself in an intrauterine existence, which means a return to living underwater. The use of blood is also a way to ease her guilt at her actions. The fantasy is that the blood is her own and that she is thrusting it into the wound rather than taking it from it. This syndrome is a common one in various religious sects where fanaticism runs rampant.
The last and most crucial question is why she uses young boys as her sexual objects-since the tongue would work equally well on any type of subject. The only plausible answer is that she needed subjects who were closer to the birth trauma, who could still incorporate segments of the birth trauma in their adolescent psyches. To use younger children, pre-adolescents, would have meant the sacrifice of erotic excitement-which she was not prepared to lose.
In her last statement she comments how the secretive life becomes more and more wearying. In cases such as these, suicide is quite common and only a prolonged analysis can stem the seeds of psychic and physical dissolution.
CHAPTER SEVEN
(Name: Laura F. Age: Thirty-three. Place of Birth: New York City. Occupation: None.)
I suppose that I'm one of the most useless women in the world. If someone would ask my function in life; the only honest answer would be to say that I was a party-goer. Yes, that's about my most important function in life. And I go to a lot of parties, probably over a hundred a year. Of course, I don't go to just any party; it has to be 'society' or what the newspapers call the "jet set."
It's become a sort of drug with me, a necessity, although I've long passed the point where I enjoy any of them or any of the people.
But, about a year ago, there was a new development in my rather bizarre life. It was a development which no one knows about, except the victims, and if it was generally known, I would become a pariah in my own world.
There had been a party at Count Igor's-who is one of the wealthiest men in the world and an art collector of superb sensibility. As usual, the food was incredible, the drinks ample, travelling minstrels made the evening even more pleasant. I, of course, was too jaded to really enjoy myself; I just propped myself against a chair and listened to the long line of men and women who paid their respects to me as if I was a host rather than a guest. This one was going to Lisbon and would I care to go along? That one had bought a genuine Picasso and would I like to see it? A whole series of conversations; one more stupid than the other, and I listened as if I was contemplating all their words intently although I hadn't heard three quarters of what they said.
As the evening progressed, I wandered off from the main room and found myself in a series of high-ceilinged massive rooms. They seemed to be libraries, though one had been converted into a small movie theatre.
Suddenly, I heard a man shouting and screaming. It seemed to come from the adjoining room. I went to the door and opened it just a crack. Eavesdropping is an accepted custom at society parties, particularly in the country, so I really didn't care about the morality of the act.
It was Count Igor who was walking up and down in front of the sofa and ranting. Sitting on the sofa was a young man of not more than fifteen years who was obviously the Count's son. He seemed completely unconcerned with what his father was saying. The boy had a beautiful face even when it was twisted in contempt, and he had the build of an athlete-broad shoulders-long limbs. Then the Count stopped yelling. The boy replied:
"I despise your life. I despise everything you stand for. I can't stomach these idiots who come to your parties; these retarded butterflies-I hate them all."
"What don't you hate?" The Count screamed at him.
But the boy was already gone. The Count sat down on the sofa and placed his hands over his eyes. I knocked on the door softly.
"Yes?" He asked, thinking it was one of the servants.
He smiled when he saw me.
"Perhaps you've heard how a modern parent treats his son."
"He seems very mad at you," I replied.
"His name is Karl-my only son-and unfortunately, a young man who hates everything I love; tradition, sophistication, art."
"He's young," I said, by way of consolation.
The Count just sat there, shaking his head from side to side, and I was quite sure that I could see tears moving down his cheeks. Then he excused himself on the grounds that he had to get back to his guests.
I stayed in the room, a bit tipsy from too much to drink and not really wanting to go back to the jungle. My eyes fell on the door which the young man had stamped through. It must be the door leading to the private wing of the house, the section of the bedrooms. I had a tremendous longing to see the house, to find out just who Count Igor-was, how he lived, what he liked. It was only this strange devouring curiosity which kept me alive, from one useless party to the next.
I opened the door and walked into a long hall. There was a staircase at the end. I took it and found myself on a different level of the house, almost a gallery, flanked by pieces of sculpture and massive paintings hung from the wall. Then I saw a room, with a large oak door and a light underneath. It had to be Karl's room. For some reason I had a tremendous desire to speak to him, to play myself off against him as his father had done.
I knocked-there was no answer. I knocked again and this time a weary, cynical voice called out: "Come-in." He must have thought it was his father coming to renew the futile argument.
The room was large and wood-paneled. Grotesque posters hung from the walls. Karl was lying on the bed, his shoes off, reading a magazine. When he saw me he sat up.
"Who are you?"
"I'm one of those retarded butterflies."
He laughed and threw the magazine onto the floor.
"Then why don't you just fly out of here?"
There was something about his youth-his anger-which was purging. I felt alive in that room, more alive than I had ever felt in my life.
"I'd rather talk to you."
"About what?"
"Oh, I don't know-about the world-about parties-about rebellious children."
"You know what you can do with your lectures."
I walked to a window and pulled a curtain aside. The gardens were ablaze with light and I could see people milling on all parts of the estate.
"You hate all this-don't you?" I asked softly.
"All of it."
"Without exception?"
"Without exception."
I let the curtains fall back. The faces of the posters seemed to bore into my mind.
"Perhaps it is your youth you hate-your impotence," I suggested. I felt incredibly wise for the moment.
"I'm tired of hearing that shit."
The moment he said that, the moment he uttered those words, I felt something come over me that I can only describe as a form of temporary insanity.
It was his use of the word 'tired.' Perhaps we were all tired. Perhaps it was only that child who had said that word in a voice that approximated my own despair. Perhaps a million things, but I know only one and that is something in me seemed to fall apart and a whole new dimension of my psyche was open.
I moved quickly to the boy. He reacted defensively, as if I was somehow in league with his father. I bent close and touched his ear lobe with tongue. I felt a passion that I could not explain, much less control. The posters seemed to be changing places on the walls and all of them were speaking to me; their bodies and their colors and their shapes. I grabbed the child but his powerful arms threw me off.
"What are you doing?" I heard him ask.
My tongue was on his neck, drinking in that incredible shape of youth, feeling the neck muscles as they expanded and contracted under my touch.
There was a moment then-a moment of uncertainty. We both sat on the bed, two absurd things, each of them unable to adjust, each of them desperately unhappy but unable to pinpoint the cause of the unhappiness.
"I don't understand," he said.
"Nor do I," I replied.
My hands moved all over his body and then I began to weep. I buried my head in his chest. His hand moved over my shoulder in a gesture of sympathy. Then they moved under my arms and slid to the breast. The moment I felt those strong fingers I ripped the flimsy bodice and they tumbled out. In the light, I could see the boy's gaze on them-his look of awe and then, ultimately, his look of love.
"Yours, they're yours," I whispered to him, as if he was the knight of the golden grail who had performed incredible feats of bravery and now was ready to collect his prize.
I shall never forget that look on his face, just before he buried his head between my naked breasts. It was a look of anger, anger at the world, and the belief that only two bodies in love could fight the enmity of that world.
He knew nothing but he knew everything. He was innocent and at the same time one of the wisest children who ever lived.
His teeth were gleaming white-they opened to let the nipple slide in. It had been so long since I had felt a genuine passion, so long since I had felt the animal splendor-that I wept again as he sucked on my points. I danced on the bed as he chewed, I pushed the white mounds deep so that I could elicit every drop of saliva from his mouth every movement of his divine tongue.
My nipple was erect-like a scorpion in a cage. He played with it-he sucked it-he nibbled it-he brought me the joy of the breasts that few women know.
And then he let them slide out. I was on the floor, beside the bed, suddenly wondering what was happening to me.
"I hate all of your rebellion," I suddenly screamed at him.
The child stared at me. His lips were curled almost as a wolf.
"And I hate all of this," I wept, spreading my hands out to signify that I despised my life as much as he despised it.
The roles changed. In one incredible moment our roles completely reversed. He reached down and helped me back onto the bed. His hands peeled off my clothes, bit by bit, garment by garment. I could hear him breathing heavily, like a young stud that had been let out by his owner to service his first mare. But in spite of the excitement, there was no trembling on his part-he knew what he wanted. He was old-very old. He was a man-a man who had seen nothing but knew everything. All these bizarre thoughts and reflections were racing in my head. Then I was naked and I rolled to the wall which fronted on the bed. My hands moved up the plaster walls. He buried his face beneath my arms and then kissed my breasts again. I turned to look at him and had one terrible vision of his face-where the darkness and rebellion had all come to the surface.
I rolled on my back and spread my legs. He looked at the dark star waiting for him. I could see the grin spread around his face. Was that a child? What was that? I remember those questions until he dived-and my crotch accepted the brutality of his face.
I closed my legs so that he could never escape. A long kiss from his virgin mouth to my vaginal lips. The probing with his love-tipped tongue. My body seemed to be opening as it had never opened before. I was a hive, ready to be divested of all of its nectar.
It was an animal between my legs. All semblance of civilization, of culture, seemed to leave him. He became the child beast-that strange entity of which all the poets and psychologists speak.
He ripped away at my crotch with his mouth as if only the nest could give him sustenance. He bit and furrowed and finally slid his tongue up the canal. I tried to scream but the pain was mixed with an ultimate joy. I opened wider and the tongue was twisting and churning in my wet vagina. The vaginal walls were like wild flowers, draping his tongue with the love of my body. I squirmed and moaned and tossed from side to side to extract every bit of beauty and muscle from that probing delight.
The tongue was ripping away every vestige of superficiality in my life. This was the child of Count Igor but he had none of the rarified sophistication of his father; that last gasp of a White Russian aristocracy which was living out a dream in the cities of the world.
He pulled it out-scraping the walls-curling my sex. I turned over and over-weeping-asking that it be inserted again. I got to my knees and ground the lower half of my body to entice him-as savages do.
His hands went under my buttocks and lifted me up, and then pushed me backward so that I was resting in a weird position with my neck against the wall. It was as if I had turned into an insect and he was hovering over me.
Then I saw it-dancing in the night-large and full-blooded-so powerful that it seemed to be leaving his body, to be straining against the connections.
Underneath, I could see the sweet globes, round and perfect.
For just one moment-he let me taste it-he let me suck it with my burning mouth. And then he pulled it away. I looked up and saw a poster grinning at me.
He rammed it in-deep and hard-my back being crushed against the wall. He was half-standing, half-kneeling, and he drove it with all of his back and thigh muscles. I had never been penetrated with such a force. It was a child who had dredged up every passion-every repression of his adolescence-which he was coming out of.
We began the rhythm of love, our bodies pumping and driving, trying to extract the juices from each other. I moaned as it grew within me.
It was too much for him. He began to weep as he pumped. He couldn't stop-he couldn't control the insane libido.
The penis was a fiery thong and it rammed those hot coals deep in my nest. Then it was ready for me-I could feel the beginning of orgasm. I raised my body an inch and he drove the shaft upward. I went over the top-moaning and laughing as my body exploded. But he was still there, erect. I held the globes in my hand and ate the penis-sucking it-pouring my mouth over the male wand. The seed bubbled out and I drank it down, pulling his sticky maleness from him. He moaned as he was released and his eyes were wide open.
We were silent for a long time. The madness seemed to leave me and I was ashamed of myself.
"Why did you come here?" Karl asked.
"I don't know."
"Did you come here to climb in my bed with me?"
"Not that."
"Did you come here because I'm young and you feel sorry for me," he asked, his face livid with a new-found rage.
"Then why?"
I dressed as I thought about the question. I pulled back the curtains and saw that the party was still going on, oblivious to what had happened in some out-of-the-way room.
"Perhaps it is because of them," I said, pointing down.
"You are one of them," he said, with disgust in his voice.
"Yes, I am."
I walked to the door and turned around to face him once again.
"Will you come again?" he asked.
"Should I?"
"Yes."
I shrugged my shoulders as I walked out, as confused as when I entered.
The next morning, of course, I could scarcely believe what had happened. The facts seemed to twist in my mind, making an incredible Mosaic. I tried to act in a critical way, to feel as if what I had done was terribly wrong-but all I could feel was a profound sense of erotic satisfaction. I actually felt fulfilled.
I stood in front of the mirror and remembered what the young boy had called us-all of us who still maintained the social life of an aristocracy-retarded butterflies. I raised my hands in front of the mirror and flapped them.
It was the height of the party season and there were more affairs and charity balls I could attend. For almost two months that incident with Karl remained an isolated event-just something that had happened in a moment of confusion.
But at the party for Gia Paco, an immensely wealthy South American Jet Setter, my newfound passion became more than a solitary incident.
It was one of those noisy parties with a tremendous number of bands and more food than could feed an invading army. In fact, stuffed turkeys were lined up in trays all about the room, surrounded by candied sweet potatoes and jellied fruit. It was one of the most spectacular food displays I had ever seen. Gia Paco was the hit of the party and she fluttered around, dispensing kisses and brief jokes.
I had been making pleasant conversation with a gentleman, when I saw a young man walking along the far wall, his lips curled up in distaste at the stuffed turkeys. From time to time he would stop and touch one with his foot. I had never seen the boy before and I took a sudden interest. Excusing myself for a moment, I walked to the far wall and began to follow him as he walked. He was thin, almost ascetic in appearance, with soft golden hair that seemed to fall down his neck.
"Are you waiting for one of the turkeys to speak to you?"
He was startled by my comment and he spun around quickly. The moment I saw his face I was sorry I had made such a tasteless remark. There was something wrong with the young boy, he seemed to be struggling against something.
"Can I help you?" I asked, softly. By accident I had reached out my hand and it touched his arm. He shook my hand off as if I had some loathsome disease.
"Go away from me," he said.
"Very well," I replied, smiling and walking back to the man I was speaking to. Standing there, I pretended to be disinterested in the child but I made sure to keep a close tab on his actions.
After a few moments of walking some more among the stuffed turkeys, he walked over to one of the bands and proceeded to stare at the musicians. Then he had an argument with a bar waiter as to whether or not he would be able to drink. The child was young but he seemed almost dissolute, like one of those young English lords that had been totally corrupted by the time they were fourteen.
Then he vanished. I began to look for him in the room-but he was gone. He had slipped out as quickly and as silently as he had slipped in. I began to walk around the rooms, still keeping an eye out, but also examining more of the people and paying my compliments to those I knew. Suddenly, I heard something in my ear:
"Why do you keep following me?"
It was the voice of the boy. I half turned my head and could see him leaning against the corner of the bookcase, slim and slight and inconspicuous.
"I'm not following you," I said softly.
"I know that you are," he replied, his voice taking on the quality of steel.
The room was noisy and filled with smoke. I turned and stared at him; his eyes were so soft and pathetic, in spite of the steel of his voice. I had the incredible feeling that he would crumble, that if he was not careful, a single incident would pry him apart.
"Can we go somewhere?" I asked.
"To hell?"
"No, someplace a bit more hospitable, to a study or a library."
"I like it here."
"Come with me."
I walked away. He waited for a moment and then followed, dragging his feet as if they were useless appendages that had to be appeased.
We climbed the staircase and I turned the knob of a wood-paneled door. It swung open into a room lined with books and bookshelves.
The boy closed the door behind him and the moment he was completely inside and we were alone, he spun on me and hissed:
"You're one of the spies they've sent. Don't you think I know that?"
He was so obviously disturbed, so full of delusions and fears that I almost wept. He threw his head back and the golden hair poured down.
"Who sent me?" I asked, smiling.
Then he collapsed on the sofa, his body yielding to a psychological fatigue. He began to talk, to tell me about his life. He told me how he hated his parents, how he hated school, how he hated to do everything that was expected of him. His thin hands were trembling as they accentuated his points. His neck was flushed a deep red.
There was a strange inflection at the end of his words that bespoke a nascent homosexuality. There was no doubt that this confusion of sexual identity played a large part in his disturbance.
"They want me to see an analyst. I laughed in their face. They want me to go for help. Help? What's that? The only cure is death."
He kept spinning those morbid aphorisms out and I listened, fascinated with the child. Suddenly, to show him my interest and concern, I sat on the sofa with him and took one of his hands.
"What are you doing? I don't need a mother. I have one already."
"I'm not your mother," I replied.
He angled his head so that I could see his profile. The child had a strange sense of his own body; I could already tell that. It was as if he wanted to throw it away. It was as if his body was the ultimate protest, the only way he could register his hate and his rage.
Suddenly, he reached out with one of his incredibly thin but beautiful hands.
"They hate me because I'm homosexual."
It was not a statement. It was a plea for help, a plea for love. I took his hand and held it up. The dim light in the library glinted along the nails. I kissed one finger and then another and slowly the fingers slid into my mouth. He had closed his eyes and his lips were slightly open-breathing heavily. I tasted the young flesh, lolling my tongue around the finger, subtly giving him a promise of things to come. Then the hand slid out and away.
He opened his eyes to look at me. The blond eyebrows were furrowed. At that moment I felt an incredible surge of lust and optimism; that I could bring him back to the sexual norm that he really craved. My body was tingling with anticipation. I slid closer to him.
"What is your name?"
"Jan."
"What do you want, Jan?"
He turned away from me when I asked that question and I could see the curve of the neck with the gentle golden down at the base.
I kissed the neck and I felt the boy shiver, his arms coming to his side.
"Lay back, lay back," I whispered. He tried to fight me but his body was my own. He stretched out on the sofa, trembling, afraid.
Slowly, I undid his pants and lay bare the jewel, resting softly in the bush of golden down. I stared at it, never having seen such an exquisite organ. I felt the top of my throat grow dry and my hands trembled so much I had to clutch the fabric of the sofa.
I pulled his pants down further so that I could see the eloquence of his young thighs. I kissed the loose skin on the inside of the leg and my mouth moved inexorably toward the jewel of his manhood. He was squirming but he made no violent effort to escape. I reached the point and flung my face into his genitals, grabbing the tiny globes with my lips and sucking on them as if they were candy. The room began to swim around my head. I felt that we were both in water, both in a whirlpool that was sending us pell mell to destruction.
He was moaning, his lips uttering tiny sounds of joy and exquisite surprise. I kissed the blond hairs and began to lick the shaft. It was sweet and young and it responded to every touch. It grew, the pulsing blood beginning to race to the red, virgin tip.
"No more," he whispered.
But it was too late for pleas. I opened my mouth wide and swallowed him. His body thrashed on the sofa like a giant fish that had been hooked. I stroked his sides, trying to calm him down, while at the same time the shaft sunk deeper into my silken mouth.
I began to slide on it my lips going back and forth over the column, my lips spreading a thin coating of saliva over the pulsing penis.
He crawled off the sofa to escape. I followed him with my mouth. We crawled together on the rug like a grotesque sea slug, joined by some unknown force. Each movement of his body sent the column deeper. It was churning in my mouth-spiraling in and out with respite.
We reached the open fireplace. I could see the heat reflecting off his naked buttocks. We went closer and closer until the back of his body was beet red. The flames were turning his body into a berserk snake.
I let the shaft out and stood in front of him. The heat was searing both of us now but I could tell from his eyes that he was ready for my body. I peeled off my clothes, feeling like a ripe fig which had just fallen from the tree. He watched in wide-eyed astonishment as my body appeared and then touched my nakedness with all of his fingers, touching me everywhere, putting those thin, sharp probes in all of my orifices.
"Look, look," I whispered to him and held his still erect shaft in the palm of my hand. He smiled and then the faint attempt at femininity and homosexuality dissolved. He pulled his penis out of my hands and I felt the muscles in his body tense-the muscles around his neck were standing out in small, bunched knots.
"Now," I said, spreading my legs so that his eyes would catch the movement in my crotch, the subtle opening of the nest.
His hands were on each side of my body and he pulled me down to a kneeling position. He cried out once-from the heat of the fire. He groveled before me and rammed his tongue deep up my nest-but it was only for a moment. He pushed back just a little so that I lost my balance and as I came forward I found it waiting for me-large and brutal. He pushed it in-it had grown much larger since it slipped from my mouth.
I felt myself being impaled like a moth. It was no longer a child who had entered me-it was a grasping, hungry male-almost frantic to lose his seed in the warmth of the vaginal walls.
His fingers were prying apart my buttocks, drawing me closer to him. The penis was exploding the hidden pools of juice in my crotch. I tried to fall backwards or forwards-but his hands held me there-as fodder for his maleness.
Another thrust and the tip screwed into the soft wet depth. I began to weep, hysterical with joy. I opened for him as a morning flower opens for the rain and all of his childhood was dissolved in the heat of his spear. One more thrust and it rose to its ideal size-gigantic and quivering in the vagina. I threw myself forward and placed my tongue on his lips and then shuddered as he poured his hot, terrible seed into me. I fell onto the floor in front of the fireplace-my body trembling and satiated. Looking up, I could see a grin slowly cross his face. There and then, I slept, as if I had accomplished the most crucial feat of any woman's life-the dispensing of manhood.
* * *
In Norman O. Brown's important work: LIFE AGAINST DEATH, THE PSYCHOANALYTICAL MEANING OF HISTORY (1959, Wesleyan University Press) he writes:
"Fantasy ... is the product of the primary process, the human organism's first solution to the problem of frustration, and the raw material for the secondary process in which the excitation arising from the need-stimulus is led through a detour, ending in voluntary motor action so as to change the real world and to produce in it the real perception of the gratifying object."
Fantasy is the clue to a solution of this case. The reader will remember the fantasies she constructed in both cases of seduction. In the first one, during the sexual act she relates how she became the child and the boy became the adult. In the second seduction, she erects a wholly un-substantiated theory about the nascent homosexuality of the victim.
Why has she created these fantasies? The syndrome is quite clear. In each of the youngsters she seduces, she is attempting to rid herself of an arrested Oedipal Complex, a situation in which she has been unable to solve the terrible love-hate relationship which young girls develop.
With the first youngster, he becomes the all-powerful male and she becomes the soft, willing child. She is acting out the fantasy of being raped by her father.
In the second seduction, her hate syndrome gets the better of her. She uses the boy to act out her fantasy of her father's homosexuality-which is the child's revenge at not being sexually assaulted. Her statement at the end to the effect that she has restored the child's manhood, is the furthest reaches of fantasy. It is the fruition of her subconscious desires to turn her father into a homosexual in order to ease her own guilt at having wanted to sleep with him.
The strange circumstances of her life, as a perpetual party goer in "high society" gives her an incredibly fertile field to work in. She can go on indefinitely because not only is there an infinite supply of young, unhappy boys, but the fantasy, itself, protects her from serious psychological impairment. The fantasy world is a form of feedback, where the psyche pulls back just before the fantasy is realized-thus insuring the health of the organism.
