TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

A Letter from Noreen

Three Little Maids from School

A Letter from Ruth

Like Father, Like Son

A Letter from Susan

A Male Soul Trapped in a Female Body

A Letter from Diane

My Life Has Had Its Ups and Downs

A Letter from Nick

Maria’s Rap

A Letter from Howard

Some Background Notes to an Open Marriage

A Letter from Karl

Daddy’s Girl

A Letter from Wes

I Thought My Parents Were Cool

A Letter from Vicki

The Girl in the Front-Row Seat

A Letter from Betsy

I Knew a Lot About Fucking but Nothing About Girls

A Letter from Peggy

An Epilogue . . . With Love and Squalor

About the Author

Excerpt: Older Women and Younger Men:

The Mrs. Robinson Syndrome

LOVE AT A TENDER AGE

JOHN WARREN WELLS

LAWRENCE BLOCK

copyright © 1974, 2012, Lawrence Block

All Rights Reserved

INTRODUCTION

A couple of months ago I found myself in upstate New York with an evening to kill. A woman I knew lived in a nearby city, so I called up and invited myself over. I had had an unfulfilled yen for her during the years of her marriage. About a year and a half ago she’d gotten divorced, and just recently she’d commenced living with a guy. Life is overflowing with missed opportunities.

I drove over there and the three of us sat around drinking something alcoholic and smoking something illegal. After an hour or so she went out briefly to pick up her kid and the guy and I went on talking about something or other. A little while later the door opened and she returned, skipping gaily across the room and throwing herself lightly into my lap for a kiss.

Well, the kiss turned into something of a production number. After a bit she struggled playfully to extricate herself, and I as playfully restrained her and carried manfully on. And then she struggled again, and a too-small voice squealed “Mr. Wells!” in my ear, and I raised my eyes and saw the mother standing bemused on the other side of the room, and looked quickly down, to discover I had been rather passionately embracing her thirteen-year-old daughter.

Such moments happen often in dreams, especially if I eat Mexican food shortly before retiring. In dreams the situation usually deteriorates rapidly, with the final scenes generally taking place on a high and precarious stairway; the stomach evidently wants to put all one’s phobias in one basket. Life, praise God, is rarely so dramatic. The girl extricated herself, giggled nicely and decorously, and seated herself on a nearby couch. Someone got drinks. Conversation resumed.

And, during a lull, someone or other asked what I was currently working on. “Oh, a book,” I said. “on, uh, the sexual experiences of, uh, children and teenagers.”

There was one of those pauses. Then the mother said, “I never realized just how carefully you research these things.”

•  •  •

This is not a book about so much as it is a book of. I have no particular theories to offer on how best to function as either a parent or a child; indeed, the material I have had the good fortune to compile seems to point in several directions simultaneously. The reader who approaches the following pages looking for points to be made and threads to mesh will perhaps be less successful than the reader who views the individuals he will encounter as individuals, each with a story or portion of a story to tell, each supplying one piece of the jigsaw puzzle of sexual maturation in contemporary society. But this book holds only a few dozen pieces of a thousand-piece puzzle, a particularly subtle puzzle with no straight edges for the border. The book asks more questions than it suggests answers—and I suspect it’s better for it.

Sexual development has never been an easy process. Perhaps it’s not supposed to be; perhaps it is implicit in the human condition that this should be a difficult stage. I have found myself wondering lately whether the process is more arduous now than in times past. “May you live in interesting times” is a curse in the Orient, and God knows our times are distressingly interesting.

In many respects, this era of the New Morality should make things simpler, and in many respects perhaps it does. Certainly, young people are more knowledgeable about sex than their parents were at the same age—which should not blind us to the extent of ignorance many of them display on sexual matters, by the way. And certainly there is less conventional guilt; fewer teen-age masturbators worry about going blind or growing hair on their palms, and fewer girls fret about getting a baby from soul kissing.

Yet an increase in sophistication brings its own headaches. Aside from technology’s contributions of drugs, mobility, and the like, the most glaring reward of the New Morality is the erosion of the superstructure of conventional standards. The normative mores—i.e., that code of behavior which, it is taken for granted, Society expects will be followed—have never been less clearly defined. Not too many years ago, for example, the normative mores strongly dictated premarital chastity. To be sure, this did little to guarantee such chastity, but those confronted with the option of premarital sex at least knew what they were supposed to do, and could make their choice accordingly.

Confusion, then, is a dominant chord in contemporary sexual development. In a sense, the pattern is that there is no pattern.

•  •  •

One respect in which this present volume differs from the bulk of my work is that, in the majority of cases, I have had no personal contact with the individual subjects. Although I have met with a few of them, the majority I know only through correspondence.

There are reasons for this. The young often lack mobility, and those most likely to write to me in the first place are least likely to be able to come to New York to be interviewed, or even to be able to get away from the parental home should I be in their area. Perhaps more important, I’m quite certain most of my correspondents don’t really want to meet the person to whom they have unburdened themselves. My role in their lives is a combination of sounding board and confessor. I am a faceless, voiceless entity somewhere in New York, to whom anything whatsoever may be written with impunity. So many of the letters I receive contain lengthy apologies for wasting my time, adding that the writer has no one else to confide in. Such confidences can evidently be shared without embarrassment through the mails, and such embarrassment would result from a subsequent meeting. It is not difficult to understand why they hang curtains in confessionals.

That so much of this book is in the form of correspondence is both good and bad. The weakness lies in the fact that the reader has no more hope than I of being quite certain just how much of the material included is literally true. An incident described in a letter may have happened. It may be sheer fantasy. To be sure, there are opportunities for lies of all sorts in a direct interview as well, but one likes to think that face-to-face meetings afford a better chance of determining truth or falsehood.

On the other side, correspondence possesses the great virtue of being readily conveyed to the reader in its original form without having first been filtered through the perceptions and prejudices of the reporter. I have interfered as little as possible with these letters. Assuming that the manner in which something is said is often as relevant as its content, I have edited as little as possible, changing sentence structure only when clarity would be otherwise sacrificed, and revising unorthodox spelling on the premise that linotype operators have a difficult enough life as it is. A certain amount of cutting has been inevitable for space considerations, but I have kept it to a minimum. The letters you’ll read are essentially the letters as I received them. You’ll be spared the dubious pleasure of struggling with some truly chaotic handwriting, and you’ll miss the thrill of coping with green ink on dark blue paper. Girls of a certain age are partial to such color combinations. I’ve no idea why.

Every other chapter consists of a single letter, complete unto itself. That I have made use of these letters in this fashion is not entirely a result of a determination to emulate the meatpackers and use all of the pig but the squeal. It had struck me that some of the most interesting material has come to me in this fashion—one letter, fascinating in its implications, duly answered, and no more ever heard of its author. In such cases, one must be more careful than ever to recognize the possibility that the letter is fantasy or put-on, but, as I’ve remarked elsewhere, fantasies and put-ons are as revealing in many ways as the truth.

•  •  •

Enough! Introductions bore the reader and the writer simultaneously, the reader anxious to get on to the meat of the book, the writer at least as anxious to turn in his manuscript, pick up his check, and go out and get drunk. I’ll end this now and permit us both to go our separate ways.

A LETTER FROM NOREEN

Dear Mr. Wells,

I am sixteen years old and have a very strange problem, at least for someone my age.

My boyfriend and I have been married for about three or four months and are expecting a baby in a couple of months. The problem is our parents. They don’t know we’re married. I’ve been living at home and so has he, but my pregnancy is getting to the stage where it will start showing pretty soon and we don’t know what we should do.

My husband thinks we should just say we’re going out on a date and not come back, but I disagree. I think we should sit them down and tell them, but I am afraid of what they’re going to do and say.

They object very highly to us being or getting married before we graduate and that’s in two years. We are both juniors in school and he wants to quit at mid-term and share a duplex with one of his friends because his friend can’t afford the rent by himself and we need a place to stay.

And I’m sure they’re gonna try to make me give it up for adoption or have an abortion, neither of which I care too much for. I want this child more than anything in the world and so does my husband. I have had a lot of experience with children babysitting and working in a children’s hospital so I don’t have any doubts about my ability to take care of him or her.

And another problem that recently came up was our parents wanting us to date other people. They think we are too young to be engaged, much less married, and for heaven’s sake, not a mother and father. We have already told them that we love each other very much and don’t want to date other people but they still say we’re too young to know what love is.

What do you think? Please be honest because I’m sure there are lots of people out there with our problem but won’t admit it.

Sincerely yours,

Mrs.———

P.S. Could you please put your answer in a plain envelope and address it to so my parents won’t suspect anything. Thank you.

Noreen

THREE LITTLE MAIDS FROM SCHOOL

A couple of years ago I wrote a book on female bisexuality that a publisher persisted in titling Women Who Swing Both Ways. While the title did have the virtue of candor, it was not one of my all-time favorites. Among other things, I felt its general lack of couth would discourage its purchase by women, whom I presumed would be somewhat diffident about toting such an unequivocal title to the cash register.

I was quite surprised when the book returned heavy feedback in the form of letters, the overwhelming majority of them female readers. And I was further surprised by the high proportion of adolescents among my correspondents. Here, for example, are a pair of letters from a fourteen-year-old girl living in a small town in the Southeast:

Dear Mr. Wells,

I am fourteen years old and I have been a homosexual all my life. I’ve always wanted to make love to girls but most of them think I’m crazy although I don’t think they could resist if they were alone with me for very long. The reason I say this is because I’ve had many girls (even black girls) tell me that I am “sexy” or fresh. The reason they won’t let me make love to them is because they’re scared that they’ll get a bad name.

I know that you said you never put people in touch with one another but I was wondering if you could tell me the name of a club or something, or someone who could tell me the name of a girl. If you can’t I’ll understand but I’d like for you to write me back any way.

A Friend,

Lorraine

Dear Mr. Wells,

I was glad to receive your letter. The reason I hadn’t wrote back sooner is because I haven’t had any time alone until now.

You ask me to tell more about myself so here goes. When I was six years old I fell in love with this girl about two or three years older than me. She had brown hair, she’s fairly dark, and she has curves in just the right places. She is very sexy and can turn any male (in his right mind) on—and she really got to me.

My sister had a birthday party and invited the sister of my love to it. At this time I was eight! I told the girl that I was going to have a nude party and I’d invite her sister to it and that we’d have a party by ourselves. I don’t know if she told her I said that or not.

Last year our class took a trip to another school to see some art exhibits. I was pleased to sit by a girl who I have liked a long time for sexual reasons. In other words she makes me feel real good. I decided I would prop my arm up on the seat behind her which I did. I then stuck my hand near her breast and that’s when she decided she’d hold my hand. (Wonder why!) I moved my arm from around her, placing it on her leg. I moved my hand on up and started fooling around. That’s when she told me that if I didn’t stop she would move, so I left her alone. I didn’t think she would sit with me on the way back to our school but she did. I made her promise not to tell anyone what I had tried to do.

A day or two later I wrote her a letter telling her that I loved her, and that I would not do anything she didn’t want me to do. She thought it was funny so she showed it to a few kids in our room. She also showed it to her mother, who took it to the principal. The principal called in the people who had read the letter and they had a meeting in the office. I figured he would get in touch with my parents so I decided I’d beat him to it. My parents told me I would have to get help but they waited until my mother got a call from the principal, and through him they got me started going to a head shrinker. I didn’t really mind because she was pretty and she was shaped even better.

This year I entered the eighth grade. (By the way, everybody in the county now knows I’m a homosexual.) There was a girl in two of my classes who I liked very well. I told her I liked her for a girlfriend and she didn’t say anything to me but she went to the office and tried to get transferred from both of my classes. She did get transferred out of one of them. A month later she started talking to me as if nothing had happened.

I really have this big thing about black girls. Most of them really turn me on. They know I like girls but they don’t know if I’m all girl myself. Sometimes they’ll ask me if I’m half boy and I’ll tell them to take a little trip with me and I’ll show them, or I’ll say, “Could be.” Actually I’m not. I just figure it might get me a little further. They are always coming up to me or rubbing on me and saying something real sexy but I can’t do anything very easily because we’re at school!

I am in love with a black girl. At school she acts like she don’t like me but she has met me at places and we did a little petting. I’ve also did a little petting with this white girl but I don’t care anything for her. That’s as far as I ever went because no one would let me go any farther. I’m just waiting for the chance . . .

Sincerely,

Lorraine

Larraine’s letters are certainly not typical. She was quite certain of her sexual orientation at a very early age. While this is not uncommon among males, I have found it to be relatively rare among females. The emergence of lesbian desires occurs more often in adolescence, and seems usually to be marked by more confusion and ambivalence than Lorraine reports. (For that matter, I’m inclined to believe Lorraine has undergone rather more anxiety on the subject than her letters indicate.)

My most extended correspondence on this subject has been with three girls in a Midwestern city who wrote to me actively and at length over a period of almost a year. I find their letters particularly instructive because of the way they reveal the changes these girls have gone through in that period of time. Ideally, I’d reproduce them in full, but to do so would take up the better portion of this book. Here, then, severely edited to save space but otherwise verbatim, are letters from Ellen, Grace, and Louise.

Dear Mr. Wells,

Recently my friend Grace and I got a copy of Women Who Swing Both Ways. I’ll be 16 in March and Grace will be 19 in February. Grace had sex with a boy when she was 15. I’m still a virgin. I’ve been aware of my bisexual tendencies for some time. I never did anything about it because I was much too inhibited . . . One night last September Grace was spending the night at my house. We discussed bisexuality again; I realized we were both getting excited, and I got up enough nerve to suggest that we French-kiss each other. We did, several times, hugged and stroked each other, and that was about it. Then we got so paranoid about the whole thing that we stopped all physical contact . . .

A male bisexual friend of ours suggested we try a sensitivity experiment, touching and stroking each other, each mirroring the other’s actions, until we felt uneasy at the action and said, “Stop.” We tried that. We touched each other everywhere but breasts and genitals . . .

I’ve decided that I’ll stay away from anything heavier than that until I’m emotionally able to handle it. By that time I may not want it. I think Grace has decided about the same thing.

I love boys. Particularly I love my pre-fiancé, Kenny. We have a very warm, honest relationship, so I felt I should tell him about this. I did, and he said if that’s my thing he doesn’t mind at all.

Somehow I doubt I’ll ever become fully bisexual, because I love men so much. I want to marry Kenny and settle down and raise two children and become a minister. Bisexuality seems to have little or no place in that life-style.

My experiences with Grace have been warm and loving ones rather than sexual ones. We care about each other tremendously and what we’ve had so far has been just a physical expression of this.

I don’t know if we want more. I don’t think I’m emotionally able to take the hang-ups, the guilt feelings, that it would give me.

Kenny is a virgin, too. We haven’t made love yet because he feels it would make him feel a lot of responsibility he’s not ready for yet. I respect this. As for me, I feel ready for it, and I am practically going insane wanting it. I’m ready to climb walls, but I can’t let him see that because I don’t want to rush him.

We’ve petted very heavily and I’ve reached what I think are called “skimming” orgasms. It’s not a full orgasm. I’ve masturbated, so I’m well aware how an orgasm feels. These are several tiny ones spaced apart.

I think I don’t want to become a bisexual. I’m a very disorderly person trying to order her life and bisexuality would certainly mess things up. I don’t care what people in general think of me but I want to maintain the regard of my friends . . .

Am I bisexual? (I know I’m not homosexual!) I simply don’t know. I’m too confused to figure myself out . . .

Sincerely,

Ellen

Dear Mr. Wells,

Hi—I am Ellen’s friend, Grace. I read the letter that you sent to Ellen, and you sound like a cool guy. The kind of person one can trust, and be a friend to.

Well, I’ll write about my side of it. I’ve noticed things to make me ask questions to myself about these bisexual tendencies I have. At times I get attracted to women, I mean women that appeal to me in looks. I was like this even before I met Ellen. This goes on back for at least two years. Sometimes I worried about it, but now it doesn’t really matter. I really don’t care if other people find out. If they don’t understand, they weren’t my friends in the first place.

I don’t think it’s weird or perverted at all. People in my class have talked about homosexuality and I’ve taken a stand to defend it. Their reactions made me angry. I say, “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” Sometimes I think they know that I am bisexual, or, as they say, “queer, faggot,” and so forth. I really don’t care what they call me.

About the experience at Ellen’s. I think it started all this thinking about our bisexual tendencies. It surprised me at first. When Ellen and I were kissing it didn’t feel any different than as if a boy was kissing me. I might say that I enjoyed kissing Ellen. After that, we would talk about it . . .

I think I definitely have bisexual tendencies. It’s really amazing how I get attracted to women, I mean I get attracted!

Sincerely yours,

Grace

Dear Jack,

Well, it is a minor relief to know I’m not the only one whose sexual preferences are giving her trouble. Who was it who first said misery loves company? This isn’t exact misery, but it is a problem.

Since my first letter, I’ve come to a few minor conclusions:

(1) I definitely have bisexual tendencies and am at least partially bisexual at the moment. This is not to say that that will be my permanent situation. Things can and do change.

(2) I’m suppressing these tendencies with everyone but Grace (and now Louise).

Grace and I have gone no further since I last wrote. Not because she is my own sex, but because I want Kenny to be the first person I make love to . . .

Grace and I have a mutual friend, Louise, who is 16 and who I think is getting interested in bisexuality, mainly on an intellectual level. She’s a good friend of mine, and one day I decided I would stop being hypocritical around her and told her I have bisexual tendencies. She was both surprised and interested. I’ve gathered from talking to her that she doesn’t feel ready for the actual deed yet. I could be wrong . . .

. . . I have neglected this letter for some time since the end of the first page. A lot has come up since then. Grace and Louise and I went to the Gay Alliance house and had a long rap with several gay guys who live there. A funny thing happened—it came out in the conversation that Louise and I have been dying to make a pass at each other but nobody did anything for fear the other wouldn’t respond! Louise spent the night with me last weekend and we did some making out. Louise has a great sense of humor, and at one point she suddenly came out with “But Ellen, will you respect me in the morning?” I woke up first, so I woke her up and said, “Hey, Louise.” “What?” “I respect you.”

The ensuing pillow fight sent us both into hysterics. [Other similar bits of byplay are reported in this and other letters. Ellen speculates that perhaps these are just ways they release their fears that they are abnormal or perverted, and I suspect she is right.—JWW]

To get back to the heterosexual scene for a moment, Kenny and I are having hassles, Grace has a boyfriend named Tony whom she hasn’t told about her bisexuality, Louise is messing around with three or four guys and I’m messing around with one or two. This usually happens—Louise and I are both attracted to Phil, who is messing around with me, but she’s decided not to make a pass at him for a number of reasons . . .

Please keep in touch with me. I’d like to know if you think this is more of a phase or if I’m becoming truly bisexual. Presently I prefer men, but only by a very small margin. I think this is because as yet I don’t want to make love to anyone but Kenny, and with a girl nobody gets all overexcited and demanding and rough, so that you feel you had better stop her before she gets out of control. If it came down to it, would I rather make love to a man or a woman, I really couldn’t say which, not having experienced it with either sex yet. That will come when it will come and I’m not going to rush it.

Sincerely,

Ellen

Dear Jack,

As Ellen may have told you, I’m Louise. We are both bi and it’s kind of groovy. I know it looks like I’m bi just to go along with Ellen and Grace, but that’s not it. I feel Ellen was a catalyst for my bisexual tendencies and she just brought everything into sharp focus.

I guess that I’ve always had the tendency. My upbringing was the kind where everyone hugs and kisses everyone else, a typical Jewish family, so I didn’t get any bad vibes about it. I’ve also noticed that I always look at other chicks’ clothes and (let’s be honest) figures.

I’ve always been liberal and my basic attitude progresses like this:

1. “It’s all right for you, but I don’t think it’s my scene.”

2. “I’m curious, but I don’t want to try it yet.”

3. “Why the hell not!”

Get it. It’s happened with weed, acid, generally freaking out, and bisexualism. I am always for the liberation of any oppressed group, Indians, Chicanos. Women, and last but by no means least, Gay Lib. So like I said, why the hell not?

Really weird thing. I was going steady with this dude all this summer. We had a very complete relationship, but in August we parted. We still talk to each other a lot. Anyway, we were rapping and it turns out he was bi before he met me. We were very close and he had never even told me. I guess we understand each other better now . . .

Another really weird thing. Back in junior high there were these chicks that would call me a lesbian. I would get very uptight about it. If they could see me now, I think they would flip out.

Ellen and I have messed around and so have Grace and I to a lesser extent. I just wish I knew some more chicks that were bisexual . . .

Love and Peace,

Louise

Dear Jack,

“Hi.” Ellen and Kenny broke up. I still have my boyfriend but I think it’s going to break up, too.

About a week ago I was telling myself that I hated all men. I was thinking of being all gay. But that changed now. I don’t hate men. I’ve always been conscious that most men go for the woman who is beautiful. This is true for some men but not all.

About my heterosexual experiences. They have been a put-down. (1) I had one boyfriend that the relationship lasted about a year and a half, and then we started having bummers, and it ended. (2) I was raped by five men. Bummer, bummer, bummer!! (3) I have a boyfriend now, but I don’t know about that either. I had a few brief affairs between (2) and (3).

We in school are having this brotherhood week thing, and it was proposed to have someone there from the Gay Liberation Front. Our principal rejected it because he didn’t want “those kind of people” here. This is sickening. That principal is the insane one. He’s the one who shouldn’t be there. Ellen and I were going to send a secret letter to him about this situation, but we didn’t.

My family situation is okay, except for a few hassles.

Here are some gay slogans for ya!

(1) 2, 4, 6, 8, Gay is just as good as straight.

(2) You don’t have to be happy to be gay.

Peace,

Grace

Dear Jack,

[This letter begins with several pages of anecdotes concerning conversations the girls have had with boys and with each other, and of increasing sexual involvement with one another which has as yet remained unresolved.—JWW]

Well, my early experiences and attitudes . . . I was a fat ugly intelligent little girl, the type whom little boys kid around that nobody would ever be interested in her. I remember two guys betting a quarter that one wouldn’t put an arm around me and say, “I love you, Ellen.” But he did. Amazing what little boys will do for money. I was unofficially christened the Ugliest Girl in the Eighth Grade. Since fifth grade there was this running joke one boy would pull by pretending to be in love with me. Of course I saw through it.

But in spite of all that I’ve never been turned off to men. My first kiss came when I was fourteen and I remember feeling like going back to where I had lived before and thumbing my nose at everyone who’d made fun of me.

I was born in A———, lived there four years, moved to B——— for two years, moved to C——— for about seven years, moved out of the country for two years, moved back to C——— for four months, and moved here about a year and ten months ago. Here, while I’m not ostracized and hated as I was elsewhere, I’m still not completely accepted.

I’ve told you about the sexual situation with Kenny and me. Now that we’ve broken up, my sexual activity is entirely up to me. Well, I’m currently messing around with Ed, Kenny’s best friend. We’ve evolved our own definition of very heavy foreplay and have agreed not to go beyond it for the time being. We are very close but I don’t know if we could ever love each other.

. . . I always seem to be getting involved with people who don’t live here. Is it because I’m subconsciously afraid of intimacy? As for sex with a man, I want it but when I find the right man. I would have made love with Kenny but he didn’t want to. Perhaps now it’s just as well.

My family situation? My father is an alcoholic, my mother has a martyr complex, my brother died in the war, I have a married sister and another who is shacking up with a guy . . .

Please write soon.

Ellen

Dear Jack,

Thanks to death for the letter. I was almost despairing of getting one.

Things have been hectic. I tried out for a musical and got the female lead, and was also accepted in the school’s leading choral group. Both of these things freaked me out.

Which brings me to a very bad scene. I pulled the old bisexual joke, the one where you put one arm around a chick and the other around a dude and say, “Hi there, I’m bisexual!” Anyway, my music teacher saw it and didn’t think it was a joke. She said I either cool it or I get kicked out of the play and the choral group. I was scared shitless. I didn’t think things were so bad but now I know. Shit!

My boyfriend and I have reached a point in our relationship where things could be either good or bad. I told him I was bi and it didn’t bother him at all. What it is is he wanted to ball and I told him not unless he wants a semi-permanent relationship. He later told Ellen that he needed some time to get his head together. With him this is a good sign. However, I don’t know what he will decide.

His decision will affect me and Ellen. We’ve been getting closer and now Ellen would like to try a physical relationship. I told her I’d wait until he decided. I don’t know what is going to happen.

Grace and I went to the late movie last night. I saw someone I hadn’t seen since a group of us had a semi-orgy. He sat with us. We did some kinda heavy making out. I don’t know why. I usually don’t do that. I guess I was just horny.

I spent the night with Grace but we were too tired to do anything. We had a good time together . . .

I bought some astrology books today. Ellen and I are really into that. What sign are you? I’m Sagittarius. Ellen is an Aquarius and Grace is Pisces.

Shalom,

Louise

Dear Jack,

High—how are you?

. . . I have another problem. I’m two and a half months late on my period. I’m getting fat in the stomach. I don’t know whether I’m getting pregnant or not . . .

Lately I’ve been getting stoned as anything. I was stoned for four straight days last week.

I swear. I’m always hiding your letters. Can’t let Mom see them.

I got my hair trimmed today about 1½ inches. It looks better than it did . . .

Peace,

Grace

The next letter was a collective effort from Ellen and Louise, who were spending the night together. Ellen discussed her budding romance with a bisexual male named Floyd, while Louise wrote about a burgeoning love affair with another boy. The collaboration was eventually mailed in the same envelope with the following from Ellen:

Dear Jack—

This is Ellen again. I’ll start where it really all started. Floyd took me to a concert and we got back to his apartment. I gave him a back rub. He had his shirt off and he’s got a nice body, so finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and I attacked him. We did some making out, not very heavy, but the feelings on both sides were very beautiful and we agreed to make love next weekend.

Which was yesterday. And we made love. Pardon my language, but there’s no other way to describe it: I was scared shitless. Louise kept telling me, “There’s nothing to worry about. It only hurts for a second or two and then you don’t care and it’s beautiful.”

Well, she was right. It didn’t hurt very much at all and I really enjoyed it. I didn’t have an orgasm but I felt very satisfied anyway. Floyd had only had two girls before me and never a virgin and he told me it was the best he’d ever had. We’re in love but it’s different from the ways I’ve been in love before. It’s a quiet, gentle, and moving thing. I feel so absolutely at ease and happy with him . . .

Now here’s a screwy situation. Floyd told me it’s perfectly all right with him if I keep on making it with Grace and Louise, but the thing is, once I settle down I’m pretty faithful and I wouldn’t really want to make it with them. I have discovered I prefer men. I don’t know how Floyd expects me to feel about his making it with other guys, though. I wouldn’t raise hell but I would not be exactly overjoyed. We’ll have to talk and work it out. Let me explain—if there’s a guy with whom he has the sort of relationship Louise and I and Grace and I have, he can go and make love to him all he wants and it’s okay with me. But I would get slightly upset if he started cruising strangers . . .

Love,

Ellen

Dear Jack,

High, how are you. I’m fine, except for a few hassles about coming in at ten or eleven o’clock. I’m nineteen, and I came in at eleven when I was 16.

Ellen and I are all right. About a week ago, Ellen and I made love for the first time. Fantastic! Not bad! Try it, you’ll like it!

Been having fun since graduation . . . Been trying to get hold of a Gay Revolution button . . .

I was in New York about a month ago. I did a big mistake by getting pregnant. Was up there for a $300 abortion. No longer am I going to have heavy sex with men again, or for a while. Maybe an occasional kiss or date, a friendly date. Just friend and me!

Peace,

Grace

Dear Jack,

Hi—how ya doing? I’m doing all right. I’m kind of happy today, because I know now that I’m normal. I mean back to my regular once-a month period. I was extremely depressed yesterday.

Ellen and I are doing okay. We made love only once. I was in pretty much of a mess, because we could only like touch each other. No finger-pie or anything like that. Cause I wasn’t supposed to have any kind of intercourse until six weeks after the abortion.

Haven’t made it with Louise yet. We told her boyfriend that she and Ellen and I are bisexual. He dug on it. Didn’t matter to him any. A few people do know that we’re all three bi. Don’t matter to them either. Some of our friends have tried it, but didn’t like it.

Ellen’s out with Floyd. Tried to call her, but no answer . . .

Love,

Grace

I received another, similar letter from Grace and another collaborative venture from Louise and Ellen, neither of which I’ll reproduce here. At this point, some six months after Ellen’s first letter, I was able to arrange a visit to the city where the three of them live. I was there for two nights and a day and found the trip at once worthwhile and depressing.

I called Grace on arrival at the airport. She managed to borrow her mother’s car and pick me up. Our conversation was somewhat strained, and there was never time to overcome the strain because she had to get the car and herself back home as quickly as possible.

The next day I arranged to take the three of them to dinner. I went over to Ellen’s house and chatted with her for a couple of hours. She was obviously nervous about seeing me and anxious about my meeting her father, and told me that she had explained me as a correspondent she had met at a rock concert somewhere.

Around five-thirty Grace picked us up and we drove to a tacky franchise restaurant where Louise was to meet us, with a stop en route to return something from the car to Grace’s mother—who evidently wanted a look at this older person who was mucking about with her daughter. Louise’s parents had insisted on delivering her to the restaurant and picking her up from the restaurant. We ate dinner, conversing about nothing very illuminating. Louise went out to the parental car and went away. Grace and Ellen and I drove around looking for some male bisexual friends of theirs who had evidently been dispossessed from their apartment. We did not find them. We then drove around looking for a liquor store. We found one, but it was closed. They then dropped me at my motel and went away.

It was one of those states where they don’t sell liquor by the drink, and the state package stores are open only during those hours when I prefer to be asleep. I had a few beers, played a little solitaire, and went to my room. The maid had never gotten around to making the bed. I slept inconclusively, got up early in the morning, and got the hell out of there.

As I said, at once worthwhile and depressing. Worthwhile because I did want to meet the three of them and form some firsthand impression. Depressing because I had become quite close to them through correspondence, and found myself unable to know them at all in person, because of the lack of time and the very real undercurrent of anxiety. Depressing, too, because of the way all their parents had concurred in labeling me as the Bearded Menace from the East, the Dirty Old Man bent on corrupting their daughters. It was a role in which I had never before found myself, and I didn’t much care for it. I certainly don’t make a habit of seducing adolescents. (I won’t say it never happens, but it’s not my characteristic life-style.)

Some physical impressions of the three might be worth recording. First of all, all three girls are distinctly attractive. Ellen is robust and strikingly blond, Louise dark and slender, Grace also slender with a flowing and typically Piscean beauty. It was inconceivable to me that Ellen could ever have been the ugliest girl in the eighth or any other grade, or that Grace could be as convinced as her letters indicate of her own unattractiveness.

My trip marked the termination of my correspondence with Ellen and Louise. I suspect that, just as they had found it a simple matter to reveal aspects of themselves to me while I remained a faceless stranger, it became impossibly embarrassing for them to do so when I had become someone they had actually met. No doubt this was an element in their general uptightness during my visits.

The incongruity of the parental response, the damned injustice of it all, still rankles. Here they were, the three of them, balling boys one day and each other the next, and it was an avuncular old writer whom their parents feared.

I have received further letters from Grace, and they may be of some interest.

Dear Jack.

Enjoyed your company very much, but had a feeling you didn’t exactly enjoy it. I hope you did. I did.

My mother didn’t really say much about you. Don’t care what she said about you. I like you. That’s all that counts.

That night that Ellen stayed over at my house, the night we all had dinner, we didn’t do any love making. We couldn’t because of Mom and the kids. Didn’t even kiss, but had tickle fights, and all.

Parents are outside with neighbors having a party. I’m bored and depressed sitting up in my room. My boyfriend is still a little sick . . .

Love,

Grace

Dear Jack,

High, how are you. I’m fine . . . Ellen and I haven’t seen much of each other, or of Louise. Only had sex once with Ellen, and none with Louise. I think Ellen and Louise dig men too much to say they are bisexual. I like men and I also like women a lot. Maybe they like the thought of making it with women. Although I feel that way, I love both of them very much.

I go out with men mostly, because I don’t want people getting to think about me. It’s normal to them to see a man and a woman together. People think you’re a queer or a faggot if you only go around with women . . .

Love,

Grace

Dear Jack,

High there . . . Going to school, and working, and not having any time to spend with friends. Ellen’s moving to the other side of town and Louise is moving out of state in a few months. Neither has called me in a month. Ellen’s involved with a new boyfriend, and Louise with different men. And I am not involved with a man. If I go out, I’m usually out with another girl. Ellen doesn’t call me hardly anymore.

I would like to date a man, but it doesn’t work out. They say they like me a lot, and after a while they don’t call or even talk to you, or bother with you. I hope in future years everything will work out between men and me.

I’m not putting men down. I think about Ellen’s and Louise’s feeling toward them. They like men a lot. I do too, but I can’t understand them. I think how nice it would be if I had a man of my own, but I know it would be hard to hold onto one. I’m not pretty at all from my standpoint.

What I don’t understand about men is the way they treat some women, or talk about them. Cutting Women’s Liberation down and saying they belong in the house.

Another thing is you have to be beautiful to catch a man you want. Got to be a Miss America in order to be really happy, to get a good-looking man.

This is the way I feel now. Ellen has at least one boyfriend a month. She can attract, so can Louise. But it’s hard for me. I don’t have good looks, but maybe a good personality and opinions about things. This situation makes me think things out. Maybe I should become a full-blooded lesbian, but that would be impossible. I like men too much. I am bi, but I think Ellen and Louise are beating around that subject . . .

Ellen and I only made it once, and that was that, and I don’t think she wants to do it again. She’d rather do it with Louise than me, and I don’t blame her. I am not much in lovemaking. I’m scared of sex. I just like to think and talk about it, but not do it. This is the problem. I’m going to have to face it some day. Not think or talk, but do it!! I wanted to talk to you about this, and see what you could come up with . . .

Love,

Grace

Three little maids from school. Three sweet and pretty and sensitive girls who have flirted with bisexuality for their own individual reasons and with varied results.

It is risky to infer behavioral motives from that tip of the emotional iceberg revealed through a series of letters written to a stranger. I would suggest, though, that Ellen embraced bisexuality in an attempt to arrive at a more complete definition of self, that Louise did so in a mood closer to pure experimentation, and that Grace joined them because her low estimate of self convinced her she could not compete successfully in a heterosexual world. Now Ellen has further identified herself, Louise has tried on a new outfit and will take it back to the store, and Grace is . . . alone, I’m afraid, and more firmly convinced than ever of her own lack of value.

And how utterly mistaken she is . . .

A LETTER FROM RUTH

Dear Mr. Wells,

I just finished your book Come Fly with Us. You encouraged your readers to write to you, and that’s what I’m doing. I’m probably not one of the people you had in mind, because I just had my sixteenth birthday. I just want to tell you what happened to me between my fifteenth birthday and now. Mostly, just to tell someone, but also to let you compare those stewardesses with someone my age.

About a month after I turned fifteen was the first time I spent the night with anybody. He was about sixteen. Everything was sort of perfect that night, so there really wasn’t any reason not to. As far as I can remember, it wasn’t what I expected, but it wasn’t awful, either.

After we broke up, I only screwed with a couple of guys I was dating, hoping they’d think I was still a virgin. I started screwing more often. At certain times it just seemed like the thing to do.

I guess I should tell you I began getting into drugs at about the same time. Sex and drugs seem to fit together.

Around Thanksgiving I met Eugene. Eugene is ten years older than me. For two months my world revolved around him. My other world, the one with parents and school and all that, caved in at the same time. My parents were on my back constantly about him and started me taking the pill. (The pill was my and Eugene’s idea, too.)

It wasn’t until I was really in love with Eugene that he told me he was married and his wife was going to have a baby in February. You know, I didn’t care a bit. I knew I loved him, and of course he loved me.

Eventually we started seeing less of each other. When I hadn’t seen him for about two weeks, I had a choice of two reasons. One, his wife must have had the baby and he turned sentimental, or he didn’t want to see me after I told him I had contracted gonorrhea.

I still don’t believe Eugene gave it to me, but everyone who knows I had it thinks he did. It went by far too long before I went to a doctor, and it took a long time and different treatments to get rid of it. It was so complicated that now there’s not much chance of having children if I wanted them.

Getting back to Eugene, I’m not the kind of girl that suffers from a broken heart for very long.

I was skipping school one day, just goofing off downtown. I met a man that was about thirty or so. I’ve got kind of a bad habit of telling someone I know I’ll never see again a lot of bullshit. The trouble is, I’m pretty good at it. I told him I just got into town trying to look up my old boyfriend. I had no money and didn’t know a soul in this town. (I’ve lived here for twelve years.)

Well, he told me he could get in touch with some of his business friends, and if I agreed I could make enough money for a bus ticket home or a place to stay or something. He was first. He gave me ten dollars and paid the hotel bill. I agreed to meet him the next day and work out of a downtown hotel. All his friends were nice and well-dressed. At about twenty dollars a trick, I made close to a hundred and thirty dollars in two days. I haven’t seen any of them since. As far as they know, I’m back in New Orleans.

The money was damn good, but that’s not the kind of life I want to live.

I learned a lot about life last year. I’ve learned how to be absolutely sure about choosing who to fall in love with. And I know that I want to finish school and go on to college. I don’t think settling down and getting married is for me, at least not for a while. I had a lot of fun last year. My only regret is that I’ll never be able to have a baby. If I get married, maybe we can adopt a little girl.

Thanks for listening.

Sincerely,

Ruth

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

“There was a boy, a frequent visitor to the men’s room, whom I nicknamed ‘Nymphomouth’ because he never seemed to be able to get enough cock to stuff into it. He was like an oral nymphomaniac. Once, acting the role of watchman, I saw him suck off five guys in a half-hour period . . . It is unfortunate that I couldn’t have gotten together with this kid, but I was afraid to take him home because of his age. Only once did he start to suck me. He sucked for about two minutes when we had to quit. He was exceptionally good at blowing for one so young, and of course his youth seemed to turn on anyone being sucked by him, even those opposed to ‘chicken.’ He had told me briefly that he had been sucking an older brother for four years—a brother then eighteen years old—and both of them loved it.

“He is the only very young boy I have ever seen suck with such gusto and avidity. He also seemed to love semen and would take every drop. Had it not been for this experience, I might have doubts about some of the things I’ve read about young boys greedily consuming semen, but this kid was proof of it for me. He was a red-haired, freckled kid, not particularly good-looking but very cute to me because of his passionate interest in cocks. Sometimes I had to turn my head to keep from laughing at the expression on his face when he would be making overtures to some man at the urinal. Few of the men ever expected a proposition from one so young. Of course, the boy’s social inexperience made his sexual overtures much more direct and shocking. He seemed innocently to assume that every guy came there with the express purpose of being sucked off, and sublimely ignorant of the fact that his age should prove any shock or barrier to this accomplishment.”

•  •  •

Malcolm, the author of the two paragraphs quoted above, is a singularly interesting study in sexual obsession. He is a very charming and refined man of about forty, with a soft Southern accent and a pleasant manner. Since earliest childhood he has been fascinated by the subject of father-son incest, and in a sense has devoted his life to a study of the practice. Readers of Doing Your Thing will be familiar with his own abortive attempts to seduce his own father, and with his other childhood sexual experiences, as well as his description of a case of father-son incest with which he later became familiar.

Malcolm was kind enough to prepare for me an extended monograph on his experiences and observations. He is not a pedophile himself and has no particular enthusiasm for sex with boys, but his father-son fixation is such that he does find boys appealing in the context of that relationship, as we shall see below. On one occasion he was able to meet with a father and son and have sexual relations with them both.

I have elected to reproduce his remarks verbatim. I don’t doubt that the material which follows will strike many readers as violently offensive; one man’s meat, after all, is another man’s emetic. But this particular case is so unusual, and so well rendered by its author, that I feel its importance overshadows what some might consider its obscenity.

It should be noted in passing that Malcolm is a writer of more than a little ability. He has published a few erotic novels and has written and illustrated shorter erotic fiction for the amusement of himself and friends. This endows his narrative with a fictive skill that might lead one to question its veracity. Having met Malcolm and talked with him at same length, I feel safe in assuring the reader that what follows is the literal truth.

•  •  •

I will call this second incestuous father George, although that is not his real name. I met him through a mutual acquaintance who was himself a pedophile. Since George was also a pedophile, he felt no compunction at revealing the incest to his friend. This mutual friend was rather cautious, not revealing names or places involved, merely telling me that he knew of a father-son relationship that was current and that the boy was a twelve-year-old doll. Since he knew my interest was sincere and intense, he gave in to my pleadings and gave my name and address to this father.

I was quite thrilled when I received the first introductory letter from George. He was still cautious, though, giving no return address. Our correspondence continued through our mutual friend for about four months before George finally felt he knew me well enough to divulge his identity and address. I was elated to discover that we lived only a day’s drive apart, so I planned to meet with him and his son, Mike, during my vacation.

We made arrangements to meet in a drive-in. I was sitting in the car and was quite startled when a young boy came up from behind me and asked if I was Malcolm. I answered in the affirmative and he said, “My dad’s been waiting for you. We all have, really.” He smiled and I was pleased. He was indeed a doll. His hair spilled over his forehead and was straight and blond. His enormous eyes were brown, which contrasted with the hair color, and his lashes were long enough to drive a glamour queen to suicide with envy. He was nude except for a pair of torn, faded pants ripped off just above the knee. He was indeed twelve, though he never admitted to this. “Goin’ on thirteen,” he always said.

His father could not drive, so they had hiked the distance from their country home to the drive-in. They lived on the fringe of the city. It was a hot Saturday morning when an incestuous father and son got into my car and gave directions as I drove us to their home. I was pleased with the house. Rather large, it was set back about a hundred yards from the road and surrounded by tall pines. I was trying to control my emotions though I knew my hands were shaking.

The father turned out to be quite attractive in a lean way. He was thin, tall, about my age, had blue eyes and a very quiet demeanor. He became more talkative only when one of his favorite topics of conversation arose.

I learned to my disappointment that I was to meet George’s wife, who was Mike’s mother. My fears turned out to be groundless. She was rather harmless and quite nice once I made friendly overtures. I found her to be shy and hesitant with strangers, but within a few hours she was talking to me as if she had known me all her life. I learned enough to suspect she knew of the incest. But, since her husband had been in trouble for pedophilia early in their marriage, I think she felt his relationship with Mike kept him from getting into trouble with other boys. And, since her son evidently enjoyed it and found it agreeable, she was not about to make any fuss over it. She was definitely not stupid, albeit bashful and reticent in manner. She had no reason to suspect that I was interested in the incestuous relationship or indeed in anything pedophilitic.

During an after-lunch walk with George, I learned that he was a well-practiced pedophile. I also learned he preferred his boys young, much younger than his son was then, though he still enjoyed sucking Mike because he was such a sweet boy and also because he felt indebted to the kid for the years the boy had allowed his father to suck and play with him.

George told me that he had always been sexually attracted to boys but had only had them as young as five or six before Mike was born. When Mike was born, he had his opportunity of having a boy available who was younger than anything he’d ever had sexual access to. He discovered that even at a few months of age, Mike could and did get erections. Then alone with his son, he stimulated the boy’s cock. He had had a fight with the doctor because he insisted on Mike’s being left uncircumcised. He would masturbate the tiny penis by working the foreskin back and forth, and claimed that even at a few months Mike experienced orgasm. He also took to sucking the boy’s cock and discovered that this took longer to bring him to orgasm than by hand. Once, upon having the entire day alone with the baby, he wanted to see how many climaxes he could have and masturbated him to nine “recognizable” orgasms. According to George, Mike’s legs would stiffen and his entire body would elongate as he approached climax. His little arms would get stiff also and he would wave them about. There would be a spastic motion during orgasm itself, followed by a release from tension, a general relaxation of the body, and then, usually, a crying spell. Possibly the babe feared what he was experiencing, but he gradually got used to it.

•  •  •

The masturbation of male infants for purposes of releasing tension is not uncommon in certain cultures. Generally the male infant is masturbated, even fellated, by a female—either the mother herself or an older sister or nurse.

•  •  •

By the time Mike was a year old, he could experience his climaxes with as much equanimity as an adult. He was used to the stimulation, fully realized what the culmination of it was, and found it pleasurable. At this time, George took to bathing the boy every day, usually sucking the boy to orgasm during the bath and trying to condition him to associating such things with the bath and bathroom and privacy between father and son. It apparently worked, and Mike never made any unsettling moves in the company of others; nor did he request fellatio anywhere but in the bathroom. He would play with his father’s cock in an interested yet casual way, but it was quite some time before he could be taught to jerk the man off. It took George too long to come and the boy would lose interest, unless George had been masturbating himself and allowed Mike to perform the motions just before he shot off. Then the boy was fascinated by all the “white stuff” coming out of Daddy’s cock.

Their relationship continued in this manner until Mike was about nine. Then George feared their bathing together might arouse suspicion and he also felt that Mike was old enough and intelligent enough to discuss this openly with him. He told Mike that he enjoyed the sex with him and that they would have to stop bathing together, but that now they could suck and jerk in other places and use such opportunities as when mother was at the Laundromat or occupied with her incessant church work. Mike seems to have enjoyed the situation immensely and benefited by it.

I should mention here that George also, like every pedophile, loved to kiss boys, and his son was no exception. He kissed Mike through all this period so that kissing, even tongue kissing, was completely accepted by the boy as perfectly natural. I think this proves the point that almost anything can seem “normal” and “natural” if one is exposed to it frequently from a young age.

They used a code expression. Whenever Mike felt like being sucked, he would ask his father for “some sugar,” usually whispering it into his ear. Sometimes the father sucked him in the woods surrounding the house.

George told me that a boy reaches his most gorgeous, delectable “bloom” at around eleven. The cock is getting slightly larger and the boy begins to shoot—and boy’s cum is like ambrosia to boy lovers. They never seem to be able to quaff enough of it! George said that when Mike reached his “bloom,” he was so delicious that he could hardly keep his hands off him, and sucked him every day, usually on the bed after school. At that time Mike liked to peruse Playboy, gazing at all the bare-breasted pictures while being leisurely sucked to climax by his father. George even laughed about how Mike liked to prolong it now and would tug his father’s head when he was too near orgasm but didn’t want to come just then. Like a dutiful boy-lover, the father would do as the boy pleased, mouthing his balls until the boy indicated he again wanted penile stimulation. When he wanted to come he would say, “Make me pop, Dad. Make me pop my nuts.” Then George would proceed until the boy ejaculated.

Like his father, Mike tended to be quiet, speaking only when he had something to say. And he lived up to the cliché of silent people being good sex. In sex he was lively and erotic, sensual and abandoned completely unlike his nonsexual self.

Whenever I would comment upon how gorgeous Mike was, George would counter with “But you should have seen him in bloom!” I suppose I did have an advantage in that I had not known him previously and was simply pleased that the son I was destined to meet was so attractive. I grant that he was beginning to get gangly like most adolescents, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and to me he personified that which is beautiful in the most beautiful of boys. George fairly burst with fatherly pride when I told him all of Greece would have been at Mike’s feet had he been alive in the days of Sophocles and Euripides. And I still mean that.

Malcolm, Mike, and George spent the evening watching pornographic slides together. George ran the projector, while Malcolm engaged in love play with the boy.

Mike had only his torn shorts on and I caressed his legs and chest and stomach as he worked furiously to reduce a Popsicle to the wooden bone. When I kissed his cheek I found it downy and soft as a girl’s, and was quite surprised when Mike turned and gave me an orange-tasting kiss right on the lips. What surprised me most was that he kissed like a veteran. This was no kid’s kiss, but an experienced kiss which most men would never have been able to acquire until they were well into their early twenties! I put my hand on his crotch and felt the swell of his genitals. He was quite large for his age. (I sometimes wish he had been otherwise. I get so tired of hearing others tell of how big the prick is on whatever they go to bed with that I know for sure no one believes me when I talk about Mike. But he did have a five inch prick, which, for twelve, is more than adequately endowed! I suppose the frequent suction by his father’s mouth might have accounted for some of it. Certainly he was exercising those “muscles” at an age when most boys are still playing with toys and blocks.)

At the end of the evening’s show, Mike asked if I could sleep with him. George gave permission. Mike had set up a tent in the yard, where he sometimes slept on hot evenings. There were two cots in it. I can remember how my heart beat as I was led to the tent, this young boy’s hand holding mine, guiding me through the intense darkness—and the fantastic feeling of knowing I was going to have sex with him and that his father knew and approved! It seemed like something out of Kraft-Ebbing, or, worse, out of de Sade . . .

I must confess that the sex was great. I was not at all disappointed. I won’t go into terribly great detail, but I found that Mike could make love like nobody’s business . . .

The following day, Malcolm took a motel room and brought George and Mike there for a swim in the pool. The three ultimately went to Malcolm’s room and had sexual relations.

I was constantly studying father and son, trying to discover a flaw in their relationship or some sort of friction between them, but I could not discern any such thing. Neither seemed to feel any guilt whatsoever. Mike seemed to take his father’s pedophilia normally. After all, his father’s friends were almost all pedophiles, and almost all of them had made love to Mike; therefore, might it not be natural for him to conclude that it was normal for men to make love to boys? I wonder . . .

We returned to the bedroom, where Mike immediately took over the bed. He was really a cute kid and his mannerisms were equally cute. He was a mild natured boy and not bad-mannered at all, very polite and sensitive. George knew that I was dying to see him do something to the kid. He pulled Mike to the edge of the bed. Then George knelt down before the boy and began to suck him. That sounds crude, but it was a most beautiful thing to watch—the way the father tenderly kissed the smooth thighs and worked his way up to the genitals. As I watched, it seemed as though every line was erased from his face—as though sucking a boy was what he had been born to do and that his great happiness in life came at such times. I sat myself in a chair nearby to watch the spectacle, the old butterflies once again returning to the stomach, as I, for the first time in my life, witnessed a homosexual incestuous act. I was thrilled to the core.

It was beautiful the way Mike lay back and accepted the tribute of his father’s love—or lust, whichever you’d prefer to call it. It didn’t matter to me. Either would have been desirable when I had been his age!

. . . I was beside myself. My cock was stabbing the air and I wanted some piece of any kind of action. I hastily made my way to George’s side and took his cock into my hand, fisted it, and pumped it gently for a few minutes. If his pedophilic mind had any objection, his cock didn’t, and it throbbed responsively. I worked his foreskin back and smeared some of the precoital secretions around the sensitive glans until he fairly moaned as he sucked Mike. I then bent down and took his cock into my mouth, sucking it as he sucked his son. Mike sat up and wanted to see what I was doing. He was entranced at my ability to swallow this adult cock. He had not expressed surprise at our ability to get his, but I guess he had considered his father’s to be impossibly large.

George blew off a generous load and I had to open my mouth to satisfy Mike’s curiosity about the volume of it and, I suspect, whether I was really going to swallow all that stuff! He watched interestedly as I showed him that I was really going to do just that, his face mirroring a mild distaste, but he shrugged as though to say, Well, everyone has his own bag. He coyly stated, “Pop blew off in my mouth once. Yuck. It was really messy.” I looked at George, who had previously told me that Mike didn’t like to suck cock, and George explained. Whenever Mike wanted something real bad, he would suck his father off. If not, George had to be content with a “palming,” or, as they used to say, “Five-Finger Mary.” What Mike really minded was the physical work of sucking, which, if one is to admit the truth, does get tiring unless one is hot himself. For this reason, many people are disinterested in sucking after they themselves have shot off. And Mike was not as turned on to cock as his father was.

Mike had not climaxed yet. His father returned to sucking him off and I remained close to them, gently feeling the father’s cock and balls, still rather engorged with blood. Mike rested his legs on his father’s shoulders. Later, after George had again prolonged the stimulation by stopping short of climax and letting Mike cool off, Mike asked that I be allowed to suck him a bit. George moved over slightly to the side and offered me his position, which I greedily took. I sucked for about five minutes as George knelt beside me, watching close up and telling me that even though many of his friends had sucked Mike, this was the first time he was actually witnessing the act. He apparently enjoyed it voyeuristically.

Then I let George return to his fount of happiness. Mike was very near orgasm and begged me to come on the bed with him. When I was there, he begged me to kiss him as he shot off. As I cradled him in my arms, ravishing his face and mouth with kisses, he came, tongue-kissing as he shot off into his father’s mouth. George made a gurgling sound of appreciation, audibly enjoying this dose of ambrosia.

•  •  •

The troilistic orgy continued for some time, but I think I’ve reproduced enough of it to provide an adequate picture of who did what and with which to whom. No anal sex took place, and in this context Malcolm offers the following observations:

•  •  •

I had earlier discussed anal relations with George, but he had told me that he was primarily interested in boys’ cocks and not their assholes, and also that he feared Mike might get to like being fucked and become homosexual because of it. He desperately wanted Mike to be heterosexual and I suppose some of this might have been to assuage any guilt he might have had about subjecting his son to homosexual practices. Though I must admit that in most cases I’ve heard of, few sons with such intimacy become homosexual. Most become die-hard heteros.

All too soon it was time to take them home . . . The entire thing assumed a dreamlike quality, almost like a masturbation fantasy, immediately after the experience was over. I felt somewhat depressed over the fact that it had to end, yet I knew that I could not intrude into their lives. I was an outsider, after all.

But it was a wonderful experience for me, and I continue to hope something like it will be repeated some day. However, it is most difficult to manage introductions to this type of thing, and also I fear many of them do not wish an interloper joining in.

•  •  •

The image most often used to justify repression of male homosexuals is that of the pedophile as corrupter of children. It is, of course, an impossible rationale for homosexual persecution; to the overwhelming majority of homosexuals, pedophilia is as odious as is to heterosexuals. Yet the fact remains that it is difficult to extend one’s concept of sexual freedom to embrace those men who turn to young boys for sex.

Malcolm’s observation to the effect that most boys in such relationships ultimately emerge as exclusively heterosexual is certainly interesting. Weighed in the balance with the many case histories of boys who recognized themselves as homosexual in orientation long before any approach was made to them (and in some cases were the ones to initiate homosexual overtures, without any prior experience or knowledge), one wonders just what effect such molestation has upon the presumably innocent. George, certainly, was able by conditioning from earliest infancy to force his son Mike to enjoy homosexual relations, but perhaps this enjoyment in childhood will have little or nothing to do with the ultimately emerging sexual nature of the boy. Perhaps one’s sexuality—heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual—is somehow predetermined, whether by genetics, biochemistry, or a less comprehensible mechanism of destiny.

My own personal bias is intransigently opposed to pedophilia. I cannot but regard such men as emotionally immature and criminally irresponsible.

A LETTER FROM SUSAN

Hey man,

Like, I sat here one day (eve. really) tryin’ to catch a few rays and gettin’ horny pettin’ my dog “dawg.” And thot ’bout you—but only like for a second so don’t get no big head. At least not that one on your shoulders anyhow . . .

Hey, like I dig you and most of what you write. That stuff about whippings and spanking and etc. really turns me off tho, so could you cool about two thirds of that pleeze? Hopefully tho I aren’t the only one askin’ you to—I’m sure lotsa people did it, but now I’d like to dismiss my problem . . .

I’m in love, Baby, really and deeply! What’s the problem, my love wants me to groove on this sex thing with my dog “dawg.”

So how ’bout it? She and I have been tryin’ just about everything lately including a fantastic 8” vibrator to a double dildo—ooooohhh! And so, she just brought over this book on Female Bestiality.

Some of those pics are cool, but isn’t most of that dangerous? I respect what you say and leave it all up to you! You don’t necessarily have to print this letter, however, I am curious to see the reaction to a gig such as ours.

I love her and could never lose her, so should I?

I don’t suppose I’m really real, but I really am, no shit. I was kinda scared at first to write, and was only scribbling is the reason for the scribbles on page 1. I’m still scared and nervous now.

Can you please keep all this quiet. I’m 18 years, 5’ 8½”, brown hair, green eyes, and ugly—or sometimes I think I am—want a pic? Yeah, I love you too! But I’ll wait almost forever for a reply. Hell “dawg” looks better all the time, who knows—(hush, hush, please.)

With Much Love,

Susan

(Damn, I’m really scared)

P.S. I know you probably don’t believe any of this, but if you do—and can reply—pleeze don’t let my parents find out. Lucy will know of course (she’s my Sis). Good lookin’ too—but only digs guys. No harm there, I guess—but I hope you’ll return an answer (personal type) to only me . . .

Susan

A MALE SOUL TRAPPED IN A FEMALE BODY

I’ve never met Bobbie. My acquaintance with her has been limited to a batch of letters written over a period of a few months. They are, as you shall see, some deeply disturbing letters about a deeply disturbed young woman.

Bobbie is a transsexual. This is rather a different matter from a homosexual, who desires sexual relations with his own sex, or a transvestite, who derives pleasure from taking on the appearance of the opposite sex. A transsexual is a person who is cursed with the personality of one sex and the physical attributes of the other—in Bobbie’s words, a male soul trapped in a female body, or vice versa.

Most often vice versa, it would seem. Sex-change operations to convert males into females à la Christine Jorgenson are being performed with increasing frequency, while operations to convert women to men, while occasionally encountered in speculative fiction, have not to my knowledge actually been performed. (Of course, there are more obvious reasons for this than a lack of demand; it is easier for surgeons to remove than to supply, easier to amputate a penis and create a vaginal canal than to reverse this process.)

One’s interpretation of Bobbie’s letters will depend to a large degree upon one’s own mental orientation and the degree of belief one manifests in the occult and paranormal phenomena. To those who agree with Hamlet that “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Bobbie’s story is an absorbing testament of possession and reincarnation. To those whose outlook is more skeptical, the same story is an equally gripping example of psychosexual disturbance and neurotic obsession.

Decide for yourself.

Mr. Wells—

I don’t really know where to begin, but I feel I must convey myself to someone who might understand the frustration encountered by living not only as a social deviate but as a sexual deviate also.

Though I was born a female I sincerely feel I was meant to be a male. Because of this deviation from the norm I’ve been existing in a separated microcosm not of my own choosing. No, I’m not a lesbian. I used to wonder whether I was gay so I met some gay chicks and they really hurt my feelings. They told me to be gay was to accept yourself as a female and yet desire another female. One laughed at me and said, “Listen, hon, we don’t want anything to do with males, let alone a poor substitute!” Right then I knew the gay scene wasn’t for me, so I knew I was a transvestite in a spiritual sense—a male soul trapped in a female body.

I never thought of myself as a female when I was a child, and the children of my neighborhood accepted me as a boy. My mom would buy me beautiful dolls and my brother and I would take off their heads and clothes and play Frankenstein.

Unfortunately I became physically developed at the age of 12, but to most of the kids I was still acceptable as a male. I met my first love in the 8th grade. She wrote me love letters but it didn’t go any further.

Since the age of 5 the occult has fascinated me and now witchcraft is my religion. I don’t mean Satanism or devil worship, but witchcraft as it existed 8000 years ago. There are countless numbers of people practicing witchcraft all over the world and most of them believe in reincarnation. Using my dreams, phobias, and such, a coven has helped me find my true identity and the reason I’m trapped in this female form . . . I’m glad to see science finally admitting to the existence of occult phenomena with their study of parapsychology. I’ve experienced supernatural phenomena since my childhood and this led me to link my sexual behavior with whatever my past identity was. Now I’ve found my true identity.

But back to my frustration. My mom sent me to an all-girl Catholic high school. I’m far from being the silent type and would get into many debates and discussions, since I don’t adhere to the Catholic faith.

The school was excellent and the courses interesting. I was an honor student and particularly loved acting. I was good at it and got to play major roles, all male, such as Romeo, Hamlet, etc. We had no dress code so I always wore bell-bottom jeans, a T-shirt, and an army jacket. The kids thought of me as a boy and I enjoyed it.

My big ambition was to try for the lead role in our senior play. We decided to do My Fair Lady, and I swore I wouldn’t try for the male role but instead for the female lead of Eliza Dolittle. It would be challenging for me to play a female role. I wasn’t even sure I could do it. One other chick and myself were the best actors so I knew one of us would get the part. When the announcement came I was downcast—I didn’t get the part. Then I was startled to hear that I would be playing the leading male role of Prof. Higgins. I was furious as I hadn’t even tried out for it. It was explained that I could carry a male role better than a female one. Then I was offered a choice—either play the part or forget the play. She had me under her thumb and she knew it. That play meant everything to me. And she was right—I fit right into the part. I don’t think I could’ve played the female role, and our director knew it.

I’m only 18 but I can’t take much more of this. I want to love a woman, but not as another woman. I could never do it, not with this body—I’d feel too awkward.

I cry when I realize I can never love a woman as a complete man and give her my children. I have no desire for any relationship with a man. When I go out in my army jacket and jeans a lot of girls think I’m a guy and start waving and giggling. I wave back and then quickly go on my way, silently damning the world for the curse I bear. How many times I’ve longed to reach out to these chicks, but I stop myself in time before I make a fool out of myself and only deepen the hurt.

Many times I’ve been forced into a submissive role by females . . .

My childhood was a hollow one. I never got the warmth I craved. My supernatural experiences frightened me and I’d walk through the darkened halls to my mother’s room seeking warmth and reassurance. Instead I was met with a loud “Go to bed.” I’d sit on the floor outside her room and feel some comfort being near her.

Whenever I hugged my sister or a friend in the past years they’d push me away and call me queer. As a result of this rejection I can’t reach out and express my love and I feel uncomfortable whenever anyone hugs me.

When I was 16 things became unbearable and I slit my wrist while with some “friends.” They laughed. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to die, I just wanted someone to care.

My folks kicked me out in November and things have gotten progressively worse. but I won’t bore you with my pointless life. Hope I didn’t take too much of your time.

“blessed be”

Bobbie

Shortly after I received this letter, and before I could reply to it, Bobbie sent me another letter, with the notation that she had written it first and misplaced it, and that I might as well have it too. Much of the material was identical to what she had already sent me, but a few paragraphs are worth consideration:

I don’t want a relationship with a male because I don’t feel female. I’ve tried kissing a male—it nauseates me. When a male touches me or comments on my physical appearance my blood runs cold and I feel uncomfortable and turned off . . .

At night I lie awake in bed and dream of being a boy. When I go out it’s all I can do to keep from crying when I see lovers in love. I don’t know what to do—I’m going crazy living like this. I’ve had occasion to meet male would-be transsexuals who desire to be female. Why can’t I have what I want and they what they want? Why this torture?

I’ve been getting into the discipline scene to relieve some of my frustrations. I don’t know how far I can go. I’ll find out when I get a slender, attractive, and totally submissive boy. I have some catalogues on discipline devices. You wouldn’t believe the things they sell—thumbscrews, gags, straitjackets, stocks, and all sorts of torture devices.

They have a helmet of rubber that goes over the victim’s head tightly and is fastened around the neck with straps. A large ball-type gag comes also, with breathing tubes, a force-feeding funnel, and a water inlet hose at the crown of the head . . .

I don’t really know how far I’d go with the discipline. I’ve already met three eager fem boys who would let me do anything but I’m still looking for a special type. If I can’t have the body I was meant to have and the love of a woman to guide me then why shouldn’t I release my tensions on a willing person?

John—

You know what? In a way I really could be called gay. My deepest desire is to have a sex change operation and then to meet a group of beautiful dominant women who keep me in subjective bondage.

I love the bizarre and unusual and fantasize quite often that I’m a male being subjected to various forms of discipline. I really enjoy the thought of being dominated by women in this way, but not sexually.

I don’t understand why many psychologists say everyone masturbates, especially during childhood. I never did. I found the thought repulsive and couldn’t see how playing with one’s genitalia could bring any sensation of pleasure. A few months ago I was tripping on LSD and I got this tingling sensation in my groin and I could feel the blood pounding. It was a feeling almost as though you have to urinate but you can’t.

I tried masturbating and found it quite annoying and dissatisfying. After two minutes of discomfort I gave it up, with no relief for the pressure in my legs. Finally I just lay back and imagined myself as a young male having a relation with another male and the pressure was relieved.

I know that wanting to become a male and have sexual relations with a male may seem odd, but I can’t help it. I’m attracted to young gay boys with long hair and slender figures. It’d be fun seducing a virgin. But it’s no fun as a female . . .

Peace—

Bobbie

Hey John—

I just finished reading your book The Male Hustler. [I sent the book with the notation that the material on a transsexual named Brenda might be revelatory.—JWW] What a bummer—most of those dudes have an attitude that really hurts a gay guy. You know, that the queers are the perverts and these dudes selling their bods aren’t doing anything perverse. Goddamn, what a bunch of bastards.

Some guys I know are transvestites and they’re beautiful. They top a lot of chicks I know, and they’re so gentle and feminine it’s far out. They want to be loved and accepted as women. lf a guy goes out looking for a piece of ass he should take what he gets. He’s only looking for a sexual object anyway.

I know a lot of straight guys who go looking for gay kids, particularly fems or TVs. They’ll single out some gentle, quiet kid. They’ll take him out, get him stoned and relaxed, and then go to a parking lot, beach, or wooded area. The kid figures it isn’t so bad after all and tries getting close—once a sexual move is initiated the straight guy beats the shit out of the poor kid . . . I guess for the most part I’m just basically not a sexual person. Except when I’m tripping. Then I can’t help myself.

I never do grass. It’s funny, I’ve smoked twenty or thirty times since I was I4 and never once got off. I have a strong resistance so I went on to LSD and mescaline. It would take about a quarter of a tab to get my friends off while I had to pop the whole tab or even half of another one. Even then they’d be fucked up for almost fifteen hours while I was down in five or eight . . .

I read about Brenda in your book. There’s not much I can say I have in common with her. First of all, I don’t have a sex life . . .

Unlike Brenda. I can’t accept the genitalia of my body. I abhor them. My hope is that someday science makes a breakthrough and is able to perfect the sex-change operation so that all parts function normally. Brenda’s main hang-up seemed to be sexual pleasure. Mine is not. I’m not preoccupied with sex—I simply want to be what I was meant to be. A male.

I know why I’m cursed into this tortured existence and I know my true identity, but only if you’re interested will I tell you of the castration and murder of my previous life and why I was cursed into being born again and again as a female to die in my youth of a horrible death, or of the program of release in which I must submissively give my life for six months into a knowledgeable teacher’s hands, undergoing whatever they deem necessary—even torture!

. . . One day I met a beautiful blond girl at school. In the months that followed we founded a deep friendship, but for me love was growing. I longed to possess my beautiful, gentle friend—not sexually, but just to hold her and have her tell me she loved me. Somehow—I can’t remember how—we came to refer to one another as husband and wife. Now she is going steady with a guy she really loves. She doesn’t believe my sincerity when I tell her how I feel so she’ll constantly tease me. She’ll hug me and pull me toward her, and if we go out any place she’ll do the same thing. My love—my wife—and the only reason she can’t relate to me is because of this goddamned body. If I had a cock between my legs and no breasts I’d have the love of this beautiful creature. It just isn’t fair . . .

One day in my senior year of high school came a strange occurrence that definitely left its mark . . . We had converted our cafeteria into a lounge area where we sat on the tables or at desks. One day I was sitting there in my jeans and T-shirt when someone came up behind me, pulled my wool hat over my face, cupped their hands under my chin, and knocked me over backwards. She had me in such a weird way that my shoulders were painfully hunched over the table’s edge and my neck was pulled so far back that my face was pushed against her belly. With the hat pulled tightly over my face and my neck forced back, I could neither call out nor breathe very well.

Though I had secretly always desired to be dominated by females, I feared being bound or completely restrained. Someone also held my arms and when I struggled to free myself a severe pain shot through my shoulder blades and my neck nearly snapped. I was frustrated and kicked my legs, hoping to free myself, when others came and held down my legs. I was unable to move, and aside from the fear came the delightful sensation of being completely submissive in the hands of females.

They pulled up my T-shirt. At first gentle fingers caressed my sides and then came pinching and poking and painful snatching. Their dainty laughter echoed through my mind as I nearly lost my senses from struggling, lack of air, and sheer frustration. I stopped struggling, the blood rushed to my head, and I lay limp. They kept me subdued for almost an hour but when I became limp, my chest heaving for air, they released me. I pulled my hat off and lay there catching my breath.

That was last year. Now I dream of being a male dominated by laughing ladies, but my time is short as I’m supposed to lose my life very soon. Must go now.

“Blessed be”

Bobbie

In my reply to this letter I expressed some of the frustration I felt in being unable to help in any way, and offered the somewhat Pollyannish thought that things do get easier to bear with age, if not better.

John—

I can’t remember whether or not I told you of my belief in witchcraft, but when times get bad—as they are now—it’s the only thing that stops me from ending my cursed life. For Attys—which is my true identity—things do not get easier. The tests become more difficult, the obstacles harder to overcome.

I only remember part of my true existence, but enough to cause me great despair. For Attys is doomed and even the gods are helpless to aid him, for destiny has so decreed this eternal hell. Each night I pray to Zeus to aid me and yet he can only ease the pain a bit as he cannot interfere with fate.

It was revealed to me by a psychic that I had less than fifteen years left to seek the aid and teaching necessary to free Attys from his eternal damnation.

A few years back I would’ve been ridiculed by most. Now only the ignorant would laugh or think me daft.

With science finally admitting to occult happenings such as possession, curses, and so on, by instituting studies in parapsychology, many find it easier to accept my identity and even attempt to aid me.

I met Roy, who’s a psychic with some degrees in psychology, and he tried to help me. I was so tormented when we met and he really was very good at telepathy and other forms of psychic power. He told me everything about myself and this amazed me, as had the prophetess who predicted my damnation and death in early life. She was actually frightened as she spoke of the evil around me . . . this of course being the demon that stalks me. She told me all about my art and writing and other aspects of my life. With her accurate presentation of my past I couldn’t doubt her three predictions for my future. The first two have come to pass and I fear the third, which is my untimely death soon to come.

Roy and another friend have also told me that because of my identity I am doomed to an agonizing death in my early youth unless I can somehow find the path to free myself from my eternal damnation.

Perhaps it’s hard for you to believe this, but it is true and I hope someday you will accept it.

Attys doesn’t belong in this world or with these people he doesn’t understand.

I’m not feeling well at the moment but I will say I have tasted death and I simply lay there not speaking or fighting back. I feel if Attys cannot live as a God, he can at least die as one. I accept my destiny, I only wish I had the power to comprehend the reasons for it. I have also been bound, beaten, and whipped, aside from being nearly strangled and suffocated, all in the past few weeks.

Peace,

Attys

P.S. As my doom draws near, everything becomes dismal. I lost my job the other day because the boss didn’t care for my attitude or unfeminine mannerisms. What’s the use? I’m a born loser . . .

I left this letter too long unanswered, unable to think of a way to reply to it, and ultimately the struggle to keep up with more current correspondence made it easy to go on failing to write to Bobbie. Just now, as I’ve been readying this material for publication, I heard from her again:

Hullo there—

How’re things going? I’m still having a bit of a problem securing a job, but I do seem to have some promising prospects.

I suppose I’ve told you about the bloody demon that rather seems to enjoy possessing a wide variety of my acquaintances—in particular a fellow who’s developed a rather strange relation with me.

This fellow at first thought me quite an actor and aimed to prove that I meant none of what I claimed of reincarnation, demons, and the gods.

Since last May when we met, circumstances have led my doubtful friend not only to accept my beliefs wholeheartedly but also to fear them, as the demon has been a bit of a nuisance.

He can’t take much more and his possession has become more detrimental to my health. It’s common for a demon to possess a being with no intention of bringing about the demise of his host, but rather to implant thought suggestions in the host’s unconscious, thus making it nearly impossible to differentiate the suggestions as not originating in the host’s own ego. These suggestions suggest to the host actions the demon desires to achieve the results he wants—in this case, the loss of my sanity, or even more so, the loss of my life.

A pity we exist in such a computerized, categorized era when unknowledgeable people scoff at supernatural phenomena, and dismiss them as delusions, hallucinations, or superstitious mumbo-jumbo.

I believe even if a demon appeared to a multitude of people, they’d dismiss it with whatever rational, logical explanation they could conceive. It would seem people are dreadfully afraid of the unknown. Demons, gods, curses—they have no place with chemical-biological warfare, nuclear power, space travel and such. And yet, in days gone by, multitudes would have scoffed at the notion of interplanetary travel—or even a commonplace item such as television.

My friend accepts me as a transsexual, as the cursed Attys, and we’ve struck up a brotherly relationship. But since I’ve attractive features, he refers to me as a little fag boy. He said he was going to initiate me into fagdom by anal sex and he damn well did. Quite forcefully, I may add.

He pinned me down, gagged me, and took me quickly and brutally. I uttered a muffled scream and nearly lost consciousness. God damn—I give fags a lot of credit. Of all the tortures I’ve been put through, I never felt pain like that. I thought I was being ripped apart. When he saw the look on my face he stopped and hugged me, but I was groaning and crying. He thought I’d finally had it.

So we did a ritual to cast the demon from him. At the moment we’re seeking a parapsychologist. In the ritual I was bound to the altar as the offering. It wasn’t too bad ’til they drew my blood into a tiny bottle.

Blessed be,

Bobbie

Again, let me say that one’s evaluation of Bobbie’s situation varies with one’s view of occult phenomena. Furthermore, one can decide for oneself whether some of the scenes of torture and subjection which she describes are literally true, utter fantasy, or actual events which have been severely distorted by her own perceptions.

A frustrating correspondence, this. I’m sure a factor in my not having answered the second-last letter was the feeling of utter impotence I’ve experienced throughout our exchange of letters. There’s nothing I can do for her. There’s hardly anything I can do for hardly anybody, but in Bobbie’s case I feel there rather ought to be.

A LETTER FROM DIANE

Dear Mr. Wells,

I read your magazine column monthly. My boyfriend and I feel that yours is the best at the newsstand.

Now to my problem. It goes like this: My boyfriend’s name is Fred and we’ve been going steady for the last two years. This might be considered strange because I’m eighteen, but up to only two months ago we have never gotten farther than necking.

Then one night I was babysitting, for our neighbors, and Fred came over. Fred showed me this book he was reading and there were some things in there I never thought possible. While we were necking he told me about some of the things in the book.

Before I knew it we were both sprawled out nude on the living room floor. He fingered me and felt me up. Then he tried to shove his penis into my vagina. Boy was it big. I couldn’t see how it could fit.

He still tried. My vagina wouldn’t expand wide enough for his prick to get in. Then he took his fingers and tried to open me with his hands. It still wouldn’t fit.

Then he tried to shove all kinds of things to open me up. Hot dogs, cucumbers, screwdrivers, and carrots. He then thought I wasn’t excited enough. He started licking my clitoris to arouse me. Nothing worked.

I love Fred very much and I was embarrassed that night. He walked out on me and hasn’t seen me for a week. He called ten days later and said we should try again. I’m afraid to because I don’t know if the same thing will happen. I don’t usually write about personal things but I’m desperate. Please help me.

Diane

P.S. 1. Please answer.

2. Fred told me to tell you to show more cunt in the pictures.

3. I’m sorry for the mistakes but I’m just so nervous about this whole thing.

My reply was returned by the Past Office, marked “No Such Number” and “Addressee Unknown.”

MY LIFE HAS HAD ITS UPS AND DOWNS

I was answering letters when the phone rang. “This is Debbie. I came to New York and I sort of have to see you. I guess I shouldn’t be calling you but I have this problem and I thought maybe I could see you.”

I told her how to find the place, hung up, put a shirt on, moved things around to render the apartment a little less chaotic, and pulled out Debbie’s file. There were four or five letters from her, written over the past two months. She had read one of my books on stewardesses and was thinking of becoming a stew after she graduated from high school, if she decided not to marry the boy she was going steady with. She wanted to know more about becoming a stew, wanted to know something about my writing, wanted to discuss some of the girls I had written about—and generally seemed to want a pen pal. The letters contained precious little information about their author beyond the fact that she had just turned seventeen, would be graduating from high school in June, was going steady with a boy of nineteen named David, and lived in a small town in upstate New York.

The mental pictures I form of correspondents never come terribly close to reality, but Debbie looked so different from my expectations that I was almost shocked. She was very thin, wraithlike, with hollow eyes and a haunted look about her. She wore faded jeans and a denim jacket. Her hair was dark, long, and stringy. She looked impossibly young.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she said.

I put her in a chair and found a Coke for her. She tried out a few conversational openers and they didn’t get anywhere. Then she said, “I lied to you. I’m only fourteen.”

“Okay.”

“Also I’m pregnant.”

“Does David—”

“I don’t think David knows I exist,” she said. “I lied about that, too. He was this boy that I always liked in school but I don’t think I ever said two words to him. Look, I better go, I didn’t mean to lay this trip on you.”

I sat her down again and we talked. She had been into drugs and sex heavily lately. She had missed two periods and a doctor had confirmed that she was indeed pregnant. She had between two and three hundred dollars—she didn’t say then where she’d obtained it, nor did I ask—and she wanted to get an abortion. She knew they were legal but couldn’t get one where she lived, and didn’t want her parents to know about it.

Did her parents know she was in New York?

“I split from time to time, They don’t pay any attention. It’s just my mother, really. My parents got divorced years ago and my mother’s remarried to Chuck. Just so I don’t bug them, you know, they don’t really care.”

While she took a shower, I bought her some new clothes. Her old ones went into the incinerator, and not a moment too soon. While she got dressed I called a girl I know who is involved with Women’s Lib. One of the Movement’s positive aspects is an abortion referral service. I wasn’t too certain of the morality of arranging an abortion for Debbie myself, but I was perfectly willing for someone else to arrange it for her.

She stayed at my apartment for the better part of a week. She offered to sleep with me but didn’t seem upset when I demurred. The offer stemmed less from any real desire on her part than from a combination of friendship and obligation; we were friends, and I was giving her food and shelter, and the least she could do in return was provide me with sexual gratification.

My friend picked her up, took her to the abortionist, brought her back afterward. Debbie was quite depressed and remote for about a day after the operation, speculating as to whether the fetus was male or female, gradually getting herself used to the fact of what she had just gone through. At this stage she suggested that she might call her mother. I encouraged this, but she changed her mind and did not place the call.

She was tolerable company. She hardly ever left the apartment, but she was perfectly willing to sit on the couch with a book while I put in my hours at the typewriter. She was also good at keeping my coffee cup filled.

We talked quite a bit. Some people can write revealing letters but freeze in conversation, but Debbie was the other way around. Her letters had not really been an exercise in fantasy-tripping, as one might have guessed; the lies she told in them were offhand, and merely a matter of convenience. She had wanted to correspond with me but had been incapable of revealing herself on paper. Face to face, under the stress of the particular circumstances, she was quite open.

The following is a distillation of remarks she made at various times in the course of the week.

•  •  •

I have always felt out of it. As far back as I can remember. I can’t really remember much about my early childhood.

I’ve had four acid trips. The second trip, I got this rush of childhood memories. Like all the way back to when I was nursing. I got very excited and thought on other trips I could go all the way back and remember being born. But on the two other trips I would have other childhood memories, and I saw they were in conflict, and they also conflicted with what I knew to be the truth, so the conclusion I draw is that they were false memories, fantasies.

I don’t like acid anymore. My fourth trip was a bummer, screaming and freaking and all. Everybody said it was bad acid or something, but I don’t know. I figure your trips come out of yourself and it was showing me pieces of me I didn’t want to look at, so I haven’t tripped since that time. It must have been close to a year ago.

I’ve done grass, oh, a lot of times. Mostly because other people were smoking it and here’s this jay passing around so you take a toke. It never did very much for me. I don’t know why.

The past year I’ve been into pills a lot. Uppers and downers. Speed to get up and reds to get down. More downs than anything else. They smooth things out for me. Speed is nice for a rush and the feeling that you can hold it all in the palm of your hand, that your mind is so fast and efficient, but it takes so much out of you. The speed is why I lost so much weight in the past year. You stay up for a few days and don’t think about eating, and then you crash and come out of it all funky and food has no taste.

I’ve been clean for over a week. I figured all I had to do was bring drugs to your place and you would have a shit fit. I mean, I figured you’d be cool, but you wouldn’t need that kind of a hassle.

I’ve always been this lonely kid. My mother never had very much of an interest in me. I don’t know why that is. I think I take after my father and maybe that gives her bad vibes or something.

My father split when I was three. I think I remember him but I really don’t. He’s never been heard from since. We don’t know where he is or even if he’s alive. I have fantasies about him sometimes, which I guess is perfectly normal.

I also have an older brother. He’s much older than I am. I think he’s almost thirty now. He was my mother’s son from a previous marriage, or maybe he was illegitimate. That’s just a guess on my part. I don’t really have any grounds for thinking so but it’s a guess. I haven’t seen him in ages. He lives in California. Once in a while my mother will get a card or a letter from him. He got into trouble when I was a little kid and I think he was in prison for about a year. I think he stole a car or something. He’s not a criminal now, he lives in Los Angeles and sells dental supplies. He’s been married and divorced.

The first sex experience I had was before my mother got married to Chuck. It was with one of her boyfriends. I don’t know if you would really call it a sex experience or not. He was at the house one time when my mother was working. I must have been six or seven at the time. The thing is, he didn’t even touch me or anything. He told me he wanted to show me how men gave babies to women, and he opened his pants and took out his penis and played with himself. He showed me his balls and told me that was where the seeds came from that men planted in women. Then he jerked off and let me watch him ejaculate.

I wasn’t traumatized or anything like that. Actually I thought it was pretty sensational. I remember wishing I had something like that to play with. There was a time when I would check myself every time I went to the bathroom to see if maybe I was growing a cock. I discovered my clitoris and thought maybe it would grow into a penis, but it never did. I would touch it and I must have enjoyed the way it felt but I never thought anything of it and didn’t really know anything about masturbating as something a girl could do.

When I was nine or ten I was very friendly with two boys who lived down the block. They were brothers. One was a year younger than me and the other was two years older than me. We used to play together a lot. They were the only kids I was really friends with at this time.

They used to have peeing contests and would joke about it but wouldn’t let me watch. I kept bugging them to let me watch and finally I talked them into it. I was really excited at the idea of seeing their penises. When it finally happened, I remember being surprised they were so small compared to the penis I had seen before.

I was fascinated with penises. I wanted desperately to touch theirs but was afraid to suggest it. They were all set to have a peeing contest and then the older one turned toward me and suddenly began peeing on me. I ran home screaming and swore I would never have anything to do with them again.

A couple of days later they apologized and said they wanted me to play with them some more. They let me watch them pee and then asked if they could watch me. So I let them, and we did some fooling around. Touching each other. The older one got what I now realize was a hard-on, but he didn’t ejaculate.

I suppose we played that game a half dozen times in all. They moved away, but the game had stopped before they moved. I think we just lost interest in it.

Around this time there was a series of children being molested in the area. Not in our town but in the nearest large city. This man was picking up children—I think it was both boys and girls that he would pick up, but I don’t remember all that clearly—and he was taking them in his car and making them do things. No one was very clear on what he was making them do. No one got killed or anything but we were told in school repeatedly not to have anything to do with strangers.

I had fantasies about this. I would imagine a man offering me a ride after school and taking me into the woods or something and showing me his cock and letting me play with it. I also imagined him playing with me. I knew about intercourse at this stage but somehow never included it in my fantasy. I didn’t know anything about fellatio, although I had heard expressions like “blow job” around the schoolyard without having any idea in the world what it meant. But without knowing about fellatio, I had this desire to do it. In the fantasy, I would play with the man’s cock the way my mother’s boyfriend had played with his, and just as he would be about to shoot I would take the head of his cock in my mouth and suck on it.

The fantasy had a couple of different endings. Either he would tell me he loved me and give me money or a present, or he would take me home with him to be his little girl.

I used to take the long way home from school and walk home very slowly alongside of the curb so that it would be easy for him to talk to me. Of course, nothing ever happened, nothing at all.

I didn’t have any real friends after the two boys moved away. I think most of the kids regarded me as a little bit weird. I was always very quiet. I would be daydreaming in school and sometimes the teacher would call on me and I wouldn’t even have the slightest idea what they had been discussing. A couple of times my mother was called to school for conferences about this. I gather they wanted her to take me to a psychiatrist to find out why I was having trouble relating to school. I remember that term being used. I never did go to a psychiatrist or anything, though.

When I was twelve and a half my aunt died. She was my mother’s sister and they had been fairly close although they lived in different states. We all went there for the funeral and there was this cousin of mine I hadn’t seen in years and didn’t even remember. He was the son of one of my mother’s brothers and was also in that city just for the funeral, as his family lived in Florida. He was seventeen and I developed an enormous crush on him and kept following him around.

I was developed by then and looked probably a little older than my age.

I guess what happened is that I chased him around long enough that he decided he might as well have some fun with me. I don’t know if he had had much experience or not, but at the time I thought of him as the ultimate male. We went into the milking barn one night after dinner. This aunt had lived on a farm. We went into the barn, and he had a pint bottle of wine and gave me a few drinks from it. Then we started making out, kissing and touching. He took my clothes off to the waist and played with my breasts and sucked them. Then he opened his pants and took out his penis, and I immediately began to play with him. I guess I did something right because he said that I gave incredible hand jobs. This was another term I had not been familiar with.

I wanted to take it in my mouth but didn’t know if I should or not. As if he read my mind he asked me to do it, and I didn’t wait for a second invitation. I didn’t really know how to do it. I just sucked the head while pumping up and down on the shaft, but I guess that was enough to please him, because he moaned and groaned and squirmed around and shot in my mouth.

The taste surprised me. I thought it would be sort of creamy and salty in taste, but it was very strong flavored. I liked it, though. Even more than that, I liked the whole idea of it.

Then he said he would do something for me, and I thought he meant fucking, which I wasn’t sure I wanted to do yet for fear of getting pregnant. What he did was finger me, and I had an orgasm from it. I had not yet discovered masturbation, so this was my first orgasm, and it was wonderful. We were there one more day and more or less repeated the process. I sucked him off twice and he fingered me I think three times. He also went down on me, but I guess he had never done it before or something, or else he didn’t like doing it, because all it amounted to was that he kissed me there a couple of times, just ordinary kisses, and then went back to fingering me. It wasn’t really much of a thrill and for a long time after that I thought that being eaten was no big deal for a girl, until over a year later an older man did it who knew what he was doing, and I almost walked up the wall, it was so sensational.

I didn’t see my cousin after that time. He went to his home and I went to mine. A couple of times I was going to write him a letter but I couldn’t think of anything to write, and he never wrote to me. There was never anything like love between us. It was just a matter of having fun together.

But back home after that I was just turned on to sex. I started masturbating and could have an orgasm that way but it didn’t give me any satisfaction. It felt good but only made me more anxious to have sex than before.

I think boys can sense when a girl is ready. Not the boys my age, because they were too young. But older boys who had never paid any attention to me before began to take an interest in me. I was in eighth grade at the time and senior high school boys were starting to pay attention to me. Mostly it was a matter of getting rides home from school and winding up parked somewhere. Of course, it wasn’t long before the word got around that I was a girl who would do things, and then I became very popular.

There was one boy who liked me. His name was Alan and I think he would have liked it if I stopped seeing other boys and just went with him. One thing that I regret is that I didn’t do that, but I guess I only realized afterward that he was that serious about me. He would take the trouble to talk with me, not just making conversation but really getting into each other’s heads.

You read about girls who were promiscuous, which is what I was, let’s face it, and there’s always the impression that the boys involved had tremendous contempt for her. For the promiscuous girl. That they used her but didn’t give a shit about her and thought she was disgusting.

I don’t think it was ever like that. Guys would enjoy my company and give me free dope and generally enjoy having me around.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just kidding myself by saying so. Maybe I was just a doormat or whatever they call it. But I was always treated decently. Even in some scenes, well, there were some group scenes and like that, but even there I felt a kind of respect, that they liked me as a person. Of course the reason they wanted me around was basically sexual. I mean, you go out in a car with four guys and give each of them a blow job and they take you home and that’s it, I mean, that’s a sexual thing. But they were nice to me. I suppose there were jokes about me and everything, but not in my presence. I was treated with respect.

Or else I wanted to think of it that way.

For a long time I stayed a virgin. I guess for about a year. I would give blow jobs or hand jobs and that was all. Sometimes guys would finger me but I would say the majority of the time they wouldn’t bother. I didn’t really want to be touched as much as I wanted to, you know, make them come. I got more satisfaction out of their orgasms than having an orgasm myself. I would get a tremendous rush of pleasure just out of touching their penises or having them in my mouth.

I never said I was a virgin. If anyone would ask me why I wouldn’t fuck, I would say that I just didn’t like it and was afraid of getting pregnant. I don’t know why I more or less concealed the fact that I was a virgin. I suppose I was ashamed of it in some way. Also, I think I felt that they would regard it as a challenge, whereas this way I just got a reputation as a girl who didn’t like to fuck, and so they settled for oral sex, which I think most of them preferred in the first place, since most girls wouldn’t do it or weren’t really good at it. I had the reputation of being really sensational at blow jobs. Maybe because I really enjoyed doing it, which I guess most girls don’t, and also because of all the practice I was getting.

I got very heavy into drugs around this time. My schoolwork improved, which I suppose is weird. My mind didn’t seem to wander as much. I don’t know whether it was because I was getting steady sex or because I felt important because boys were interested in me, but whatever it was, my marks went way up right away despite all the sex and dope. I’d sit in class whacked out of my skull on ups or downs and blast right through a test. I don’t know why. It’s supposed to be the other way around. It wasn’t because I studied. I never studied or anything.

Of course, in the past six months everything must have caught up with me, because my schoolwork went absolutely to hell.

•  •  •

While her acceptance as a sexual object by older buys seems to have done wonders for Debbie’s self esteem, she still had a need to prove herself by having sexual relations with adult males as well. Perhaps this represented fulfillment of her earlier fantasy of finding love in the arms of a child molester. Perhaps it represented the search for the father she barely remembered, or derived from her initial sexual experience with her mother’s lover. In any event, she took to hanging out downtown and learned how to make herself recognizably accessible. She had relations with several adults, and one of them ultimately took her virginity.

•  •  •

There was this bowling alley I would go to. I picked up a couple of men there from time to time and I had this general reputation there as a girl who would go down on men. Frank was the assistant manager there. His older brother was the owner. Frank was about forty, I guess. He was bald and I guess he wasn’t terribly attractive but he was always nice to me. He never made a play for me for the longest time, but he would always joke with me in a very friendly way.

He was married. In fact, he had a daughter a year behind me in school.

One night I just hung around, and when he closed up I was still there. I was kind of down. A couple of guys had come on to me but I wasn’t in the mood. I was never a complete pushover that all anybody had to do was ask me. I had to be in the mood, and I sort of was and wasn’t at the same time, and I was still there when Frank was closing up.

We went into his office. He got out a bottle of whiskey and started drinking, and I was drinking Cokes, and we had this long talk. Actually it was him talking and me listening. He just rambled on. He was really depressed. He talked about never having enough money and different problems and how he was crazy to have gotten married so young and everything else that came to mind. Then he got on the couch with me and started kissing me, and he would stop from time to time and start crying and saying it was wrong for him to be doing this, and then he would start in kissing me some more. I had this enormous urge to make him feel better and I took the lead and opened his zipper and went down on him.

This was the first time he had ever had oral sex in his entire life. I guess his wife wouldn’t do it, or maybe he never asked her to, and he didn’t play around. He really went wild, and afterward he held my face against his chest and kept telling me how much he loved me and how he wished he were free to marry me, which was weird when you think of it because I was all of thirteen, thirteen and a half, a year older than his kid. I guess he was pretty drunk at the time.

I don’t know how many times I saw him after that. It was very weird. He would get very moral and talk about how we could never be together again, and then he would get very horny and very convinced that the two of us were in love, and then afterward he would go moral again. The second time we were together was the time he fucked me. I had said that I didn’t like doing it and it became very important to him that he be able to make me enjoy it. Then when he found out afterward that I was a virgin he went crazy and talked about killing himself. He had all this terrible guilt.

After a while it just got too heavy for me and I stopped turning up at the bowling alley. By this time I guess I got over my thing for older men because they seemed to have hang-ups that kids my age or a few years older didn’t have. All of this guilt, and they either convinced themselves they were in love with me the way Frank did or else it was obvious to me that they thought I was a tramp and someone filthy, which was a terrible down for me.

Once I had had intercourse with Frank, there didn’t seem to be any point in not having it with other people. I don’t know why I had made such a big deal of it. I guess the big thing was an idea of saving it for the right person. I don’t think I had that idea consciously but it was there somewhere in the back of my mind.

I guess I still believed in Prince Charming on a white horse. I guess I still do even now, for that matter, although I know better, or else I wouldn’t have bothered writing you all that bullshit about David, who doesn’t know I exist. It wasn’t exactly a fantasy, I don’t think, because I mostly had those thoughts about David when I was writing to you, and I didn’t have them as thoughts so much as I wanted to impress you as being, I don’t know, normal, I guess you would say. I didn’t want to rap about what I was really into, so I figured I would make myself into a normal kid, and I figured going steady with someone like David was what a normal girl would be into.

As far as lying about my age, I didn’t think you would take a fourteen-year-old seriously. So I made myself seventeen in order to be taken seriously.

Anyway, once Frank got my cherry I would fuck if somebody really wanted to, but I still preferred giving head, and still do for that matter, but I would fuck if that was what a person wanted.

•  •  •

In recent months Debbie had begun coming unglued. Her schoolwork suffered and her dependence upon drugs increased markedly. She last weight and her complexion deteriorated. Her mental health also declined. She would have periods of blackouts, especially following amphetamine use, during which times she would lose great chunks of memory.

•  •  •

Also, I began to despise myself, which I honestly hadn’t done before. You would think it would be the other way around, that a person would be more upset with herself for being promiscuous when she was first getting into it, but for me it was as if I was so young and innocent at the beginning that I didn’t have the brains to be disgusted with myself, and then gradually I came to see what I was doing.

I wasn’t in one mood all the time. I had my ups and downs on the subject. In fact it would be related to drugs, because when I was into a good high I felt very good about the life I was leading, and when I was strung out it would come to me what a mess I was making of everything.

I guess my mother more or less knew I was fucking around. I don’t know. Sometimes I think she’s a mental case herself. She never had a breakdown or anything but she’s so completely into herself and so turned off by the rest of the entire world. She knew I would get phone calls all the time and keep odd hours and everything, and she must have seen how I was going to hell physically, but nothing registered on her, or if it did she just didn’t give a shit about it, because she never really came right out and said anything to me.

I keep thinking about starting all over. Moving far away where nobody knows who I am and getting a job and living a clean life. Staying off drugs and staying away from sex and making a life for myself. I don’t think I’m hooked on drugs or on sex either. I think they’re both habits but not addictions, that I could give them both up without any trouble. Because I don’t get that much pleasure from either of them anymore.

I wish I were older. I couldn’t get a job now. I suppose I could run away and it would be cool because I don’t figure my mother would bother filling out a missing persons report. Maybe I’m not being fair to her. I don’t know. Maybe she thinks of herself as giving me independence. Or maybe she’s just got her own problems on her mind so much that she can’t handle anything. Her health is not very good. And ever since my aunt died, she’s been convinced that her own death is just a matter of time. Like she’s sitting around waiting for it to catch up with her.

I don’t know.

If I were older I could get a job and support myself, but I’m only fourteen and I’m not big or mature-looking for my age, and I don’t think I could pass for eighteen or anything like it. And if I didn’t get a job I would just be a hippie and wind up back in the sex and drug scene and sooner or later I would be a whore.

It’s easy to be a whore. All you do is do it. That’s how I got the money for the abortion, and to come to New York. I told a friend of mine I was pregnant and he and a few of his friends chipped in some money, but it only came to about fifty dollars, which was nowhere near enough, and he suggested I go to the nearest city and he would find men to have sex with me. I think he got a kick out of pimping. It was a new experience for him and he thought it was very far out. He went into bars and lined up men and we would drive them in his car and I would suck them off in the back seat. I got ten dollars for each time.

It was disgusting to think about but I had so much speed in me it didn’t get me down at the time.

I sort of wish I hadn’t had my baby killed but I guess it was the best thing for everybody. Especially for the baby. Imagine having me for a mother and nobody for a father, some life for a kid.

Shit.

I guess it’s a miracle I never got pregnant before. Or caught a disease.

I wish I could just curl up in a ball and stay here forever. Don’t worry—I’m not hinting or anything. I know it would be a down. And it wouldn’t be a life for me, either. I have to find some way to make it myself.

I guess I’ll flunk most of my subjects this year.

If I even go back.

•  •  •

She went home because there was no place else for her to go. A clinical psychologist I know made arrangements for her to get twice-a-week group therapy at a public clinic not far from her hometown. The therapy evidently helped, probably because she had bottomed out, had reached a point in her life where she was ready to be helped.

I hear from her every once in a while. Here’s her most recent letter:

Dear Jack,

Sorry I haven’t written in so long. Things are going pretty well here . . . Believe it or not, I’m in an English honors program this semester. There’s an emphasis on creative writing and the teacher is impressed with what I have been doing, so maybe I will wind up a writer and follow in your footsteps . . .

I’m going with a very nice guy who graduates this June. He’s going away to school in the fall so I don’t suppose it will turn out to amount to anything but it’s good for me at the present time. He knows all about my notorious past and accepts it. Still, I think it’s something he can accept in a girlfriend but not in a really heavy romance, and that eventually I will have to get away from here and start life fresh, but at least I’m getting myself squared away in the meantime.

We have a good thing sexually. I am on the pill, though, so don’t worry that I will again turn up on your doorstep with a stuffed womb!

I’m doing okay . . .

Love,

Debbie

I think she’ll make it.

A LETTER FROM NICK

Dear Mr. Wells:

I need some help. I’m fourteen years old and have changed my image from a ninety-pound weakling to an okay guy. The problem is girls still don’t take me seriously. Which means I can’t get girls to stand me being around.

I’ve only had two girls. The first one I went around with for a while, and as soon as we broke up she became a prostitute. I had nothing to do with that. I think she couldn’t wait to get rid of me.

The other girl I met on a vacation. I was only there for a little while and we had slight sex. The next time I saw her I could tell something was wrong. When I asked her what it was she told me that since I left she had been going around with another guy and had gone to bed with him just the night before. Whether this was for the first time or not I don’t know. I later met this guy and found out he was kind of dense and uglier than me.

For the next couple of days I made an ass of myself, thinking up all kinds of stupid ideas and schemes, until her sister told me not to bother. Her sister’s a sexy blonde only a year older than me, but alas she’s going steady with a guy, a big guy. The last time I was there both sisters were still going steady and I’m sort of a friend of the family.

My problem is how can I get a girl without buying one on the corner for a buck or going all over hell to get one.

I tried the trick of letting myself grow on a broad but she saw me once too many times and told me off in what you might call bad language.

Even my best friend, who can have any girl in the city, can’t give me any advice.

I’m getting that kid-in-a-candy store feeling only I don’t know how to buy . . .

Nick

MARIA’S RAP

Maria is in her late twenties. Her photographs were once under consideration for a Playboy center spread, but she missed out because her face was “too European.” She has done various sorts of modeling, has acted in pornographic films, and is presently employed as a masseuse in a West Side massage parlor. As with most of these establishments in New York, “massage” is a euphemism for prostitution. Maria is a hooker.

•  •  •

I don’t know if you ever met Eileen. She worked here up until six or eight months ago. A really dirty girl. I mean like physically dirty. Unclean. You could just about smell it when she walked in the door. I don’t know how the customers stood for it, to tell you the truth.

Well, this friend of mine, her husband was a photographer, and Eileen wanted some pictures taken of her and her old man and the kids. She had two kids, a girl about four years old and a baby boy. So Barbie and Don went over there, and Don was going to take pictures of all of them.

Barbie said she never saw anything like it. Like the place was filthy, cat shit all over the floors, dirty clothes everywhere, filthy dishes in the sink, everything. Barbie brought her own cat along and asked where the litter box was so her cat could use it when it had to, and Eileen didn’t know. Said they had a cat box somewheres once, but it was lost or something, so Barbie’s cat could just use the floor the way their own cats did. And you could tell Eileen’s cats just used the floor because you couldn’t walk around without stepping in it.

So they’re sitting around, and the four year old calmly drops her pants and squats in the middle of the room and takes a massive crap. Just like that, and nobody says a word, not Eileen, not the father. Barbie was like flipping out. She told Eileen to for Christ’s-sake-pick-it-up or something, and Eileen nonchalantly takes a paper towel, makes a swipe at the crap, picking up about half of it, and throws it across the room at the wastebasket. But she misses, and it hits the wall and stays there for a minute and then plops down onto the floor.

Well, at this point Eileen gives up.

Anyway, Don’s taking pictures, and everybody’s sprawled around smiling and all, and Barbie notices that the four-year-old girl is sitting in an armchair with her dress up and no underpants on. And drinking milk out of a bottle, and sort of flashing her box at Don—who isn’t all that interested in the boxes of four-year-old kids, but manages to ignore it all pretty well. And then Barbie sees the kid very deliberately take the baby bottle and spread her legs wide and start working the nipple in and out of her snatch. Four years old, and very calmly jerking off with her milk bottle, and her parents either aren’t paying any attention or don’t care.

Well, Barbie and Don used up a role of film and got the hell out of there. They managed to get Eileen to pull the kid’s dress down before they took pictures of her. And Eileen told me all about this, and we figured out what it was all about.

See, Eileen’s old man digs watching sexual things. Eileen was working here regular hours, but she would also take an occasional trick home with her to Brooklyn, and her old man would hide in the closet so’s he could watch. And they only had like one room there so he would also take the kids in with him, and he would play with them sexually while he watched Eileen ball some stranger. Because what four-year-old kid would have the imagination to think of jerking off with the nipple of a baby bottle? Kids are sexual and they might touch themselves and all that, but they wouldn’t think of doing an in-and-out number, so obviously this was a trick her daddy taught her to do.

And I asked Eileen about this, and she said yeah, he had taught the kid, and she acted as though they thought it was a cute trick, like teaching a dog to roll over and play dead.

I always thought of myself as, you know, broadminded. Especially where matters of sex are concerned. But to lay a trip like that on a little kid, I just can’t relate to that at all. You wonder what kind of chance a kid like that has to grow up sane.

Well, they’re crazy anyway. Eileen’s old man would let the baby boy crawl in the gutters between parked cars. He would pick up hunks of dog shit and smear it in his hair and the guy would insist it just toughens up kids and builds up their resistance. That was a favorite expression of his, about building up the child’s resistance.

There are people in this world, man, that you shouldn’t let them walk around without a leash.

A LETTER FROM HOWARD

Dear Mr. Wells,

I am writing to you because I just finished reading your book Come Fly With Us. I enjoyed it very much, but I am not writing to you just because of the book. I read on the back that you were a sexologist. I do know that the field of sexology is the study of sex or the interaction of the sexes among human beings. (If it sounds as though I looked it up in the dictionary, believe me I did.) What I liked in your book was that you said we could write as many times as we want to you and that you would keep our letters in the strictest of confidence.

First I’ll tell you a little about myself. I am a boy and my age is fifteen. I like reading books about the airlines. My father was a pilot and my mother was a stewardess. Both worked for a major domestic carrier. I myself would like to follow in my father’s footsteps. I look about three years younger than my age and I am very shy.

I really believe that I am sexually immature. My mother told me about sex. To me it was a waste of time because she only told me what happens to the sperm after it enters the female. She never told me how to do it. So how the hell am I supposed to know? I hope you get my point. I had to learn it on my own, from word of mouth etc., and I still don’t understand it all.

I hope you understand it is very hard to write this letter. I have never told my feelings to anyone before. I confide in you and I would like to tell you more. I just believe that you, John, can help me. This letter might be a little long but I’d rather put it down on paper now, because I’ll probably chicken out later on.

Not too many people would say that they themselves are sexually immature. But I must admit I am. I am very shy. I have never dated any girl in school. Oh, there was one, her name was Loretta, I knew her since third grade. I took her to a dance in seventh grade. That was all. No more dates. Nothing!!! She moved and that was it. I never kissed her or any other girl in school. Some kids in my class are already fucking each other, believe it or not. I haven’t even gotten a girl alone, let alone get my pants down to do anything. I just don’t seem to hit it off right. I’m sure you understand.

Do you believe that to this day I have never seen a Playboy or Penthouse mag. Okay, I have seen an old mag similar to it, but it was so old it almost fell apart. Another one I saw was a German one. It had pictures of people fucking each other in bed and standing up. But it was all in German. I’m always afraid to buy a Penthouse or Playboy. I feel as though the store owner won’t sell it to me. Would you do me a favor? When you send me your reply letter would you please send me an old copy of Playboy or Penthouse you have around, or please buy me a copy of each and I swear to God I’ll pay you. I don’t know. I’m just scared to hell to buy them. Thanks a lot!!! What age can you buy it and at what age did you start reading it? Do you know of any other mag that shows gals in the nude? If so, what is the name of it? Don’t the gay lib and homos have one with nude men? If so, what is the name of it?

I’ll tell you one thing. I have a lot of wet, and I mean wet dreams. I dream of the future when I get a stewardess in bed and fuck her out of her mind. Is it normal to have wet dreams? I started having them in seventh grade and am going into tenth grade now. Have you ever had any?

I bought the book Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex But Were Afraid to Ask. Well. I needed that book, because I had to learn it and was afraid to ask. The first chapter started to get interesting. It was Male Sexual Organs. But the first question that hits you is: How big is the normal penis?

Well, this question hit me hard. For me, I believe for the age of fifteen mine is way, and I mean way undersize. I wish it was over. (I hope you’re not getting sick.) Mine is about 2½” long with a 7/8” diameter. (Small, ain’t it.)

Now I have had many erections. Most of them happen during my wet dreams, of course, and when I read dirty books. During erection it is about 5½” long with 1 3/8” diameter. Now if you ask me, my cock should be 5½” long when it is not in erection.

I think I’m really screwed up. Hair is no problem, I got plenty of that. Well at least one gland is working right.

The reason I’m telling you all this is because in gym at school when you take showers (which I have never taken, namely because of the smallness of my cock and also because I’m afraid I might get an erection in the middle of it all) a friend of mine had a cock that topped all cocks. It was, no fooling, about eight inches long with a two-inch diameter. For his age it was big. I could imagine his erection size.

Now this next question may make you sick, but: Could you tell me if my cock is the right size for my age? Was yours bigger at my age? What size would you call normal for your age and my own? What is your size now with and without erection? And is there any way to enlarge them like with gals’ tits? You may say these are homo and queer questions, but trust me, I ain’t no homo and never will be. I just want advice.

So many kids in school say, “Oh, I jerked off last night with a bunch of my friends.” Even my best friend has asked me to jerk off with the gang. Screw him!! I’m afraid to ask what jerking off is and how to do it because I’d be the laughing stock. But I’m going to ask you. What is it, and how do you do it? If it’s good maybe I’ll go one night.

John, I’d like to ask you some personal questions. How old are you? Are you married? If so, how many kids? Have you ever blown a girl and has a girl ever blown you? Could you please describe it and your feelings when she blew you and when you blew her. Has a girl ever had your cock in her mouth? How does it feel? What happens if you eject in her mouth? Have you ever jerked off? How does it feel? What does it feel like sucking a girl’s tit? I will treat your letter the same way you treat mine, in the strictest of confidence.

You know, John, in sex-filled books they say, “Steve brought Janet to a drive-in and fucked her in the back seat.” Have you ever fucked someone at a drive-in? If so, could you give me a blow-by-blow description? If you haven’t fucked a girl in a drive-in, could you please describe a blow-by-blow description of the first time you ever, ever got laid? (Please tell me both) How old were you then? How did it feel for the first time? You know, John, I’m asking you these questions because books are mostly fiction and I’d like to ask someone who has really done it. I just want advice. I hope you understand my point.

You know, I have never gotten drunk in my life. I don’t drink or smoke. Oh yes, there was one time I smoked. It was in the eighth grade. I tried smoking cigarettes. They were pretty good. I never got into the habit. But I’d like to smoke again once I’m about 24 or so.

John, you know I have so much to tell you about myself, but this letter is already too long. I’m glad I have finally written it all down on paper and I feel better now that I have. I read in your book that some letters you get are made up. Well, I’ll tell you as sure as hell this one is not. I’ll be awaiting your answer soon. Please send it as soon as possible. I would like to write you more often and tell you my feelings and hopefully meet you someday. Feel free to put this letter on file.

. . . Well, thanks again. I sure hope you can help, because I need it all. I don’t know how much I can thank you. It has been hard writing this letter because you are the only person I have ever told these things to, because I trust you, I know you will listen and will answer, I know you will help, and I know you’ll do what I tell you.

Thanks a billion!!!

Sincerely yours,

Howard

SAME BACKGROUND NOTES TO AN OPEN MARRIAGE

Herbie and Saralee live on the outskirts of a small Midwestern village. They are in their early twenties and have been married for almost two years. They have a baby a few months old. Herbie is long and lean and angular, and both his drawl and the cut of his features are evocative of the hill country. She is short and curvy, with a heart-shaped face and an open expression. He is a mechanic and works for an older relative. She graduated from college and hopes to teach high school. He is an Aries and she is a Gemini, if you keep track of such things.

From the onset of their marriage, Herbie and Saralee have had an open relationship, with each free to have sexual relations with other partners. They are both interested in swinging, but their relative geographical isolation has thus far limited their opportunities.

Saralee began writing to me in response to a book of mine on female bisexuality, a topic which is something of an obsession for Herbie. I later printed two of her letters in a book called Doing Your Thing, with the notation that, jaded as I have become over the years, Saralee somehow had the ability to write letters I found stimulating. The two letters consisted primarily of a discussion of her sexual experiences since her first meeting with Herbie, along with her plans for further sexual experimentation. The interested reader might want to refer to them.

Since then I’ve received two further letters, one from each of them, in which they discuss their early sexual experiences. I learned from these letters that both of them had a particular motive in writing to me; I served as a medium through which they could confide matters to each other that they were unable to speak of directly with one another. I had realized long ago that correspondence with me is often a vehicle for self-discovery, but Herbie and Saralee took this a step further, showing each other their letters to me and thus facilitating self-revelation with which they would have otherwise been uncomfortable.

Dear Jack,

First I’ll start by telling you about the night I went to bed with this guy named Jeff. He’s getting married in a couple of months and wanted Herbie and me to get him fixed up with this girl he went with one time before. He wanted to have a good time, but mainly wanted to fuck. So we got them together. He went and got her and brought her out to our house. We all sat around and talked, and of course the topic got to sex. Jeff sat there and got a hard-on about three times and finally asked Lois to go to bed with him, and she wouldn’t do it. So he said, “Herbie, do you mind if I go to bed with your wife?” Herbie said, “It’s not up to me, it’s up to her.” So I said, “Let’s go.”

So when we went in the bedroom the light was on and he wanted to turn it off, but I said no, so we didn’t. We went ahead and took our clothes off and got in bed and he couldn’t get a hard-on. I sucked him and still no reaction. Poor guy felt so embarrassed. He said, “Well, I’ve got you ready for Herbie,” and I was hotter than hell. We talked for a while and then got dressed and went back in the living room and he took Lois home. Herbie and Lois had been talking about why she wouldn’t do anything and what she thought about all this. I don’t think she was too happy—but she was given first choice and didn’t want it. Needless to say, Herbie and I fucked after they left, cause I was so horny I couldn’t take it . . .

Here it is a new day since I wrote the first part of this letter, and I have something different on my mind that I’d like to talk about. I don’t know if I’m writing this for your benefit or my husband’s, cause this has to do with some childhood experiences that I had and never told anyone about. So psychologically I think the reason I’m writing this is that I want my husband to know and he will know before you since he always reads my letters before I mail them.

These episodes date back to when I was about five and six years old. So this is how I learned about sex. I was an only child until I was eight and then my only sister was born, so there were never any boys around for me to learn about the opposite sex, although I knew what it was, cause I lived on a farm and there were always animals here and there fucking, and I could relate that to humans, but still I wanted to see a boy’s dick.

The first boy’s dick that I ever saw was my cousin Ed’s. Here’s how it happened. He was an only child and we were always outside playing. So one day he had to piss. When he did, he told me he was going to, but then turned his back to me.

So I said, “How come you turned around so I couldn’t see you?” So he gave me the usual line—“I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” So he took the next step and said, “Can I feel it? I’ll let you feel mine.” And of course this was what I’d been wanting and we quickly touched each other and then put our clothes back on so no one could tell what we had been doing.

After that every time we could get alone together we would feel each other’s “things.” Then I asked him what it was called and he said all he knew was “pee-wee” but he’d talk to an older boy who lived down the road. The next time we were together he told me it was either called “peter” or “dick.” I had a hard time understanding how it could be called both of these, but was thrilled that I’d learned such valuable information.

The next episode of my childhood also took place before I started school, and it was with a neighbor girl named Janice. She and I played together almost every day and we had a playhouse out under a big tree behind my house. One day she said, “Can I see what color panties you have on today?” So I showed her and she showed me hers. Then she said, “Let me show you what I’ve learned to do.” She got a chicken feather, pulled down her panties, sat down, and started tickling her pussy with the feather. She said, “Get yourself a feather and do it.” I said, “No, I’m afraid to,” so she said, “Here, I’ll do it for you.” She got a feather and I pulled down my panties and she said, “Sit down and open it up,” so I did, and she rubbed the feather back and forth over my clit, and I admitted that it felt good. That was the only sexual thing we ever did together. I think we did it every day for about two weeks and then it was forgotten.

The next thing I recall vividly was with my girlfriend at her house. We were in third grade and I was staying all night at her house. She and I were made to go to bed at 10 p.m. and neither of us wanted to, so she said, “I know a game we can play.” I said, “What?” She said, “There’s a little man on my foot, make him get off.” I said, “Get off, little man,” but soon found that this wasn’t what she wanted. She said, “No, that’s not how you play. You have to reach down there and make him move.” I reached down and got hold of her foot and said, “Now he’s off.”

She said, “He jumped over on you. Where is he?” I said, “There’s a little man on my head.” So she reached up and got my head and told him to get off. This went on until we were touching all over each other’s bodies. We had on baby doll pajamas, but of course the little man was hiding under them, so we kept touching each other’s tits and cunts until her parents heard us talking and made us get quiet. So we went to sleep, and that was the only time we ever played that little game.

The next sexual encounter was just with myself and a dog. I was outside by where our dog was tied and decided I needed to piss. So I squatted down and the dog came over and tried to lick my pussy. So this gave me an idea and I proceeded to let him, cause it felt good, and I knew no one would be able to find out. The dog was a boy and its prick got erect and was sticking out, so I reached down and got hold of it. Soon the dog was hunching and I was excited as could be. It was then I wondered what it would be like to be fucked, but would never have dared do it with the dog, for fear of having puppies. Anal intercourse never occurred to me cause I’d never heard of it and was only eight or nine at the time.

I walked in on Dad getting dressed one day and although he didn’t know it I saw his penis and at the time it was erect and I thought, “Do all boys’ dicks get that big?” I don’t have any idea now how long it was, probably about average, but to a little girl it was huge! I didn’t even know that cocks even got erect. I thought they stayed the same size all the time.

As I got older I’d stay awake when I went to bed so I could listen to Mom and Dad fucking. I would have given anything to have watched, but would surely have gotten caught.

Later when I got so I knew what all the slang and “big words” meant, I’d get Dad’s dirty books and read them when no one was around. He’d put them up where he thought I couldn’t find them, but I knew where they were, so I sneaked one out and read it every time I got a chance. My favorite was Sexology cause I liked the questions and answers.

I had to learn some way, cause Mom and Dad never told me anything about sex and I was afraid to say anything to them about it, cause it was always something I was too little to hear about. I can tell you one thing—my daughter is going to be far better educated in sex than I was. I learned it, but only by sneaking around, and still I can’t talk to my parents openly about it.

To me sex is beautiful and not to be locked out of sight. Unless my case is abnormal, children are going to experiment until they learn it, and if it’s forbidden to them, then they have guilt feelings like I did.

I had never told anyone any of these things and had wanted to tell Herbie but couldn’t say them. It’s much easier to write things sometimes than to speak them, but once he knows about them then I won’t be afraid to talk with him about them. There’s something about childhood sex experiences that is exciting to me. Maybe it’s the innocence of children. Oh well, now another part of myself is revealed . . .

If you should get to this area, we’d love to have you come see us. I must warn you we’re not rich, but are friendly and would enjoy your company . . . Well, I’ll end this now and hope to hear from you soon . . .

Sincerely,

Saralee

Dear Mr. Wells,

My name is Herbie——— and you have been corresponding with my wife Saralee. I have thought about writing you myself but just haven’t had the time. I do now, so I will. I would like to tell you about myself without seeming conceited, but there isn’t any way to do that, so I will just say that I am very loving. I love pleasure. I love people who enjoy life and living. To me sex is 99% of a person’s life; the other 1% is just existing and finding sexual partners. I don’t know how I reached the feeling I have, since I grew up practically the same as most of my friends, but they seem to have more puritanical ideas about sex.

When I was six years old, my neighbor, who was the same age, was named Arnie. He and I experimented with sex together for a year. We used to go into the cornfield across from my house and try very hard to fuck each other in the ass. Being six years old, it was impossible, as neither of us was very well endowed yet.

I moved to this town when I was seven and met new friends. I had several sexual encounters with a friend named Roy. We would jack each other off and screw each other in the ass—as we used to say, “cornhole.” This went on until we were about twelve. I masturbated regularly from then until today. I didn’t have a heterosexual relationship until I was sixteen.

This happened when Leroy and I were at the drive-in. This big chick came out of the snack bar and started talking to us. She left, and we both cussed each other for not trying to fuck her. So, to prove to each other that we weren’t chickenshits, we said that if she came back we would try.

She came back in about five minutes and we talked her into getting into the car. I (casually!) dropped my keys on the floor, and when I picked them up I ran my hand up her leg and under her dress. She didn’t seem upset so I kissed her and started playing with her pussy. She was very hot and I kept on playing with her. She unzipped my pants and pulled out my dick. She was jacking me very slowly, and then I felt a hand in beside mine on her cunt. It was my good ole buddy Leroy trying to get in on the action.

I pulled down my pants and was going to fuck her but I got caught under the steering wheel. Leroy, taking full advantage of the situation immediately climbed aboard and started fucking away. There wasn’t much I could do at the moment, so I just relaxed and let her jack me for a while.

Leroy finished and got in the back seat. She moved over and spread her legs open and guided my dick into her wet hole. Very wet! I didn’t mind, since it was my first piece, but there was a lot more I would have liked to have done with her. She would have been a good person to introduce me to the art of sex. She was 23 and had big tits.

I like big tits, don’t you, Jack? I hope you don’t mind me calling you “Jack.” My wife calls you Jack and she mentions you quite often. Well, enough about you and my wife, back to me . . .

I got my next experience from a much younger girl. She was fourteen and I was seventeen. She was a virgin, and it was a traumatic event when I first fucked her. Hell, I didn’t know it hurt to get fucked, I always thought it was pretty neat, but I was wrong. I guess that’s why I don’t like virgins. I was pretty shook when she started crying and bleeding all over me and my car and everywhere. I stuck it out with her for four months and fucked her steadily. Well, not steadily but regularly. After her, I just dated around and fucked anyone I could.

Now let me tell you about my so called “hang-up.” I like lesbians and lesbianism. I get very turned on watching it or reading about it. It is not mandatory for me to see it to enjoy sex. but it increases my sexual pleasures. I don’t know when I first realized that I was affected by it, but it has gone pretty far in my mind. I really wish sometimes that I was a girl and could have the opportunity to seduce other girls. Some psychiatrists think that this stems from latent homosexuality, as you probably know. I don’t consider myself as a possible homosexual, but am bisexual under certain conditions. I have had two homosexual affairs that can be counted as such.

One night a bunch of the guys were playing cards and drinking and got a little high. I wasn’t drunk and was fully aware of what I was doing. Everyone left except me and the guy who owned the house. He was a friend, though he wasn’t a close friend. He asked me if I would stay and go to bed with him. I had thought about having this kind of thing happen and what I would do if it did. I really wanted to experience it, maybe because of what I’d done with other guys when I was younger, but I don’t know. I said I would spend the night, but that I wouldn’t do anything to him. He said that was okay but that he wanted to suck me.

We went in the bedroom and got undressed. I was much bigger built than he was although I’m about average. He started sucking my cock and I really got turned on, so I maneuvered him around into a 69 position. Here I was not going to do anything, but as you know, sex in progress is a lot different than just talking about it. I really wanted to suck him and I did. Then I wanted to fuck him in the ass and he let me but it really hurt him. I don’t think he had done much else before either, but I really don’t know.

He fucked me in the ass but his dick was so small I couldn’t really feel anything. I left feeling very guilty about what had happened, and kept on feeling guilty for a long time, until I convinced myself that it was just sex. And it wasn’t bad, either. I thought I had found out what I wanted to know, which was that I was not “queer,” but I hadn’t; I just found out that I like the feelings that come from pleasing people and being pleased.

The next opportunity I had was when I was hitchhiking back home from seeing Saralee while she was in college. A guy picked me up and he got around to asking if I wanted to go riding around for a while. He was driving a Lincoln and I knew that people don’t drive total strangers around for nothing, especially people driving Lincolns. I said okay. We went out riding, and I knew he was looking for a reason to stop the car, so he could make an advance. So I gave him a reason. I told him about a swimming hole we used to go to back in the woods. He said he would like to see it. Perfect.

So here we go to the ole swimming hole. He parks the car and lets back the power seat. I wasn’t too hot but I was still looking for the answers to some questions I had about my masculinity. He started playing with me and took my pants down and started sucking my dick. I reached out and started playing with him and he stopped sucking me to take his pants down. Then he leaned back and just sat there playing with my ear. I didn’t say anything and neither did he.

Then I asked him if he wanted me to suck him and he said he did. His cock was really large. It wasn’t as long as mine, but it was twice as big around. I sucked him off and then he sucked me again. We started to leave and he asked me to go to his house, but I had a lot to do and couldn’t. I really regret not going, but maybe I’ll meet him again sometime. I think I’d know him but I doubt if he would remember me.

I guess I’m about finished with my little story. I think Saralee has told you most of what has happened. I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes for you,

Herbie

A few months ago, I was fortunate enough to be able to accept Saralee’s invitation to visit them. I spent a weekend at their house and met several of their friends as well.

It was my impression that the openness of their marriage and their liberal attitude toward sexual experimentation exists primarily because Herbie wants it that way. He is very much the dominant figure in their relationship, and I suspect Saralee engages in extramarital sex less for its own sake than to fit in with her husband’s image of her and to please him vicariously. Not that this represents enormous sacrifice on her part; she seems to enjoy the life-style they are presently evolving, and to be wholly at ease with it.

A LETTER FROM KARL

Dear John Wells,

I enjoyed entirely your books. Tricks of the Trade, Three Is Not a Crowd, and Beyond Group Sex. In addition to being entertaining and very well written, they provided much information not otherwise obtainable on aspects of life that are important to everyone.

I cannot write much about my own experiences. Not having had any to speak of. In fact that is my problem—no experience! I am sixteen years old and a junior in high school. I have had dates but the girls I go out with are not the sort to be interested in anything beyond kissing, and I have not had any dates with the other type.

I hope, Mr. Wells, that you will be able to help me. For various reasons I think it would be best for me to learn the secrets of sex from a professional prostitute. However, I do not know the best way to do this. On two occasions I have come to New York and have observed girls on Lexington Avenue who I assume are whores, watching them approach men, etc. I walked past some of them over and over again but none of them approached me. As I am small for my age they might think I’m just a kid and for this reason pay no attention to me. I thought of approaching them myself but had no idea how to do this. Also I have heard that streetwalkers in New York are dangerous, being that they will mug and rob a person, even commit murder in some cases. Also I would not know how much to pay them or things of this nature, Also there is the risk of a disease, etc.

Here is where you could help me. You must know of places where someone like me could go. By this I mean a bordello, brothel, whorehouse, house of ill repute—you get the picture. I can come to New York easily as I live less than fifty miles away by bus and my parents are used to me coming to the city from time to time. If you could give me an address and inform me about such matters as price, how to select a girl, and rules of etiquette, I could take it from there.

If you feel it is not right for you to do this, what you could do is this—write the information in your letter and then say that you think it would not be advisable for me to visit such a place, and then you will not be recommending it, if this concerns you.

I feel it is very important for me to have this experience, and the sooner the better. I can’t feature being married and not knowing what to do. Or having a girl who is willing and not having the experience to give her a good time. I am sure you understand.

Sincerely,

Karl

P.S. I swear I am not a policeman or federal agent or connected with the Post Office department in any way.

DADDY’S GIRL

It has long been maintained that sexual relations between fathers and daughters constitute far and away the most common form of incest. From my own observation, I have come to suspect that brother-sister incest is rather more common, and that available data does not reflect this because such brother-sister incest is far less likely to come to the attention of the authorities. Furthermore, it would appear that brother-sister sex is not nearly so likely to have traumatic effects upon the personality. Indeed, a large number of men and women with such experience in their past history regard such episodes as insignificant, remembering them dimly, with little discernible guilt.

The father-daughter relationship, on the other hand, is pointed out as a source of emotional maladjustment. Reports of seduction by the biological father—or, far more frequently, by a father figure such as a stepfather, a boyfriend of the mother, etc.—are almost a cliché in the psychoanalytical histories of prostitutes and female homosexuals. While it is questionable as to how often such experiences actually occurred and how often they represent fantasy, in either event there would seem to be a connection between the experience (real or imagined) and the ultimate psychosexual development of the female.

The father-daughter relationship is somehow more conducive to incest than its corollary, the mother-son relationship. one is hard put to explain precisely why this is so. Until the current era of semantic permissiveness, the epithet “motherfucker” was the ultimate insult; even now, when words have lost their ability to shock, it is as bad a word as one person can hurl at another. There has never been any comparable verbal brickbat to throw at a female. And the biblical book of Leviticus, which goes to great lengths to spell out those relationships which are to be proscribed as incestuous, omits specific injunction against father-daughter sex. It has been suggested that father-daughter incest is somehow more “natural,” that we are culturally accustomed to sexual relationships in which the male is substantially older, that the role of the male in a sexual relationship is compatible with the parental role.

Indeed, symbolic incest is an element in many father-daughter relationships which are never marked by its physical manifestation. The overprotective father may be guarding his daughter from her suitors because he unconsciously wants her as a sexual partner himself. The woman who seeks out men who remind her of her father does so not only out of love and respect, but because her own desire for him has fixed him in her mind as the epitome of masculinity.

Often one party, father or daughter, will recognize this mutual attraction and resolve to nip it in the bud. I know a young woman, for example, who was always very close to her father in childhood. In early adolescence, her father abruptly rejected her, shut her off emotionally. This upset the girl considerably, and she has not yet entirely recovered from this rejection. In the course of psychotherapy, she came to the realization that her father had been strongly attracted to her sexually, had been frightened by this attraction, and had literally forced himself to cease to relate to her for fear that the attraction would otherwise ultimately find physical expression. The realization that she had not “done anything” to make him withdraw his love was immensely reassuring to her. She could only regret that her father had been insufficiently sure of himself to maintain emotional closeness with her without being anxious that an incestuous relationship would be the result.

Cathy’s story is an interesting example of the manner in which incest can develop and some of the effects it can have on the persons involved. A fundamental sexual attraction between Cathy and her father had existed from the beginning, yet it seems unlikely anything would have come of it had not circumstances intervened.

I met Cathy at a party at which we talked briefly about nothing very important. A few weeks later I received a telephone call from her. “I’ve read two of your books since I met you,” she said. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to interview me. I’ve had some interesting experiences and I’ve never been able to talk about them. When I try to talk about them with people I’m close to, I get blocked. I thought it might do me some good to talk to you, and that it might even be useful research for you.”

We got together three times. She is an attractive girl just shy of thirty, long-legged, high-waisted, her face permanently showing a guarded expression. She announced early on that she had never consulted a psychiatrist, and joked that talking to me was a perfect way for her to save thirty dollars an hour.

Here, essentially, is what she had to say.

•  •  •

I remember very little of my early childhood. My mother was almost forty when I was born. She had been married before and had a son more than twenty years older than me. I think I may have met him when I was very young but I don’t have any mental picture of him. He lived far away and I’ve never had any contact with him since. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead or anything about him.

My mother was eight years older than my father. He had not been married before. He was an industrial chemist but he only had a bachelor’s degree and I guess this limited his chances for advancement. I know he thought it did and it frustrated him tremendously. He would talk about the importance of education and how he could have amounted to something if he had gone on to graduate school. He always made a decent living, but I guess he wasn’t very good at holding a job. I don’t think he was fired, but that he would get cramped or frustrated in a job after a couple of years and would go looking for something else. I never knew who he was working for because it kept changing. One time he went into business for himself, a testing laboratory, but it didn’t work out and he had to go back to working for other people. This was another thing he was always discontented about.

My mother was a very cold person. The complete opposite of my father. He was very loving. Also very physical, he liked to touch people he was close to. And she was just the reverse. It’s very difficult for me now to imagine them ever making love. I don’t suppose they did it very often. I was an only child. I realize now that the number of children people have has nothing to do with their sex life, but years ago I honestly thought that they stopped making love after they had me, that the only reason my mother did it in the first place was to have a baby, and that once she had me she was disappointed with what she got and decided never to have sex again.

I grew up thinking that my mother didn’t love me. Because she was so undemonstrative. I realize now that I was unfair to her, that she loved me but had difficulty in expressing her feelings. I always took it for granted that my father loved me far more than my mother did, and in return I loved him far more intensely than I loved her. For years after her death I would feel guilty about this. I still do to an extent. I can’t avoid the feeling that I should have loved her more, that I should have let her realize that I cared for her. But it was difficult, she was a very difficult woman to love.

I wish now that I knew more about her, the life she led and all. I don’t know anything about her first marriage but I gather that it wasn’t a good one. I was never told this, but I somehow have the impression that her husband left her. And she didn’t have a close relationship with her son, he never wrote to her or anything, and it’s possible that I never did meet him when I was a small child but just have some vague false memory of it. She must have married young, very young, to have a son who was twenty before she was forty. It’s my impression that she married when she was around sixteen and got divorced after only a year or two of marriage, but I don’t know why I think that’s what happened. I just do, for some reason.

If I had any sexual experiences as a child, I must have blocked them out, because I can’t remember them. I don’t recall playing doctor with the other kids or anything like that. I began to learn about sex when I was eight or nine, the way most kids do. Girls would tell each other things. I learned how babies were conceived and I learned about menstrual periods. I didn’t have any really good understanding of what was involved. Also, I didn’t know then that sex was a source of pleasure. I thought it was something you did just because you wanted to have children. I remember seizing on this as proof that my mother had wanted me, or otherwise she would never have put up with something like that. But I decided it meant she wanted me beforehand, and then didn’t like me once she had me. I felt she had wanted a boy, and I think that’s probably true—that she would have been closer to me had I been a boy.

I also thought at the time that my father would have preferred a boy, but this I’m sure was not the case. He wanted me the way I was.

I think he placed me in the role of being the one thing that had gone right with his life. In a sense he used me as proof that he was not completely a failure. He would put me on his lap and hug me and say, “Well, there’s a lot that’s gone wrong but I must be doing something right to have a perfect little angel like my Cathy.” He must have said this hundreds of times.

I used to think that when I grew up I would marry my father. I understand this is a very common thing for little girls. Also for little boys, that they’ll marry their mother and take care of her when they grow up. It never occurred to me in these daydreams to wonder what would become of my mother in the course of all this. I’m sure I never consciously wished her dead or anything like that.

But it must have been in the back of my mind or something because I remember the enormous load of guilt I felt when she died.

She had cancer. and it was a terrible death. It took her over a year to die. She wasted away and died by inches. Toward the end she had to have so much morphine for the pain that she didn’t make any sense. She didn’t recognize me or my father half the time. When she died, it was almost a relief. It was as though she had already been dead for months.

My father was completely shattered by her illness. Looking back, I think I resented this. I must have decided before that he didn’t really care much for her, but I’m sure I was wrong about this. When I think of the two of them now, I try to be objective about them. And I come to the conclusion that they loved each other very much, even though they never should have gotten married because they were so completely different. I think she must have been some sort of mother figure in his eyes. Not merely because she was older than he was but because he seemed to rely on her strength. He even called her “Mother.” Not just when he was talking to me about her, but when he was talking to her.

He started drinking during the last months of her illness. He had never been a drinker. I don’t think there was ever liquor in the house before. But the drinking was his way of dealing with the strain. He would come straight home from work and sit up with her constantly except when she was sleeping, and then he would sit in his chair in the living room with a bottle of rye whiskey on the table beside him, and he would keep drinking until it was time for him to go to bed. That’s how he got through those months. Then two months before she died he either quit his job or got fired, and he didn’t bother looking for work again until after she was dead and buried. He wanted to be able to spend time with her and he had to take care of the house because she was completely bedridden then, so he stayed out of work and sat around the house, and he started drinking earlier in the day. He never got really drunk, though. He would just nurse one drink after the other and never be drunk and never be sober either.

The one time he got drunk was after the funeral. We both cried a lot. Then we came home and he told me it was just the two of us now, that we were all alone in the world and would have to take care of each other. He opened a bottle and started drinking, and after a while he walked me upstairs and tucked me in and went back downstairs again. I fell asleep right away but I had bad dreams and woke up a couple of hours later. I went downstairs and he was staggering around the living room with the bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and he would stop now and then and drink straight from the bottle. He talked a lot but didn’t say anything that made any sense. I don’t remember what he said. I don’t think he knew I was there.

The next day he stopped drinking. Once later on he told me it was something he had had to do while she was dying, but afterward he knew it would be dangerous to let the liquor get a hold of him, so he cut it out completely and never had a drink again, except for social drinking like a cocktail at a business lunch or something. And he would have a few beers while he watched television at night, the way he always did in the past, but that wasn’t anything because beer never had any noticeable effect on him.

I was almost thirteen when my mother died. For the next six months or so we just went on with no change in our relationship. He had told me that I would have to be the woman of the house now, and of course I relished my new role. I would get up early and make breakfast for the two of us before I went to school, and I would make dinner and have it ready when he came home from the office. He managed to get a job almost immediately after her death. I made the beds and did the general housework. He had hired a woman to come in once a week and do the heavy work, and she still came once a week, but I took care of everything else.

As far as I know, my father didn’t date at all after my mother’s death. I have the feeling that she was the only woman with whom he ever had a serious sexual relationship.

When I think back on what happened, it’s very hard for me to decide which one of us seduced the other. Years ago I was certain that I had led him on, that I had been the aggressor, but I don’t really think this could have been the case. Nor do I think he purposefully seduced me. In a sense, I think we were both very innocent people, and what happened just happened because of the situation we found ourselves in and the way we felt about each other.

It’s very hard for me to talk about this.

Let’s see. Well, after dinner he would read the paper while I did my homework, and then I would sit on his lap and we would watch television or talk if there was nothing on television that we wanted to see. And I suppose that in itself was sexual. I didn’t think of our cuddling in those terms at that time. As to whether or not he was aware of it, I can’t really say. If he got erections from it, I didn’t notice them. I didn’t really know about erections at the time, that the penis got hard during sexual excitement.

Sometimes he would get moody and talk about how the two of us were all alone in the world. “It’s you and me against the world and we’ve got to stick together, kitten.” Things like that. He would be depressed when he said it, but the idea didn’t depress me. On the contrary, I would get a warm feeling about the two of us being together this way.

Other times he would say that some day a boy would come along and take me away with him, and then he’d be all alone. And I would insist that I wasn’t interested in boys, which I wasn’t, and that I would stay with him forever. He’d say that I would have to have a life of my own, and I would say all I wanted was to be with him and cook his meals and keep house for him.

One night I had a bad dream and I woke up yelling. I was still half inside the dream when he came into my room. I started telling him about the dream. I don’t remember what it was about but it upset me at the time. He got into bed with me and I curled up in his arms and went back to sleep, and in the morning when I woke up he was back in his own room.

My breasts were starting to develop then, and one night he commented on the fact that I was growing up and sort of alluded to the fact that I was becoming a woman, and hinted at having a talk about menstruation. I had already gotten my period, and although I was embarrassed to talk about it I managed to tell him that it had happened and that I knew what to do about it and everything. After that he would frequently smile in a funny way and tell me how I was really a little woman and not a girl anymore. I was slightly embarrassed when he talked like that but also very proud of myself.

Then one night I was sitting on his lap and we kissed a few times as we always did, and he put his hand on my breast. Just holding it. I didn’t know what to think or do. He just held it for a moment and then took his hand away and we didn’t talk about it. The next night, or maybe it was the night after, I realized that I wanted him to do this, so I took his hand and placed it on my breast. Nothing was said. For the next week or so, he would put his hand on my breast while we sat together.

He must have known that this was wrong. I knew it myself, I guess, that a father and daughter were not supposed to feel this way about one another. I’m trying to remember exactly how I felt. I think it was sexually exciting to me. I had never felt sexually aroused before this. I had never masturbated or anything like that or had strong sexual feelings that I was able to recognize as such. I knew that I felt very safe and warm when he held me, but I felt something else, which must have been sexual excitement.

Finally one night during summer vacation he came into my bedroom to kiss me good night. It was very warm and I was sleeping without any sheet over me. I was wearing thin cotton pajamas. He sat down on the bed next to me, and he kissed me, and it was a different kind of kiss. I don’t mean a soul kiss, just that there was passion in it that both of us felt. After the kiss was over he held my shoulders in his hands and we looked into each other’s eyes for a long time, and he finally started talking in a low voice about all we had in the world was each other, and then without anything being said I took off the top of my pajamas and he lay down beside me and kissed and sucked my breasts.

We gradually got more and more involved this way. For a long time we got closer physically without either of us saying a word about it. We would act the same as always toward each other during the day, talking about lots of things but not about this, and then at night he would come in to kiss me good night and we would do things for a half hour or so, and then he would go to his room and I would go to sleep. I never had trouble sleeping after we did this. I would get very relaxed from it and feel very good. I must have had reservations about what we were doing but I can’t remember them.

About this time most of the kids my age were starting to date. I was not asked out often because I was a very quiet kid with no real friends and I wasn’t a raving beauty. When I did get asked out I would explain that I had to stay home and take care of the house and my father. It didn’t happen that often, anyway. I know I had no urge to go out with any of the boys I knew.

I guess it was shortly after school started in the fall that we actually began sleeping together, and that our relationship carried out into the open between us. By this I mean we would talk about it. Or rather, he talked about it at length and I listened to him. He said it was considered a terrible thing for a father and daughter to be what we were to each other, but that we were special and maybe the ordinary rules didn’t apply in our case. He said he loved me in a very special way that was completely different from what the ordinary father felt for his daughter. He said a man needed a woman and there was no woman for him since my mother died, and that there were ways we could be loving toward one another without worrying that I would become pregnant, and that we could do things in ways that I would still be a virgin when I got married. I said I never wanted to get married but he said things would change when I was older.

I didn’t believe things would ever change.

He also told me how neither of us could ever tell anybody about what we did, but that was unnecessary, because I already knew better than to say anything to anyone.

The things we did would be called petting to climax. We would take off our clothes and kiss and hug, and he would caress my breasts and touch my genitals, and he taught me to bring him to orgasm with my hands, and he would do the same to me. We would do this at night before going to sleep. Then I would sleep all night in his arms. We never had any sex in the mornings. Even if he woke up with an erection we would both pretend not to notice it. We never said anything to this effect, but it was as if we were father and daughter during the daytime and lovers only at night.

Eventually we got into oral sex, which I enjoyed thoroughly, both fellatio and cunnilingus.

Sometimes he would touch my genitals with his penis. But he never tried penetration. He must have been dying to do this but never did.

I would have let him do anything.

Just after my fifteenth birthday he told me we would have to stop being lovers, that it was unnatural and had been going on for too long. I started crying the minute he said this. I just cried uncontrollably. He said it was for my own good, that he didn’t want to stop but felt we had to, and this made me cry more than ever, and we wound up making love again.

He dropped the idea of stopping, but he did insist that I go out with boys if I was asked. I told him I didn’t want to but he said something to the effect that if I didn’t go out on dates people might suspect what we were doing. I think now that he just invented this as an argument to start me dating, and that he wanted me to date because he was worried that our sexual relationship would deprive me of a normal life. At any rate, I started dating. I couldn’t get at all interested in the boys I went out with. None of them meant anything to me and they all seemed very childish, and at the same time they seemed more mature than I was because they were at ease in social situations where I was not, due to my lack of experience.

As far as sex was concerned, I wasn’t attracted to the boys I dated. I don’t suppose they were attracted to me much either, since I was so obviously uninterested in them, but boys that age are interested in sex first and foremost and don’t too much care who it’s with. Or at least it was that way when I was growing up. From what I understand, it’s a little different with kids nowadays, they have more honest sexual relationships. The boys I knew didn’t care much for girls as people but just as something to fuck.

So there were passes made at me, but it was very easy for me to handle them. And I didn’t steady date anybody, so there was no progressive intimacy. I made it clear I wasn’t interested in making out in parked cars, so guys would take me out once or twice and then give me up as an iceberg, and then I would go home and go to bed with my father.

We were both dying to have complete sexual intercourse long before we got around to it. I wanted it not out of a physical desire for the experience but because I wanted our relationship to be complete. I’m sure that in the back of my mind I still fantasized about eventually marrying him and spending the rest of my life with him, and I wanted to be everything to him, which included sexual intercourse. I believe he wanted it in a more physical way, because emotionally he fought the desire to have intercourse with me, but finally he couldn’t fight it anymore. And, as he put it, we belonged to each other in every way, so there was really no reason to deny ourselves this one particular form of love, so long as we were very careful that I didn’t get pregnant.

The first time we did it was just beautiful. The pain was much less than I expected. I didn’t have a climax, but what I had was better than a climax—this beautiful feeling of completion when he had his orgasm and lay exhausted in my arms. I felt like, I don’t know—a queen, a goddess, I don’t know.

Our relationship continued on this level for about six months. Then we had an accident. Specifically, the condom broke during intercourse. Condoms were our only form of birth control, and they had not been a problem at all, and then this one broke.

I was lucky. I didn’t get pregnant. But for two weeks we waited for me to get my period, and during those two weeks he must have gone through sheer unadulterated hell. This was long before you could get a legal abortion and I don’t know what we would have done if I had turned out to be pregnant. I was worried, but not nearly as worried as he was because I felt he would figure out what to do. So I didn’t have the responsibility the way he did.

Then I got my period, and we were both enormously relieved, but our relationship was over.

I think it was the scare that did it. I was absolutely certain of that at the time, but looking back I’m not so sure. Because it would have had to end sooner or later. I didn’t know that then but I know it now. His guilt feelings were getting greater all the time and he couldn’t stand it indefinitely, and the pregnancy scare just brought things to a head that much quicker.

We had a long talk during which he told me all the reasons why things had to stop between us. We both did a lot of crying that night. Then for the next couple of nights I consciously tried to seduce him. I thought it was what he really wanted and that if I could just seduce him once, things would be back the way they had been to begin with.

But it was impossible. He had made himself turn off completely, and he almost shuddered when I went to kiss him. It was terrible and I didn’t know what to do. I thought about killing myself and planned the kind of suicide note I would write. I couldn’t decide whether to make it a note that would tear his heart out or one that would make him understand it was not his fault. I was dramatizing myself to a ridiculous extent, of course, but that’s the way girls are at that age, whether they’re sleeping with their fathers or not.

Eventually things just died down. That’s what’s the hardest for me to believe. I’ll think about that time in my life and try to bring it into sharper focus, but there really isn’t anything to bring into focus. It was as though things went back to the way they had always been with no sexual element existing between us. I went on doing the housework and cooking our meals and everything was the same as before and there was no sex between us. We didn’t talk about it at all and just acted as if it had never happened. The only difference was that we were spending less time together, and each of us felt a little bit awkward in the other’s presence.

He started seeing a woman. She was a widow about his age with a boy a year younger than me and a girl several years younger. I don’t know if they were having sex or not. I would assume that they were. I wondered if they were going to get married or not.

I got a scholarship and went to college. At this stage I was glad to be moving away because I thought it would give me a chance to start over.

Halfway through my freshman year he was killed in an auto accident.

I had some kind of a breakdown. I was in the hospital for two months. I had shock therapy and some sessions with psychiatrists, but I never told any of them about the scene with my father. After two months they said I was all right again and I went back to school. I had been doing well, and even with two months in the hospital I managed to pass all my courses.

There was a lot of insurance, plus the equity in the house, which I had them sell, so money wasn’t a problem for me.

I had a couple of affairs with boys in college. They were completely unsatisfying for me and didn’t last long. I was not able to respond sexually at all, let alone have an orgasm. I would lie there and feel completely isolated, as if my mind was miles and miles away.

During my sophomore year I had an affair with a professor of mine. He was fifteen years older than me and had a wife and four children. I don’t know which of us seduced the other. I suppose it was mutual. He was a very brilliant man. He had had one novel published years ago which got good reviews but didn’t sell well, and he had never been able to finish a second novel. He was an alcoholic. He didn’t resemble my father in any way, but I knew even at the time that the attraction was largely because he was so much older than me and a father figure.

His wife found out about us but we went on seeing each other. It was an on-again-off-again affair that lasted for almost three full years. He talked about divorcing his wife and marrying me but we both knew this would never happen, and neither of us wanted it to happen. I’m sure we would have broken up permanently within a week if he had actually left his wife. But as long as he was married, it was safe for both of us in that we knew it couldn’t lead to anything, and so we didn’t have to worry about it.

I was the one who finally broke it off. I was proud that I had the strength to do it. I moved to New York and got a job. I had a couple of brief affairs, also with older men, and I saw how they were all in the same pattern and determined to break that pattern. I did so by making the mistake of jumping straight into a bad marriage with a boy my age. It didn’t work. We were all wrong for each other and had married each other for all the wrong reasons. I was trying to escape and he was trying to prove he wasn’t homosexual, and after a year we looked at each other and shrugged and I got a divorce. I’ve had a couple of affairs since then but nothing serious.

I can only enjoy a sexual relationship when it’s with an older man, preferably married.

I don’t know how I feel about what happened with my father. Sometimes I blame everything that has gone wrong on the fact that we slept together. Other times I’m glad that we had the opportunity to love each other so completely. I really don’t know which extreme represents how I really feel about it.

The one thing I wish over and over again is that he hadn’t died when he did. I still have times when I am convinced he committed suicide. Not in the obvious way of taking pills or jumping out a window but by driving carelessly because of a desire to end it all. According to the accident report, the other driver was entirely at fault, but I still sometimes feel that he could have saved himself at the last minute and decided not to out of guilt over having had sex with me.

And I think that, if he had lived, everything could have worked out. That time and distance would have gotten us over the past and we could have loved each other as father and daughter without having memories of our sexual relationship cluttering up things. I suppose this is wishful thinking. I don’t know.

I would say that I’m fairly well adjusted right now. As well as can be expected. I never had a breakdown except for that one time, and my moods are usually on a fairly even keel. I enjoy my work and am making progress in my career. My life is ordered in a comfortable routine. I’m sure I’ll marry again some day, and I suppose the man I marry will be a father figure in certain respects, but if the marital relationship is a good one for both of us I don’t think that would make any real difference. It’s where you wind up that counts. Not why you happened to get there.

A few years ago I was thinking about converting to Catholicism. My family was not religious and I was at a stage in my life where Catholicism held a lot of attraction for me. But I decided against it.

It wasn’t the prospect of confession that bothered me. If anything, I’d say that was the strongest attraction, because I had been carrying around this secret for all these years and it was eating my insides out. The idea of being able to confess all of this and receive absolution was tremendously appealing. But then I realized I would be confessing it because it was a sin, and I thought about it, and I realized that I did not want to regard what we did as a sin. I don’t know whether deep inside I really feel that it was or wasn’t a sin. I’m not sure. But I don’t want to think of it that way, and I think that’s what kept me from converting.

I’ve never loved anybody the way I loved him, and I don’t think he ever loved anyone the way he loved me. And for all the bad that may have come of it, you can’t take away from the fact that our love for one another was a very beautiful thing.

A LETTER FROM WES

Dear Mr. Wells,

I am seventeen years old. I will tell you the whole story.

I went with this girl for three months and broke up with her. Then a boy I know went with her on and off. They did this for about six months.

She then wanted me back. By the way she is a virgin and I was the first person who she really liked. She doesn’t know much about sex.

Well I got a date with her and double-dated with her old boyfriend. We went parking and I was kissing her all over.

I later got a date with her and when we got out in the woods, every time I went to kiss her she would blow the horn or flash the lights or something. Well I got another date with her and she did the same thing. She is very immature for her age. She is sixteen. I cussed her out.

So she started liking the other boyfriend. He was going into the army and him and her had a last date. He came up to see her and she told him to get lost.

Well he said that on their date that he kissed her breasts but with a shirt on.

Well a few days later I called her up and told her that I wanted to come back but she would have to loosen up. She said that she had. A few nights later I asked her for a date. She went and we went parking but she wouldn’t kiss me. I got to feel her breasts.

With her old boyfriend she always made out.

I asked her for another date. Well we got out in the woods and she wouldn’t do nothing. She had a good time but I didn’t. She wanted me to kiss her goodnight but I didn’t.

I am much better off in all aspects than the old boyfriend. Explain it to me why she won’t kiss with me if she likes me? Why with him and not me?

I am also developing this complex about kissing and how good I do at it. Tell me how to stop this.

About to go crazy,

Wes

I THOUGHT MY PARENTS WERE COOL

When i was a kid, I always thought of my parents as terribly cool. Being in the theater, they were automatically hipper than the parents of friends of mine. And a lot of their friends who would come over to the house were people with unorthodox life-styles different from the usual middle-class scene. Like one couple they were friendly with was a stage manager and his mistress. He was married and cheating on his wife, and he and his mistress would come to our house together, and everything would be very up front. There was no hype laid on me and my brother, and I thought my parents were very cool and respected them for it.

Then when I got old enough to date I found out that all of this surface hipness doesn’t really mean a thing. As far as their darling little daughter was concerned, they were determined to be Heavy Parents. It really pissed me off. If they had been generally straight to begin with, all right, at least it would all be consistent. It would be wrong, but it would be consistent. But instead they were very broadminded about everything in the world as long as it didn’t happen to involve me, and then they had this special straight attitude which applied to me only, and I could only read that as hypocritical neurotic bullshit.

Especially my mother. My father is generally more easygoing. I always thought she was, too, and I used to groove on how close the two of us were, and then she just changed. Or circumstances changed, meaning I started to grow up, and she revealed where her head was really at.

•  •  •

Megan is seventeen, a tall and willowy girl, intelligent and soft-spoken. I have known her parents since before she and her brother Owen were born. Falling as I do between the two age groups (too old for the Pepsi Generation, too young for the Geritol for Lunch Bunch) has supplied me with an interesting perspective on this particular case of Generation Gap.

I had always thought of Meg’s mother and father as ideal parents, far more broadminded and aware than the vast majority of their contemporaries. Meg’s observations show, though, that one’s attitudes are apt to become far more rigid when one’s own offspring is involved.

I did not interview Megan in any real sense of the term. Her remarks in this chapter represent a sampling from our conversations over a period of several months.

•  •  •

One thing that kills me is the double standard. I thought that thing went out years ago, and my parents talk as though they don’t believe in it at all, but their actions show them up. It’s really weird.

You know how close Owen and I have always been. He’s just two years older than I am and we’ve always gotten along beautifully. Well, his second year of college he moved out of the house and took an apartment of his own. There was no big bitch raised when he announced that he was going to do this. After all, he was originally going to go out of town to college, and he would have been living on his own, so there was no argument about him having his own place here in town.

The reason he wanted a place of his own was he and Jan wanted to live together. There was a little static when Mom and Dad found out about that, but not on moral grounds. They were afraid he would wind up neglecting his studies. Then his grades went up immediately and they realized you can get a lot more studying done when your living situation is stabilized and you don’t spend ten hours a day chasing around looking for somebody to ball or a safe place to do it, and at that point their objections vanished. They would have Owen and Jan over to the house for dinner and it would be openly acknowledged that the two of them were living together and that the whole thing was cool.

Beautiful, huh? But get this—my mother announced one day that I wasn’t permitted to visit Owen and Jan at their apartment. I just about fell on the floor when she laid that one on me. It didn’t make any sense at all. At first she wouldn’t explain her reasons or anything, and then she finally said that it just wasn’t proper for a young girl like me to be visiting an unmarried couple, that the atmosphere was not proper.

It was all right for them to come over and visit me at our house, but not for me to visit them at their apartment.

And it was all right for her son to live with a girl openly, but it wasn’t all right for her daughter to go over to the house and see them.

I really can’t relate to that kind of bullshit.

It was last year when all this happened. I was sixteen then. Now the rules are relaxed, I can visit them, but it took months of arguing to change their minds. What it obviously all amounted to was that my mother thought I was a virgin, which I hadn’t been for two years, for Christ’s sake, and that she didn’t trust me. She was worried that by visiting Owen and Jan I would be meeting their friends, meaning boys in college, and I would be in a private place where I could have sex with these boys, and she didn’t trust me.

Sometimes when we had shouting matches I came very close to letting her know where it was really at. “Mother, I’m not a virgin, I haven’t been a virgin since I was fourteen, and sometimes I smoke grass and sometimes I drink wine, and whether or not I go to Owen’s place isn’t going to make any difference one way or the other to my sex life.” I should have come right out and said it.

I think people my parents’ age are a lot more hung up about sex than we are. They make such a big deal of it. When Owen and Jan started living together, my parents’ immediate reaction to the relationship was that they were sleeping together. Having sex. Well, they had been having sex for months. The decision to live together actually had very little to do with sex. It may have made sex a little more convenient, but Jan had an apartment of her own at the time, so sex was never inconvenient for them. Living together meant that they felt committed to each other in a certain way and that they wanted to spend a greater portion of their time together, that they wanted to have breakfast together and study together and all that.

As a matter of fact, Owen told me that they probably have sex less frequently since they started living together. Before, there was this compulsion to take advantage of opportunities whenever they came up. Now in certain ways they’re like an old married couple, they don’t have to do it every night, they don’t have to prove anything.

The thing is, it galls me to know that my mother doesn’t trust me. She could trust me. Not to adhere to her particular values, because I can’t see any point in being true to someone else’s moral code. That’s just hypocrisy. I’m true to my own moral code, though, and all in all I would say I’m a pretty straight kid.

Drugs, for example. I smoke grass, but not in what you could call an intense way. I like to get a high once in a while. Especially when I’m listening to a piece of good music for the first time and I want to be able to get in there between the notes and experience the sound in a meaningful way. Or I’ll like to get high with another person if we’re grooving on each other, becoming aware of each other. Grass can make it easier to get into another person’s head. It’s a perspective thing—you see the other person from several angles at once, like a cubist painting. Picasso—I always thought he was sort of far out, but one time I went to the art museum stoned and for the first time I really and truly dug what he was into.

Just about everyone I know smokes dope. But of all the people I know, I would say there are no more than half a dozen who are into it in a heavy way, like smoking day in and day out. I know one girl who was into that scene for a few months because she was going through changes, and then things worked out in her head, and now she smokes like once or twice a week like everybody else.

So my mother couldn’t trust me not to smoke grass, because that’s ridiculous, it’s harmless and everything and I happen to dig it. But she could trust me not to let grass take over my head completely, and not to fuck around with any heavy drugs.

With sex, she couldn’t trust me not to ball, because I think that’s my decision to make and I think when two people relate to each other in a certain positive way it would be more immoral for them not to ball. But she could trust me not to get pregnant and not to be a tramp, which I would think would be what she’s really concerned about. I’m sure she doesn’t expect me to be a virgin when I get married. She’s not that insane.

What puts me really uptight is the feeling that she must not know me very well to be concerned about these things. If she did, she would know I’m not the kind of person who is going to get fucked up with drugs or sleep around compulsively or anything like that.

I haven’t really had all that much sexual experience. I enjoy sex very much but it has to mean something to me in order for me to relax and get into it. Sometimes I fool myself in this respect. I think that I’m just generally horny and it doesn’t matter who I have sex with just so I have it, but before anything can get started I realize I’m not built that way, that I have to feel something for the person. This has led to awkward situations once or twice when I started to get it together with somebody and then backed out, so I suppose there are a couple of guys walking the planet who think I’m a tease, which I’m basically not.

Actually I have only had sex with six guys. If my mother heard that she would probably have a cow. I don’t think six guys in three years is really very much, especially since none of these was what you would call an affair. I have bad luck in relationships. The guys I like don’t care about me, and vice-versa, so nothing ever lasts very long.

The first time was with a friend of Owen’s. He was a guy I had known practically all my life and we were always close. I was very friendly with him and the girl he was going with, and then he broke up with her and it left him terribly depressed. He had thought they were like a permanent thing and she all of a sudden split with him and he was really down. I went over to his place and we got stoned together and he talked about her and about himself for hours. It seemed perfectly natural for us to start necking. He was older and more experienced than the boys I had been dating. Being a virgin had been on my mind a lot at the time. It’s an awkward thing to be, a ridiculous thing in a lot of ways. We necked for a long time, stopping now and then to have a cigarette and talk a little, and he asked me if I wanted to go to bed, and I said sure. Partly because I did want to and partly because I felt very sorry for the way he was feeling and didn’t want to reject him.

I knew it was strictly a one-time thing because he was older than my brother and was not going to be interested in anybody fourteen years old. The kind of feeling we had for each other, we could be friends for a lifetime, we still are very close friends, but we couldn’t possibly be in love with each other. So I knew where I stood.

We went to bed and it was pretty nice. I was very glad that my first time was with somebody with experience. The pain wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. All in all it was a very nice experience.

He was surprised I was a virgin. It did wonders for my ego when he told me this, like I gave the impression of being more worldly than I was.

We only made it that one time.

Another time was with a boy I was in love with. He was a year ahead of me in school and I was really bent out of shape over him. He took me out a few times and then we made it. I guess we had sex three or four times and then he stopped calling. That really upset me because it was obvious to me that he didn’t care about me at all but just wanted to add me to his scorecard, and I was annoyed with myself for not having realized it, but sometimes where men are concerned I have this fantastic capacity for fooling myself and convincing myself that they feel the same way about me as I do about them. I guess this is something I’ll learn to outgrow. At least I hope it is.

Another time was on a church excursion. My mother let me go because there were some older people chaperoning it. Not really older, like two guys and two girls all in their early twenties. She wouldn’t have trusted me to go if it hadn’t been chaperoned, and that’s what’s so beautiful about it, because for three days I balled one of the chaperones. I suppose you could say that was just sex for the sake of sex. I wasn’t emotionally involved with him or anything, although we were friends and had a lot of rapport with each other. I think the whole idea of it was a turn-on, the concept of being allowed to go because of the chaperones and then going to bed with one of them. There was something really poetic about the whole idea of it.

Basically I’m more hung up on love than on sex.

My ideal is to fall in love with someone and have him fall in love with me, and it never happens that way. Guys will get hung up on me and I’m just not interested in them, or I’ll fall in love with them and they really couldn’t care less about me. I suppose I would have a much more active sex life if it weren’t for this. Because there are a lot of guys I would sleep with if they wanted, and there are a lot of guys who want to but I’m not interested, and what it amounts to is that I spend a lot of my time being hung up and dreaming about guys and nothing happens.

The guys I’m closest to are these platonic relationships. I don’t know whether this is an immaturity thing for me or a defense mechanism or what, but I don’t really relate to the dudes I fall in love with. But guys who I don’t have a thing for them and they don’t have a thing for me, those are the guys I can really be friends with. In a completely platonic way.

I guess it’s because I’m not threatened, and I know they don’t feel threatened by me, and it’s easier for all of us to be cool.

In a lot of ways I consider myself pretty screwed up. But not in the ways that my parents are concerned about. When I think in terms of what’s bothering them I consider myself pretty well adjusted.

Oh, I don’t want to stretch things out of proportion. I don’t want to make it sound as though I’ve got everything together, because I don’t. There have been times when I have balled a guy without feeling anything for him, either talking myself into thinking I feel something for him or talking myself into believing that it doesn’t matter whether I feel something for a guy or not. And there have been times when I’ve tried to rationalize sex for the sake of love or love for the sake of sex.

But all in all I would not say that sex is a major problem for me, I think people my parents’ age make too much out of it, and when you do that you miss out on enjoying it.

A LETTER FROM VICKI

Dear Mr. Wells,

Well, I have just finished your book Doing It! at a time when I should have been doing my homework, so I shouldn’t even be writing to you, but your book was so fascinating I can’t help it! Before I say anything else I would like to note that I have noticed that while I am writing (which I do a lot of) is that if I happen to get sexually excited (or horny as we say) my writing tends to get larger and rounder. Does this happen to you also?

I am a senior in high school, sixteen years but I’ll be seventeen next month. One thing I noticed in your book is that a lot of old geezers seem to be kind of with it. They surely aren’t over here—I mean in Japan. By this I mean on this army base.

The Japanese people, as you may or may not have heard, are horny people. On the other hand they might be considered prudes from the fact that as much as twenty years back there were still women who tied their legs together before going to sleep. This was done so that in case a woman slept “funny” (as my mom, who by the way is Japanese, put it), her husband would not see anything he wasn’t supposed to. This is the truth—my mom told me once at dinner time, although I recall my dad shut her up quite quickly, saying it wasn’t the type of thing to talk about.

Incidentally, he was just on duty overseas and caught the crabs. He claimed he caught it in the barracks bed but my mom broke him down. She just told him if he had to play around to be loving enough not to leave clues around such as the crabs. This I found out from listening at the top of the stairs.

This letter seems to be just rambling around in no direction, doesn’t it? Oh, well.

I would like to clear up a couple of things that bugged me. One thing was the letter from the guy who says in his closing that he sees young kids nowadays and envies them because they are so open to new ways of thinking about sex, blah blah blah. Well, I think that probably the same number of people are like that nowadays as there were back in his younger days. My boyfriend for one is extremely straight and there are many more like him.

Which leads me to a problem I have had for some time. My boyfriend. Do you have any suggestions on breaking a relationship that is almost a year old? By relationship I mean that we have fucked, eaten, licked, and sucked each other for that length of time. He was the first guy for me and I was his first chick. Which makes it harder than ever to break up, doesn’t it? Any suggestions will be greatly appreciated, I’ll tell you that.

One thing you might find interesting is that there seem to be a lot of girls losing their cherries at ten, eleven, and twelve years old. I don’t know whether it is just over here, but no doubt it is the same in the States . . .

Another thing I found interesting is that statement that it is quality, not quantity, that counts in terms of, as you put it, penises. (I hope I spelled that right. Anyway, I mean dicks. I think penis is a pretty gross word. By gross I mean unappealing. Can you just imagine a darkened room with two sweaty bodies panting heavily when the guy sits up and says, “My penis wants your cunt?” I don’t know, maybe you could, but to me it sounds so much sexier to say cock, dick, or something like that. Vagina is another cold word.)

Anyway, to get back on the subject, my girlfriend and I were talking one time. She said she thought big ones were better since you could feel them better. It’s logical anyway, right?

I know for myself that that is true because during the summer while my boyfriend was away I had my second guy, who told me he might be a homosexual. This didn’t bother me since I thought he really meant bisexual. But this guy touched my boobs about two times and didn’t kiss me that much either, he didn’t touch my body as a whole much either, or my “vaginal area” that much. (Now don’t you think that “vaginal area” sounds technical and gross?)

I sure was surprised when I saw his cock. My boyfriend’s measures nine inches long and five and a half inches around, and when he gets hard-ons it seems like you could smash it with a brick and it wouldn’t hurt him. This guy had about a five-inch long cock about four inches around and his hard-ons were like a half-hard-on my boyfriend.

Another thing I thought was interesting was that his head was pointed. No, not that head—his cock head! Well, anyway, when he was in me I could hardly even feel him. It didn’t even feel as big as two fingers and certainly not that hard.

What do you think? Was I stretched out too much by my boyfriend? Or was it all in my head? (Actually it was all in my cunt but I didn’t feel anything there.)

I have never yet had any experiences with lesbians although I do have a friend who is reputed to be a latent lez. Which I think she is, but she is really getting horny from what I hear. A friend spent the night there at her house and later told me it was a nightmare, from the time at dusk when the lez kept trying to burn her with hot flash cubes, kept trying to wrestle with her (during the evening), kept tickling and pinching and chasing her all over (early morning), until finally my friend bonked her on the nose with the camera and then went into the living room to sleep.

Well it is past midnight now so I have to close. In looking back this letter doesn’t seem to be much help in anything, but it must have been a hassle to read! Anyway, I would like to say that, since you answer all letters, if you have any questions I would be glad to answer them. Or if you have questions concerning a certain subject, if I know anything about it I would gladly tell you. I’m already starting to think of some of my boyfriend’s childhood experiences but I can’t go into that right now in this letter.

One last question: Do you think grass is a turn-on? To me it feels as though I am itching inside and that I am fiery hot-cold, if you can figure that out. But it only works if I turn my thoughts toward sex. I am enclosing a stamp but would ask one thing of you. Please don’t put your return address on the envelope . . .

Sincerely,

Vicki

THE GIRL IN THE FRONT ROW SEAT

Dear Mr. Wells,

Having thoroughly enjoyed your book Come Fly With Us, I was tempted to write to you. So here I am, pen in hand. I really don’t know why, but something has compelled me to write to you.

I hope you won’t be shocked or rather surprised when I tell you of myself. I am an unliberated female who really could not care less about women’s lib. I am sixteen, almost seventeen years of age, and I am awakening to all of my senses. What I mean is, for years I’ve had strong sexual fantasies, but not until now am I beginning to really find out about sex. I haven’t made much progress yet, but I’m getting there. I don’t know whether you’d be interested about my “life” as it is lived, but if you are, I would be glad to write to you. You see, I’ve always wanted to tell someone everything just to get it out, but thus far there hasn’t been anyone I could tell and still, in a sense, retain my anonymity.

Do you understand? I hope you don’t think me weird. Some things that I have done are really far out. At least, I think so.

If you’re wondering about how I came to read your book, it’s like this; my father works for an airline on the West Coast. My mother is divorced from my father and I live with my mother and little sister. We just recently moved to Detroit. The divorce was the result of an affair—or should I say several affairs—that my father had. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to be a stew just like the ones my dad knows. When I saw your book, naturally I had to get it. That’s the story.

Well, if you want, please write back. If not, then don’t. If you do, please don’t put anything on the return address that my mother would get uptight about.

Peace,

Julie

I answered this letter and encouraged Julie to continue to write me. For some time I heard nothing further from her—which is not all that uncommon, of course. A month or so after first hearing from her I found myself in Detroit with a few hours between flights. Her last name is an uncommon one, and I managed to get her telephone number and call her. She was unable to see me on such short notice but said she had already begun letters to me on several occasions and would finish one and get it in the mail. It was, however, a couple more months before I did hear from her again.

It’s usually a mistake to read too much into a short letter. The second-last paragraph of Julie’s letter did seem revealing, however—her interest in and identification with stewardesses, strong enough to persuade her not only to buy a book on the subject but to correspond with its author—stemmed directly from her father’s predilection for having affairs with stews. The Oedipal implications looked obvious enough, and one might have gone so far as to predict that Julie would find herself attracted to older men, and might have sexual relationships with men considerably older than herself.

Read on . . .

Dear Mr. Wells,

Although you had mentioned in your book that you write to everyone, I was rather surprised to hear from you. I thought that you might not want to waste time writing to a sixteen-year-old. Sorry for having doubted you!

Before I begin anything, I think that I should write about my background, boring as it may be. I was born———, which makes me a Scorpio—form your own opinions about that. I was born an illegitimate child to a thirteen-year-old girl. Against the wishes of her parents, the girl did not give me up. However, I must have been too much of a burden for the poor girl so when I was one-and-a-half, she relinquished me to an adoption agency.

For the following year, I was carted from one foster home to another. The last foster home that I was placed in was also the home of a potential adoptive mother who apparently had her eye on me. The adoption agency said that she could not adopt me because of her elderliness. Naturally this woman wanted to have a child so much that she made me hate all women except herself, so that when the social workers (who were women) came, they would have a rough time getting me away from her.

I guess she thought that eventually they would let her keep me. They didn’t. No matter how terrified of women I was, and regardless of the innumerable kicks I bestowed upon the social workers, they took me. Then followed the “un-training” of my phobia for women. Finally, I was adoptable again.

I was adopted when I was two-and-a-half. What can I say about my parents? I love them; I hate them. Really, my parents and I are so alienated, so “different,” that to just hack a day is a miracle anymore.

Since I’ve been adopted, a number of things have happened. My parents got divorced. My mother and sister and I moved from sunny California to Hick Town, USA. I’ve had eight school changes, among them two private girls’ schools, one coed parochial school, one boys’ school (how about that?) and four public schools. Imagine that—eight school changes and only one house move!

When I was little I had a number of babysitters. Some I remember vividly. One was a cousin of mine. He was about fourteen and I must have been six or seven. He took off all my clothes and then he took off his own and, to use his words, he wanted me to “play with his thing.” I did this readily as I must have had a crush on him. I can’t remember anything but that. Nevertheless, since then I have had a thing for penises.

In the fifth grade, a girlfriend of mine whose name was Lisa took me to her house. She took off the top part of her clothing and urged me to do the same. After we did we compared the size of our breasts—which is a laugh now, because how big could we have been then? We did a number of more insignificant things, also, and after a few more visits to Lisa’s house, that was that.

In eighth grade, another one of my girlfriends unzipped my dress and felt my breasts. To my alarm, when she kissed my breasts, I had a yearning to do the same to her. That’s when I started to get worried. I was afraid that I was becoming a lesbian. I had been going out with guys but all we did was kiss and that didn’t excite me half as much.

In tenth grade I was going to an all-girls school. Another episode occurred after gym in the showers. I was a little late in getting into the shower room. Finally I got in and there was no one else there except another girl who I didn’t know too well. I started to take a shower and soon she came over and asked me to wash her back. Reluctantly, I did. Then she started to get “cute.” I said no, she said yes. There was a shouting match; the matron came in and that was that. Ever since, I’ve only had one best girlfriend, and that’s enough for me.

I was going to tell you everything, but I’m not out to write a book, and since the only way to tell you all is to, in fact, write a book, I shall skip around and not tell you everything. If I tell you everything now, what will be left for future correspondence except my latest escapades?

One thing I must admit—Detroit does have a little action. Although there’s not much to do as far as going out is concerned. But the parties . . . wow!!! The group that I got into over here really moves. I’m into the clique—football heroes, cheerleaders, etc. You know the route, probably . . .

There’s this guy in my French class who I sat in front of. His name is Greg. He is quite a character. Anyway, he has got it. Looks, charm, physique, and naturally he is on the football team. Secretly, I had my eye on him, although it really doesn’t matter. One day we traded books because he had some answers I didn’t and vice versa. Accidentally (?) he took my book home with him. A few days later I asked him about it. I told him that I absolutely needed it that night. He said for me to meet him after school and we’d walk to his house, get the book, and he’d drive me home.

Well, when we got to his house, he told me to sit down and he’d get my book, which I did and he did. When he came back he knelt beside the chair and started to play with my hair, which is rather long. Then he got such a look on his face! I’ve never since seen him look like that. I can’t really describe it except that his face was kind of distorted.

Then he kissed me and what a kiss! I got up and we went downstairs. He had to get some extra clothes for after football practice. He waved his jock at me and told me to hold it for him. I think he was getting a charge out of it!

We left soon after that and he just drove and drove. We parked for a brief time, but just enough time to get heated up. He put his hand up my pullover and squeezed my breasts while we were kissing. Then he put my hand on his crotch. Believe me, I didn’t know what to do with my hand. I knew, yet I didn’t. (Do you understand? I know I don’t.) After a few minutes we disengaged.

We drove toward the school. I couldn’t understand why, though. Then it dawned on me—the woods. Part of the school grounds are comprised of woods. They are off-limits during school hours, but after we usually take the woods as a shortcut home. Needless to say, Greg knew every inch of the woods.

We walked and walked and I was lost. Finally we got to the place. It was very beautiful, surrounded on all sides by trees. He grabbed me to him and held me tightly for a long time. All the time we were there was one long kiss. He unzipped my jeans, pulled my panties down and fingered me. Meanwhile, I had unzipped his fly and I was massaging his cock.

I was standing against a tree. Finally my jeans were completely off. I knew that there were many different ways to screw but what he did next surprised me. He put his hands under my bum and lifted me up. Let me tell you right now that it didn’t work. We then tried the conventional way—didn’t work either. He just couldn’t get it in, and God knows I tried to help him. Shortly after we left the woods. Ever since, Greg and I have really gotten on together, despite various problems.

Next: one of my teachers, who I shall call Mr. K. Mr. K. has the reputation of being “a fairy nice man.” Well, if he’s gay, he sure hides it well. Mr. K. is allegedly twenty-nine years old and is very handsome. Just to tell you some nonsense, I’ll tell you about the time when he changed seating arrangements.

That morning when I came in, he called me over and told me that I distracted the boys dressed as I was. (I had on a sizzler outfit, not too short, but scoop neckline.) I didn’t say anything, but went back to my third-row seat. As soon as I sat down, he announced that we could pick any seat and keep it for the duration of the year. I chose one in the last row. Finally, after everyone had picked a seat, there was one left—right in front of him. He asked if there was anyone who would like to occupy the seat. Of course no one volunteered. All of a sudden he got a childish grin on his face and said, “Julie, would you like to sit here?” I said no. “Well, come sit here anyway.” What could I do but sit there?

At that time I despised him. I argued with him every chance I could get. I called him names. Once I called him a sadist, which he thought was rather funny.

Gradually my hatred of him turned into awe. He mystified me. I love to figure out a person, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t figure him out, and I still can’t. He was like a 3000-piece jigsaw puzzle with 2 pieces missing. One thing I liked about him was his shrewdness. I also admired the way he said crazy things and the kids believed him. He lied. He was odd—uncouth, unconventional, un-everything! All the class time I spent trying to analyze him. One Saturday he saw me at the shopping mall and offered me a ride home on his bike. I love motorcycles and I just couldn’t refuse. When I got on, I instinctively put my arms around him. Then we approached his apartment. He said he wanted to get something (he did, an extra helmet for me) and asked me to come along. I figured what the heck and I went with him.

When we got in his apartment, I practically had to burrow my way to the couch. He went to get some wine. While he was doing that, I took the opportunity to clean up a bit. He came back with the wine and I asked him how he knew that I drank wine. He said, “My, but you are a naive one, aren’t you?” I asked him what he meant and he said that he had heard about our Saturday night “wine parties.”

He said he wondered why I disliked him. I was about to tell him when he took my face in his hands and whispered, “Do you know that I like you very much?” I was kind of carried away and can’t really explain exactly how I felt. He said that he was taken with me the first time that he saw me. I didn’t believe him because I had caught him in more than one lie.

Then he showed me a picture in his wallet. It was a candid shot of me. I still don’t know how he got it.

He kissed me again and caressed my breasts. Then he undid my halter. I couldn’t understand the change in him. He was so soft, gentle, loving. He kissed me all over. I don’t remember how we both got our clothes off; all I remember is the beauty of it all. Not rushed like the time that I was in the woods, but soft, calm, wonderful.

(Much of this encounter I don’t wish to write about yet. I still want to feel as if it were all mine without telling someone about it.)

It finally got so that I yearned to please him. But when we got to the point of sexual intercourse, he couldn’t get it in. He asked me if I was a virgin and I said yes. He said that he loved me more than ever and that I was a smart girl. We carried on for the rest of the day and that night I came home feeling so full. That’s all I can say. I felt full. Of what, I don’t know.

Mr. K. and I still get together occasionally.

Well, Mr. John Warren Wells, you must agree that I am a wordy person. Imagine—nine pages to relate two experiences. There’s so much more to say, but I feel as if my left hand will get the urge to chop off my right hand if I don’t stop.

Do you regret that you wrote and said, “Just rap on at length?” Not that I did it purposely, but I guess that phrase “at length” triggered something in my mind. I won’t blame you if you deliberately throw my address away . . .

I just remembered to explain why I couldn’t see you that day you happened to be in Detroit. I really wanted to and I was greatly upset when I missed the opportunity. That day my Mom had grounded me for the night before—which, by the way, is another chapter in itself. Also, even if I could have met you, I don’t drive and I don’t know my way around Detroit that well. Perhaps next time we can better plan it.

Peace, love, and moonshine,

Julie

The pattern is an interesting one—the illegitimate child of a young teen-aged mother, her biological father presumably unknown, her mother’s desire but inability to keep her—note that her biological mother is always referred to as “the girl”—her experience in foster homes, her adoption, and the ultimate loss of her second father. One wonders at the part of Julie’s story that exists between the lines. Why, for instance, did she attend eight different schools while changing her residence only once?

Here are her two most recent letters

Dear (a) Mr. Wells, or

(b) Mr. John Warren Wells, or

(c) John, or

(d) or Jack, or

(e) Warren, or

(f)—(fill in as desired)

Please state your preference as to the salutation. Thanx!

I got your letter on Saturday and was planning a quick response, but that night there was a terrific accident. Saturday night (to give you an idea of what a hyperactive teenager’s night is like) I was planning to go to a party if it rained, a hayride if it didn’t, a band festival before the hayride, and an exciting party after. Well, it didn’t rain at the beginning, so I made it to the hayride. Everything was going well until a guy fell off the wagon and the tractor went into reverse and ran him over.

After that, my memory blots out. All I know is that I was very drunk, and when I got home, I was very sick.

Although this isn’t relevant, my favorite wines are muscatel, Catawba Pink, Strawberry Hill, and Burgundy. In fact, I have a 1966 Burgundy that I’m saving for some special occasion, whenever that may be. I may have it on my birthday, which is coming up soon. I can hardly wait, but then again, I don’t want to get old. Oh, well, that’s my problem! I am trying to enjoy my youth as much as possible while I can!

Would you believe that I’m now what is called a “mistress?” I kinda dig that title. I’m not really a full-fledged mistress, but I’m getting there. Actually, he’s the father of the children I baby-sit. He’s 33 and some dude. His name is Ray and he’s in the process of getting divorced. It all started two months ago, and it happened quite unexpectedly. If you think that you might be interested in my little “affair,” please tell me so. I daren’t write anything that may bore you.

I am sorry that I can’t write a longer letter, but things have a way of piling up, and there comes a time when one must sort things out . . .

Love, sunshine, and (best of all) moonshine.

Julie

Attention: to whom it may concern

Dear Whom,

Since you failed to stipulate how I am to address you, I figure I must refer to you as “whom.” Unless, of course, you do decide to inform me as to your preference. Until then . . .

I do hope that you are feeling much better. Funny, I was tremendously ill for about a week. Did you know that I have to take tranquilizers to calm me down? The doctor told my mom that I am a hyperactive child. Just because I like to keep moving doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m hyperactive, but my doctor won’t change his mind. Soooo, I chuck the tranquilizers! I don’t want to be slowed down. I enjoy the pace I’m keeping.

Well, now to the ever continuing saga of Miss Julie. You want to know about my little affair. Well, you asked for it. Here it is:

It all started on August 5th, 1972. That was a Saturday and I was to go to my best girlfriend’s surprise birthday party. I never made it. You see, the guy I baby-sit for, whom I shall call Ray, phoned me about 4:30 that afternoon. It was just a normal conversation until he asked me if I was going anywhere that night. I answered yes, that I was going to a party at about eight that night. He asked to come on over at about 7:50 for a few minutes. Still, nothing struck me as peculiar until he asked me what I was going to be wearing. I was planning to wear jeans and I told him so.

He asked me to wear one of my dresses, and requested that I wear a particular one—my cheerleading dress from my last school. It really doesn’t look like a cheerleading dress. It’s just a short, fitted, low neckline dress.

Then I knew why he asked me over.

(The first time I saw him, I must truthfully say that I was physically attracted to him, but I quickly shoved it out of my mind. After all, he was a married guy in his thirties and, I thought, very much in love with his wife. Little did I know. Oh well, at least I was 50% right. He was married!)

Anyway, when he asked me if I would come over, I thought, “What the heck, why not?” I went over there and his two little kids were there. Regardless of that fact, he poured me a huge glass of Catawba Pink and told me to go into the living room. So, I went into the living room. In the meantime, he shoved one kid in the bathtub and the other in bed. Then he came into the living room and put on a record . . .

He asked me to dance. We danced and still nothing. Then he went to help his kid with the bath. While he was doing that, I sat down in this little kid’s rocking chair, drinking my good ole wine. He came back in and stood behind the rocking chair, pushing it back and forth. I looked up at him and zap it happened.

We kissed “passionately” and then he told me that ever since he first saw me he wanted to kiss me. Also, he said that I was pretty wild. I guess he said that because when I kiss, I french-kiss. I don’t like the regular kind of kiss—it bores me.

After a few more kisses he said, “You want what I want, don’t you?” I didn’t answer. Then he said, “If you don’t, then why are you breathing heavy?” This time instead of waiting for an answer, he kissed me again and pinched my bum. We went back into the living room and I sat down on the couch. Then he sat on top of me, facing me. While we were kissing his kid got out of the bathtub and saw us like that, but he hasn’t said anything yet, thank God! Anyway, he put that kid to bed and we continued to carry on.

He kept telling me I was a “tiger” and that I drove him crazy every time he saw me. Then we went to the basement. There is a mattress there completely covered by huge pillows. As soon as I got to the bottom of the stairs, he picked me up and laid me there. Then he got on top of me and kissed me a few more times, this time squeezing my breasts. Finally he said, “I can’t stand this any longer,” and he unbuttoned my dress and unzipped his fly. Without taking my panties off, he spread my legs and knelt over me.

I can’t really explain what he was trying to do, but I’ll try. It seems like he was trying to ball me through my panties—I mean, he was thrusting and all, but my panties kind of blocked his way, if you know what I mean. This kept on for a while. After a time, he carried me back upstairs and we continued. He asked me if I was a virgin, and when I said yes, he didn’t believe me. He said that I was doing too good to be a virgin. I really wasn’t doing much—just meeting his thrusts. After all, I still had my panties on.

Soon he took my panties off and he said he was going to rape me. I told him to forget it. See, the first time I have complete sexual intercourse, I want to be fully prepared. I want to use the proper precautions and I want the guy to be careful. Slow, gentle, and careful. Also experienced. I don’t want a guy that’s a virgin because there would probably be too much fumbling.

Anyway, Ray was certainly not a virgin, but he was too rough. After he had my panties off, he tried to penetrate into me but he hurt me so much. He was in too much of a rush. He really hurt me. He realized that, so he asked if I had ever been fingered. Then he went to work. He did it to me as it has never been done to me. My whole body was shaking. It was fantastic. Then he went down on me. I went from one climax to another. All I can say now is “Wow!”

A little later, we went outside for a walk to cool off. When we got back, he lay down on a chaise lounge on the patio, He motioned for me to sit astride of him, which I did. He unzipped his fly. He wanted me to go down on him. I really would have, but the thing that I’m embarrassed to admit is, I don’t know what to do after he’s in my mouth. In fact, I don’t even know how to give a hand job. I don’t know how I’ll ever learn how, because I’m too ashamed to admit that don’t know how. But that’s my headache now.

Well, that whole episode occurred a few months ago. That scene has been more or less repeated at least sixteen times since then. The reason that I said I’m his mistress in a way and in a way I’m not is this: we’ve never really had intercourse. I want it so much, but he is too rough.

Now there is another guy that’s more predominant in my life. He’s a leading unmarried disc jockey here. He’s really fantastic. He knows about my little affair but feels that he’s going to “protect” me. He says he wants to marry me. In the meantime, he’s educating me. It’s kind of cute. He says the part that is lovable about me is my being naive. Naive! Oh, well . . .

Love and Peace and Sunshine,

Julie

A LETTER FROM BETSY

High Jack,

I have just read your book Doing It! and am very impressed and realized something I think is really cool. When articles or people talked of swinging or fetishes of any form, I always pictured the participants to be in their late teens to thirties. I think it’s fantastic to realize that it’s not only a sport for the young, that the older generation is so open to such practices.

I realize that to anyone over thirty this seems like a ridiculous letter and kind of naive, but the people I associate with (I’m nineteen so they are mostly nineteen to twenty-five) seem to think anything but the conservative man-on-top position was their own invention. I too was formerly guilty of the same illusion. Now I realize that the so-called “conservatives” could teach us a few things about awareness and the “New Morality.” I just want to say thanks and chalk one up for JWW.

Betsy

P.S. Hi again Jack,

I just decided after writing what I wrote that I might as well take advantage of your knowledge and your understanding nature.

I enjoy it immensely when someone goes down on me, but can’t get over the feeling that it is dirty. Not dirty meaning improper but dirty meaning it stinks, and that the guy only does it because he knows it pleases me. It sounds dumb but I really want to know truthfully if a guy enjoys it or just says he does because it’s the cool thing to do.

Now I’m not dirty or crusty or anything. It’s just that the natural secretions seem unpleasant to me, especially when I’m horny, and I can’t seem to accept it when people say that it tastes good and things of that sort.

So when someone starts working his way down I usually stop him. Or when he’s at it I am so taken up with the thought that he’s forcing himself to do it that I can’t get off on it. Any suggestions to help me get over it???

I KNEW A LOT ABOUT FUCKING BUT NOTHING ABOUT GIRLS

Dear Mr. Wells:

I have read and enjoyed several of your books . . . I believe you have written a book about experiences of older women with younger men and boys. I cannot recall the title of it at the moment. If so, I would greatly appreciate to know how I could obtain a copy of such a book. If you would send it to me I would gladly pay the cost and your expenses, or if you cannot do this, then if you could tell me the price and who to send away to for it.

This is a subject of much interest to me and I have read whatever I could find on the subject, although much of those available are made-up stories to my way of thinking rather than true experiences. If you have not written such a book but know of one by some other writer which is factual and well written, please tell me what it is, etc.

Peter

I replied briefly, to the effect that my book on the subject was out of print, that my publishers did not seem to have copies in stock, and that I wasn’t able to suggest any source for the book, or to recommend any other books on the subject. I ended by inviting Peter to write about his interest in the subject, and any experiences of his own he might care to discuss. I did not really expect to hear further from him, however.

A while later I received this letter:

Dear Mr. Wells:

I doubt if you remember me. I wrote to you some time ago concerning obtaining a copy of your book on older women and their sexual interest in boys and young men. I have still not been able to get this book but have been looking for it in second-hand bookstores . . .

As for my interest in this topic, it is a result of my own experiences. Namely, having sexual intercourse at the age of fourteen with a woman who was old enough to be my mother. I say “old enough,” but actually she was several years older than my own mother. At the time this started, I was fourteen as stated, my mother was thirty-seven, and this woman was about forty-five. (I found this out later, as she claimed to be seven or eight years younger than her true age, which I discovered through other circumstances.)

You may be interested in some of the details—although I don’t know why, as you have already written your book on the topic! In any case, let me go on, as for some time I have had an urge to discuss this with someone, but do not have the sort of relationship with anyone at present with whom such a discussion would be possible. Also it seems to me more natural to write about such things than to speak of them; if you were here in person I would no doubt “clam up” and have little or nothing to say . . .

Up until meeting this woman, whom I will call “Jane Doe” for lack of being able to make up something original, and not wanting to use her actual name, I had little in the way of sexual experience. I was by way of being shy and what you might call a loner, having recently moved with my mother from a small town to a larger city. My father was deceased and I had no brothers and sisters. I did not mingle well with schoolmates and actually did not mind being left out, being more concerned with my hobbies, which included reading, stamp collecting, and nature study. I was quite industrious as a boy, perhaps more so than I am now, and, needing money for my stamp collection, was constantly mowing lawns, raking leaves, and otherwise doing chores for various neighbors, depending on the season.

Mrs. Doe lived in our neighborhood in a two-family house similar to the one in which I lived with my mother. I originally thought she was a widow but later learned she had been divorced, her husband having custody of their children. She had never claimed to be a widow. This was just an impression I had. I had a more or less steady job cutting her small lawn one summer, and continued to work for her when school started, raking her leaves periodically, then shoveling her walk after it snowed. As she had no car and thus did not use her driveway, nor did her tenant in the upstairs flat, it was just a matter of shoveling the small front walk and the path to her door, for which I was paid, as I recall, fifty cents . . .

It was during that Christmas season when sex first entered the picture. Before this, my experience was limited to masturbation, which I practiced frequently but felt quite guilty about. I knew it to be harmless, unlike countless boys who had heard all sorts of horrible stories about its results, but nevertheless regarded it as unmanly, filthy, etc. Since I still rarely went an entire day without doing it, I don’t suppose my reservations had an inhibiting effect upon my behavior.

Mrs. Doe—I am beginning to regret having called her that, but let it lie—was clearly the initiator of our sexual contact. I can now recognize that she behaved seductively on several occasions before actually seducing me, though I did not appreciate this at the time. She would behave in a flirtatious fashion, rub against me, hold my hand while paying me, etc. Also she would make double intenders which I did not notice, naive as I was. Nevertheless in her defense it must be admitted that I was already sexually attracted to her, regarding her as very pretty and desirable (she could have passed for more than seven years younger than her age, had she desired, on the basis of her youthfulness of appearance). While I never regarded it as remotely possible that we might have sex together, she was frequently my partner in my masturbation fantasies. I never believed those fantasies had any more chance of fulfillment than others involving movie stars!

During that fateful Christmas vacation, on the day after a heavy snowfall I, as usual, went to her house and offered to shovel her walk and path, and was as usual accepted. I performed these tasks, then rang her bell to request payment. She paid me and offered me a cup of chocolate. She had done so before, and as usual I accepted.

In her kitchen she asked me quite a few personal questions involving my own sexual experience. Such as did I go out with girls, did I have a special girlfriend, etc. (It has since amused me to learn—through the printed word, I hasten to say—that such an approach is commonly made by mature homosexuals seeking to entice adolescent males.) I replied to the effect that I “didn’t have time” for girls. She then asked if I didn’t find female bodies attractive—I said I did—and if I didn’t have physical desires. I don’t recall what I said in reply, if indeed I managed to blurt out any answer at all.

She then said: “Your problem, Peter, is that you are too mature for girls your own age, and that is why you cannot waste time on them. We are a great deal alike. I am youthful in my mind for someone my age, but to someone like you I must seem like an old lady and not desirable.”

I managed to say something along the lines that she was attractive.

Then she said, “Have you ever seen a woman’s body unclothed?” I said no. She carefully drew all the shades, then removed all of her clothing and stood there stark naked before me, and I can still recall the expression on her face, part teasing, part passionate, part fearful of my reaction.

I thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world and managed to put some of my feeling into words. To show you the extent of my naiveté, a part of my mind was looking forward to holding this picture in my mind while masturbating before going to sleep that night—it had still not dawned on me that I was actually going to be able to fuck her!

And fuck we did. She took me into her bedroom and helped me undress. She smelled deliciously of a perfume she always wore and of her own special scent, the woman-smell I had never breathed before. I had gotten a painfully intense erection when she undressed and I got inside of her almost immediately, and ejaculated after but a few strokes. If this disappointed her, as well it must have, she did not show it, and I had no concept of making the act last so that the woman could obtain satisfaction. All I could think was how much an improvement was her splendid cunt over my hand for inducing orgasm and how much sweeter a feeling it did induce. In no time at all her hand had excited me a second time, and this time she got astride me and rode me very slowly, having a powerful orgasm of her own that finally spurred me to climax after a long and joyous bout of fucking.

When it was over and I was on my way home, I hardly believed what had happened. In a sense, I was quite terrified, not that anything ill would come of it but that my mother or school classmates of mine might find out. As far as my mother was concerned, there was very little chance of her finding out, as she was quite withdrawn into herself and took little interest in any of my activities. By this I do not intend to suggest that she was not a good mother, but rather that she tended to go her way and let me go mine. And, as far as my classmates were concerned, I wonder now why it worried me that they might have found out, as their reaction would certainly have been one of admiration, and they paid little or no attention to me anyway. But such was my feeling, and it certainly worked to Mrs. Doe’s advantage, for throughout our affair I never confided in another soul and took great pains to keep everything a secret, with the result that no one ever did find out what was going on . . .

After that first time, I went to sleep that night praying it would snow so that I could see her again. It did not occur to me that I could go over on virtually any pretext, and several days passed before it did indeed snow and give me the excuse I was looking for. Mrs. Doe—I’ll call her Jane now, for by this point we were, not surprisingly, on a first-name basis—asked why I had stayed away for so long, and suggested in the course of our time together that day that we meet on a more-or-less regular basis. She proposed that she “hire” me to do certain chores at her house twice weekly, which would explain my regular presence there, and further insisted that she would pay me five dollars a week for my non-existent services. It somehow did not seem odd to me to be taking this money from her, and it was not until long after our relationship had ended that I saw myself as having been paid for “stud services.” Perhaps the idea of paying me appealed to her in that it established her dominance in the relationship, or let her feel less that she was exploiting my youth, but that is guesswork on my part . . .

I continued to see her on a regular basis for almost four years, or until I went to college out-of-town. She never mentioned the word “love,” nor did I. I did not consider myself in love with her, although I did have a great deal of affection for her which was not exclusively sexual. Although the majority of our time together was spent in bed, we did have conversations, and in more than a sexual sense she did far more to further my education than the hours I spent in class. I had always been shy and awkward, and still remained shy and awkward in front of other people, but with her I was able to bloom as far more mature and worldly than the rest of the world saw me.

I don’t recall the specific subjects of many of our conversations. We rarely talked about our own personal lives, and it was as if there was an unspoken agreement to the effect that our relationship was wholly apart from our outside lives. She did encourage me to develop an interest in classical music, which has never faded, and suggested many books for me to read.

Well, I have gone on at greater length than I intended, and no doubt bored you to tears in the course of all this memory-sifting. I would appreciate any comments you might care to make on my relationship with Jane, whether it is typical or atypical in your opinion, whether its effects are good or bad, etc. If you have questions on any points I’ve mentioned, or anything I have left out that would be of interest, I will do my best to answer them in a useful fashion . . .

Sincerely,

Peter

I made some comments in my reply, concluding by suggesting that the question as to whether the relationship had been good or bad for him was one to be answered not by me but by Peter himself. And I added that I would be interested in the answer, and in how his affair had influenced his life away from Jane, how his sex life had developed in respect to other partners, and whether he had had any contact with Mrs. Doe after going away to college.

Dear Mr. Wells:

Thank you so much for your very thoughtful reply. Since last writing to you, I was successful in picking up a copy of The Mrs. Robinson Syndrome, incidentally, which I very much enjoyed . . .

You are correct, of course, in noting that it is my place to evaluate my relationship with Jane. Your words to that effect provoked me into a great deal of thought on the subject, and if you’ll permit me I’ll share some of those thoughts with you.

First of all, I would say that the relationship was unequivocally beneficial to me in two extremely important respects. It endowed me with superb sexual education and provided me with a convenient sexual outlet in those years of adolescence so commonly marked by unremitting frustration and anxiety. For these two aspects alone, I would say that Jane did me infinitely more good than harm.

In terms of sexual technique, I did not keep a copy of my last letter to you and hence do not know how much I may have said about Jane’s sexual performance. I’m sure I mentioned that she was attractive and enjoyed sex immensely. She was also highly skilled and inclined to experiment, so that at an age when most of my contemporaries were engaging in guilt-ridden masturbation and trying to comprehend theoretically the precise mechanics of coitus, I was adept at sexual intercourse in a dozen positions, the full gamut of oral and anal sex, and a variety of other techniques most men learn only after several years of marriage if at all. I knew precisely how to excite a woman and could readily bring Jane to orgasm in a great variety of ways. I say this not to pass myself off as a great lover; I’m sure I learned nothing that most men don’t learn eventually, so that those contemporaries of mine have probably caught up with me by now. I was surely ahead of them at the time, however . . .

And this gives rise to an interesting point which I did not have brought home to me until I was in college. My college experience generally was a complete turnabout in terms of my personality. Shy and indrawn as I had been, I became quite the reverse almost from the moment I arrived at the campus. It was as if, by being away from the school and town where I had been a loner and misfit, by being at a college where not a single person had ever laid eyes on me before, I was gifted with the opportunity of a completely new start.

That I was able to take advantage of that start is, I am confident, the result of my affair with Jane. In a sense, I became the person I had previously only been able to be with her. (That sentence is awkward, but I trust you’ll be able to decipher it.)

As part of my “new personality,” I took an immediate interest in girls and dating—and here is the interesting paradox. I had no idea how to behave in dating situations! I had never had a date of any sort before, had never had any more intimate verbal contact with a girl than perhaps to ask to borrow a pencil in class. In simplest terms, I knew a lot about fucking—but nothing about girls!

Thus I was very unsure of myself on dates, and quite unaware as to the manner in which one knows how to proceed sexually with a girl. I was quite unprepared for the nuances of social dating and courtship. Because of my “new personality,” however, I managed to seem fairly well at ease in social situations, however ill at ease I might be underneath, and once I did manage to initiate sexual contact, things generally went well enough.

I had brief affairs with several girls during my first year at college. I think the experience with Jane, the freedom I had in that relationship, made me very wary of getting overly involved with any of the three girls I had relations with. They expected an affair to be accompanied by emotional commitment, which I was unwilling to make . . . At times I found relations with these relatively inexperienced girls unsatisfying in comparison to what I had had with Jane. They were unskilled in technique and very timid about performing fellatio, etc. However the charms of female bodies close to me in age offset this lack of technique, and in addition they provided the pleasures of seduction and instruction, allowing me to play the role of the experienced lover, a complete reversal of course of the role I had played with Jane.

You asked me if I was at all tempted to renew my acquaintance with Jane after I went away to college. There were times, to be sure, when I missed her. But I had changed, and regarded her as a part of my former life—a life I was determined to escape from entirely. In my mind, she was a part of my childhood, and I had become a man upon arriving at the college . . . When I returned home for vacation, I did not make any immediate attempt to see her. I was avoiding it but knew I had to see her, and in a way I longed to so that I could obtain assurance from her that I had grown up, that I was a man, etc.

The meeting—it was the last time I ever saw her—is hazy in my mind, and I suspect I have learned to repress it over the years. It was not so much that it was unpleasant. In fact it was not unpleasant but that we were no longer interested in each other. She was friendly enough but not warm. Eventually I took her arm in a way to indicate that we should go to the bedroom, not because I wanted to, I don’t believe, so much as because I felt an obligation to do so. She shook her head determinedly and confided that she had a lover—a high school boy three years my junior.

Incredibly, I had not only never taken it for granted that she would find a replacement for me, but the possibility had never even entered my mind. I had the selfishness that most young people had, the total egocentricity, so that I thought of people only in respect to the way they were involved in my life, and somehow I took it for granted that Jane would be waiting for me and remaining quite celibate while I was off seducing college coeds.

You asked, also, how my sexual life has developed since those days. I would characterize it as basically normal. I am 47 years old and have been married for almost twenty years. I don’t really feel like going into details of my sex life, or of any other aspect of my present life, however willingly I seem to write about the past! Suffice it to say that I am happily married, that with the exception of a few generally insignificant affairs I have been faithful to my wife, and that I look back on those adolescent experiences with Jane with nothing but fondness. I’ve often wondered how the years would have changed her—she was struck down and killed by a hit-and-run driver during my sophomore year at college.

I think every young boy should have an experience such as this, an introduction to love at the hands of a gifted, desirable, understanding older woman. I understand that this is considerably more common in Western Europe than it is in this country, although I’m sure it is by no means all that uncommon here. There must be untold numbers of boys like myself who went through such experiences and profited immensely from them—and never confided their experiences to anyone else . . .

Sincerely,

Peter

I didn’t expect to hear further from Peter, but this letter arrived several months later.

Dear Mr. Wells:

. . . I am writing to you because of a preoccupation which has been on my mind constantly lately. It has occurred to me to go to a psychiatrist, but I have never done so before and have some reservations about doing so now. Besides, it occurs to me that you already know a great deal about me which I would have to waste time telling a psychiatrist, so rather than spend twenty-five dollars telling my troubles to someone else. I’ll spend eight cents on a stamp and tell them to you. I don’t expect any reply from you, but in the past it has helped me to clarify things in my mind by writing to you, and I am hoping this will again be the case.

To put it plainly, I have the ever-recurring desire to have my wife emulate the woman I called “Jane Doe” by having an affair with a teenage boy. This has been on my mind for months and was in the back of my mind when I first began writing to you, although I was reluctant to mention it at the time. Reading your book on the subject and delving into my own past, both mentally and in my letters to you, only served to sharpen my interest in having this come to pass.

I have not directly confessed my desire to my wife, but I have begun giving her hints of my feelings. For example, I have told her at length of my experiences with Jane; previously she knew that I had had an extended affair with an older woman but had not known the details. I have even described particular sex acts and so on in extensive detail, usually doing so prefatory to our having sexual relations together. This has spurred excitement for both of us, but I don’t know whether to take this as a sign that the idea of sex between older women and younger men holds particular appeal for her or that it merely means she finds erotic reminiscences a stimulating preparation for sex.

I have also given her your books to read, and lately have begun making general comments to the effect that such relationships are of value for both parties, the woman and the boy. I have joked with her to the effect that she is very highly sexed and that, as I get on in years, it would be to her interest to take a young lover. These comments do not seem to annoy or distress her in any way, but neither do they seem to be taken seriously by her. I have not yet had the nerve to propose the matter seriously.

It is impossible for me to be sure of my motivations in wanting her to have an affair of this sort. At times I tell myself that my motivation is entirely unselfish—that I think the experience would be a positive one for both her and the boy involved, whoever he might be, and that it is just my desire for her personal happiness and satisfaction that motivates me.

But this cannot be the case and I realize it. This is something of an obsession with me and obsessions of this sort do not have selfless motivations, from what I know of them.

But what personal satisfaction would I get out of this?

I can see possible motives but don’t believe they apply. For example, the idea of latent homosexuality. That I have strong homosexual urges which would be satisfied by proxy were my wife to have relations in my stead with a boy I find desirable myself.

This worries me, because I have never recognized any element of homosexual desire within myself, find the thought of sexual relations with another male utterly repugnant, and, without being able to say precisely why, dislike to think that I could be so oriented, consciously or unconsciously.

I can also conceive that I might be wanting to identify with the boy and thus recapture a particular element of my youth. Or that there is a fetishistic thing about it, namely the whole concept of woman-boy sex “turns me on,” and thus I want to participate in such a situation the only way possible for me, namely through the medium of my wife.

Well, that’s already more than I intended to write, Mr. Wells. So I’ve wasted a little of your time and saved myself twenty-five dollars I might have spent on a headshrinker. I would be interested in any comments you might care to make, also any suggestions you might have as to how I might best get my wife to participate. (Whatever my motives, it is true that I honestly believe it would be a good experience for her!) Do not think, though, that I expect a reply from you; it is gracious enough of you to read this—assuming you didn’t throw it in the wastebasket halfway through!

Sincerely,

Peter

I did reply to Peter’s letter, though not immediately; I was out of town when it arrived. I told him I wouldn’t worry too much about the latent-homosexuality interpretation of his desire as I didn’t think that explanation held water in his case. I said I was more inclined to go along with his third explanation—that he found woman/boy sex exciting in concept and thus sought vicarious participation in it.

As far as getting his wife to go along with it, I offered no suggestions but a couple of cautions—first, that he be sure of his own mind on the subject to the point where he could be certain that his desire for vicarious pleasure did not mask a hidden feeling that his wife would be sullied by the experience, and, second, that he make haste slowly and not lay any trips on her that she was not ready for.

I also expressed the hope that he would let me know how things turned out for him, but never heard further from him.

A LETTER FROM PEGGY

Dear Mr. Wells,

I read your book Beyond Group Sex and enjoyed it. In the introduction you said that people could write to you if they wished, so here I am . . .

Perhaps I should say that I do not often read books on the subject of sex and all its variations. No, I’m not putting down books on this subject! But I usually am not interested in reading them.

I happened to pick up your book at the drugstore and to look through it, and I came across a chapter about a brother and sister who were married to each other. I’m sure you know the chapter I mean. Your title for it was “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother.”

Well, hold your horses, because I’m not going to marry my brother. I don’t even have a brother! A dog and a goldfish and a mother and a step-father and a little sister, but no brother.

I also have a cousin. Well, several cousins, actually, but there’s this one cousin in particular who is why I’m writing to you. He’s the problem.

Let me tell you something about myself. I am 16, 5’ 3½”, 107 lbs, brown hair, brown eyes, considered fairly good-looking. I have what is supposed to be a pretty good figure . . .

I have always been sexy. Meaning I get passionate. Like I really dig it! But for most of my life it all added up to a big nothing. The boys I liked didn’t like me, and the boys who liked me were yucky. I would make out and like that, and I would get passionate even if the boy was yucky, esp. the ones who knew how to kiss, but it never added up to much. I fucked for the first time two months after my fourteenth birthday. The boy was from out-of-town and my girlfriend fixed me up with him. I didn’t like him too much, but he wanted to fuck and I was curious about getting it over with once and for all. Truthfully I dug a charge out of it, but didn’t have a climax. I fucked once or twice after that—well, twice, but the same boy both times, not exactly yucky but no doll either, if you know what I mean. Both of those times I also dug it but didn’t come, but he would fingerfuck me after and I can almost always come that way.

Now about my cousin. Well, there is nothing much to say except that his mother is my mother’s sister. He and I always liked each other as kids but that was all there was to it. Then a few months ago it happened.

He is a year and two months younger than me, which is sort of weird, because I have always gone out with boys my age or a little older, and always had the idea that the boy should be older in love affairs. Also I am more experienced and he never had fucked before. He is tall, 5’ 7” and still growing, and as both his parents are tall he will probably be well over six feet when fully grown. He has blue eyes and brown hair and is very attractive, and when he kisses me everything melts all inside of me, and when we have sexual relations it is dynamite, and I come almost every time we fuck.

The thing is that he is my cousin. Of course we cannot go out on dates or anything like that. How it got started is we were listening to records and talking about sex, and we started kissing and fooling around, and all of a sudden we were both turned on. We didn’t fuck that first time, just fooled around and got terribly frustrated. Then a few days later we messed around some more and jerked each other off, and within a week we were fucking and it was heaven.

He talks all the time about how we will get married when we grow up. I want this very much but I am terribly uncertain. In your book the brother and sister moved away and changed their names and everything. I suppose we could do this. Maybe we will. I don’t know.

What about children? Is it all right for cousins to have children? I want to have about a dozen babies when I grow up but would hate myself for bringing defective children into the world. Also there is a population problem, blah blah blah, so maybe we should adopt children instead of having any of our own.

Is it legal to marry your cousin? Is it a bad idea if the wife is a year and two months older than the husband? Also some other questions: Is The Pill—which I am taking—absolutely safe? Also, this may be a stupid question but I have heard it both ways, if you suck a boy off and he comes in your mouth and you swallow it, can you get pregnant that way? (Please don’t laugh!) Also, if you can get pregnant that way, does the Pill protect you, or is it just protection for fucking? I know these are dumb questions but I don’t know the answers and who else can I ask?????

Please write back soon. I know you are busy but this is important. If my aunt or mother knew about this they would die.

Peggy

AN EPILOGUE . . . WITH LOVE AND SQUALOR

4 January 73

Mr. William R. Gross

Dell Publishing Company, Inc.

Dear Bill,

I’m glad you liked the manuscript of Love at a Tender Age. I can’t take a hell of a lot of credit for it. Any fool with a pair of scissors and a paste pot could have done as well. It was the kids who wrote the book. I’m perfectly willing to let them have the credit, just so I get the cash . . .

Your one criticism, that the book just seems to come to an end, strikes me as perfectly valid. Matter of fact, it doesn’t even come to an end—it just stops going on. That’s a problem with a book consisting of letters from continuing correspondence. Since I turned in the manuscript, I’ve heard further from some of the kids.

One letter in particular arrived just the day before yesterday, and perhaps you’ll think of a way to use it in the book. It’s from the gal I call “Grace” in the “Three Little Maids from School” chapter. It’s confused and confusing, and kind of off-handedly poignant, and it goes like this . . .

Dear Jack,

Hi! How are you? I’m doing fine so far. Working now, nothing but that. There’s at least three guys who want to take me out. Already wrote two off my list. One I don’t particularly like, and I found out the other one is married. So that’s it.

Ellen’s doing okay so far. She was in a hospital for trying to commit suicide. She’s out now and goes to a school for emotionally disturbed people. She almost lost my close friendship. Lots of things have been happening!! She still thinks that she is “bisexual.” She’s been making it with men 100% of the time. I think it might be the relationship between me and her. The way she feels toward me, I mean . . . I don’t know what I am. All I know is that I am a “woman”!! I haven’t been hearing from Louise.

I have convinced myself that I don’t want to get married or have children. I’m thinking of getting lots of money up to get my tubes fused. Going sterile. I have learned from my last pregnancy. I hate the idea of the having-to-get-married bit because the woman didn’t say no. I should of, man. Now I’m going to, from this point on. If I start on the pill, I wouldn’t have to say no. I’d have a reason to say yes. But I’m going on the pill and I’m still going to say no.

Ellen and a couple of guys went to see Boys in the Band. They said it was fantastic. I was out of town so I didn’t get to see it. Shoot!

Trying to quit smoking. Tonight it didn’t work. I was mad, and I lit up a cigarette. Calms my nerves, something to do with my hands. I quit dope! Getting into the Lord. It’s really a hard subject to get into. Reading the New Testament. Trying to get educated. I’ll say one thing, my head’s been messed up and it still is. Hard work trying to straighten it out. I’ll do it some time. Gotta be patient.

And tonight’s a night not to try it. Mom’s in a rotten mood. I take my headaches out on my younger sister, cause she wants to watch what she wants to watch on TV. Now Mom’s back-talking, and I am too. Dad’s the same way as Mom. I’m hating myself for this whole night. Getting terrible vibes from every moving object. I feel just terrible. Mainly of finding out one of the guys who wants to date me is married. I like him a lot. I might be in love, but I shouldn’t be and I’m not going to be! He’s just a friend! He’s all right. One of the other guys, he’s terrific! (Yum, Yum) (No no!! Shouldn’t be thinking like that!!)

Well, I’ll split now, so—

Love,

Grace

So it goes. If it’s not too late, I think this letter ought to be in the book. And, since Grace appears in the first extended chapter of the book, perhaps you would want to use this last letter as a sort of epilogue, conveniently rounding things off and bringing us all back to Step One.

I’m sure you’ll think of something.

Rgds,

Jack

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Lawrence Block has been writing best-selling mystery and suspense fiction for half a century. A multiple recipient of the Edgar and Shamus awards, he has been designated a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, and received the Diamond Dagger for Life Achievement from the UK’s Crime Writers Association. His most recent novels are A Drop Of The Hard Stuff, featuring Matthew Scudder, and Getting Off, starring a very naughty young woman. Several of his books have been filmed, although not terribly well. He's well known for his books for writers, including the classic Telling Lies For Fun & Profit, and The Liar's Bible. In addition to prose works, he has written episodic television: Tilt! and the Wong Kar-wai film, My Blueberry Nights. He is a modest and humble fellow, although you would never guess as much from this biographical note.

John Warren Wells emerged in the mid-1960s as a writer of sexological nonfiction, and produced twenty books in the ensuing decade. His works, in the main, consist of compilations of case histories selected to illuminate a particular theme, and topics range from female bisexuality (Women Who Swing Both Ways) and troilism (Three is Not a Crowd) to the evolving lifestyles of a decade of sexual liberation (The New Sexual Underground and Wide Open: The New Marriage). His groundbreaking work, Tricks of the Trade: A Hooker’s Handbook of Sexual Technique, was especially successful, and may have inspired Xaviera Hollander to write The Happy Hooker.

One particularly noteworthy book, Different Strokes, consists of his screenplay and production diary for the pornographic feature film of that name, which he seems to have written and directed, in addition to playing a key role. His column, “Letters to John Warren Wells,” was a popular feature in Swank Magazine. The dedications of several books would seem to indicate that Wells carried on an extensive on-again, off-again relationship with Jill Emerson, herself the author of Threesome, A Week as Andrea Benstock, and, more recently, Getting Off. All of JWW’s books have been out of print for thirty-five years; that they are now available to a new generation of readers may be attributed to the technological miracle of eBooks and the apparently limitless ego and avarice of their author.

Contact Lawrence Block:

Email: lawbloc@gmail.com

Blog: LB’s Blog

Facebook: LB's Facebook Fan Page

Website: www.lawrenceblock.com

Twitter: @LawrenceBlock

John Warren Wells on Sexual Behavior Ebooks

3 Is Not A Crowd

Beyond Group Sex: The New Sexual Life Styles

Come Fly With Us

Different Strokes: Or, How I (Gulp) Wrote, Directed & Starred in an X-Rated Movie

Doing It!

Eros and Capricorn

The Male Hustler

Older Women and Younger Men: The Mrs. Robinson Syndrome

Sex and the Stewardess

The Sex Therapists

Sex Without Strings

The New Sexual Underground

The Taboo Breakers

Tricks of the Trade: A Hooker’s Handbook of Sexual Technique

Versatile Ladies: Women Who Swing Both Ways

Wide Open: The New Marriage

The Wife-Swap Report

OLDER WOMEN AND YOUNGER MEN:

THE MRS. ROBINSON SYNDROME

John Warren Wells

Lawrence Block

copyright © 1969, 2012, Lawrence Block

All Rights Reserved

INTRODUCTION:

WHAT'S THE OPPOSITE OF LOLITA?

Not too long ago, I was interviewing a married woman with extensive experience in sexually permissive circles all up and down the Eastern Seaboard. Our conversation had moved from her own experiences to some of the more outré predilections of various acquaintances of hers, several of which were particularly bizarre. Ultimately she began commenting upon a friend of hers, a woman in her late thirties who drifted from one lover to another, with her sexual partners an average of twenty years younger than herself.

“Her entire sex life is a regular parade of these young studs,” my informant said, a hint of envy in her tone. One after another of these . . . of these—” She looked at me, frowning. “Help me out—what’s the opposite of Lolita?”

It is hardly insignificant that there is no readily agreed upon opposite for Lolita, i.e., no generic label to fix upon adolescent males who consort with older women. While the heroine of Vladimir Nabokov’s penetrating novel saw her name at once absorbed into the world’s several languages, fiction has yet to supply us with her male equivalent. The significance of this, of course, is not merely that we have no name for him: it is rather that we are far less cognizant of his existence. And yet, as I have gradually discovered in recent months, the sexual enthusiasm of mature women for adolescent males is by no means unusual in our society. This particular sort of liaison is well established throughout all strata of society, not only on the barricades of the sexual revolution but considerably behind them as well.

When I first began to encounter an impressive quantity of such cases, I made an error which is scarcely uncommon in the behavioral sciences: I thought that I was discovering a new trend. I shortly found myself spinning elaborate theories to explain this trend in light of diverse changes in the sexual atmosphere of modern culture. But further examination revealed that if there is indeed anything new under the sun, this was not it.

On the contrary, women and boys had formed sexual relationships ever since sex began. If I was finding more evidence of such relationships than the published literature might suggest, it seemed that this was indicative not of a change in existential behavior but of an increasing willingness to bring sexual matters into the open. What was occurring was not in and of itself unusual; what was unusual was that it was being discussed.

To be sure, no sexual idiosyncrasy is more easily concealed in our society. We seem able to blind ourselves to sexual peculiarities in women which we would never countenance in men. One can quickly appreciate the distinction by considering the lot of male and female homosexuals. Lesbians can wear male attire, embrace openly, even hold hands in public, and never arouse the slightest suspicion that they are other than heterosexual; the slightest suggestion of effeminate behavior is enough to draw attention to a male homosexual.

Similarly, a woman may be far bolder in her relations with a young lover than could a man comparably involved with a young lady. When a middle-aged man appears in public with his teenage daughter, the immediate assumption is that she is his young mistress. Conversely, when a middle-aged woman appears in public with her teenage lover, the same observers as quickly assume he is her son.

•  •  •

The ways in which relationships form and exist between older women and younger males are exceedingly varied, as are the motivations which render such relationships attractive for the participants. In a majority of instances, it is the motives of the female participant which are of greater importance; she is almost invariably the aggressor, and while she may not delineate the form the ultimate relationship will take, she nevertheless makes the original decision of establishing it in the first place.

Why do women desire young lovers?

“The question,” one woman snapped, “is not why some of us want young studs. It’s why we don’t all want them. What woman would prefer an old man to a young one? What girl would prefer stale bread to fresh? Anyone who asks me why I like what I like has just got it all backward?”

But I would suspect this argument is simplistic, to say the least. The deliberate selection of a young lover is certainly more than the matter of choosing fresh bread over a stale loaf. It is a violation of any number of social and moral taboos, and in a majority of instances a violation of law as well. Criminal statutes which define statutory rape do not generally distinguish between cases in which the female partner is a minor and those involving an older woman and a younger man. (From a practical standpoint, however, such a distinction may be said to exist; prosecutions of a female for statutory rape are almost nonexistent, and seem to occur only when the male participant is not merely under the age of consent but an actual child. In any event, such prosecutions are extremely rare.)

As in so often the case in matters of sexual behavior, there is no single all-inclusive answer. The problem is distinctly polyhedral in nature—woman choose young lovers for any number of reasons, engage in relations with them in any number of circumstances, and get all manner of pains and pleasures in the bargain.

For a number of women, a youthful lover represents an attempt to recapture their own youth. We are perhaps more familiar with the reverse of this phenomenon—the middle-aged man who begins forsaking his wife for girls half his age in an effort to regain his lost youth. By the same token, a woman may take young lovers with the idea in mind that some of their youth will rub off on her, that she will bathe in their reflected light.

For other women, the young lover represents a sexual outlet which does not threaten them. They can play a dominant role which they may desire but which eludes them in relations with men their own age. They may combine the roles of mother and lover, either as an expression of their own thwarted incestuous urges or out of frustration at the childlessness of their own lives. They may find themselves capable of sexual acts with young lovers, pluralistic or otherwise perverse, which they could not permit themselves to perform with men their own age out of a variety of embarrassment.

They may focus upon young lovers as a means of working out some basic conflict. They may compete with their daughters by having sexual relations with their daughters’ boyfriends, for example, or may seduce their sons’ friends as surrogates for incestuous partners. They may compensate for any number of failings in any number of similar ways.

Some of these women are married, some divorced, some lifelong spinsters. Some of them find themselves involved in what seem to them to be genuine love affairs, and may actually attempt to make their liaisons with young males into permanent marital relationships. Others actively seek out a chain of short or long-term affairs, while still others are deliberately promiscuous. Some find themselves more secure with youthful sex partners, while for others the element of risk attendant upon such situations is itself a source of sexual stimulation.

It should thus be rather easy to see that the entire question of the woman-boy syndrome admits of no easy answers, that one cannot seek one-sentence explanations for so complex a situation. My own investigation of the phenomenon, originally undertaken with the idea in mind of writing a single article to be called “The Male Lolita Syndrome,” soon showed it was leading not to an article or chapter but to a full book.

At first this development gave me pause. Who, after all, would be interested in a book on such a topic? What reader could legitimately be expected to wade through a couple of hundred pages dealing with this subject matter?

And yet as I continued with the research, it became evident that the topic was of more than cursory interest to a sizable number of persons. I began mentioning my subject matter to a variety of persons who are not themselves involved in woman-boy relationships. People are generally curious as to what any writer is up to—or at least are polite enough to feign such an interest—and I began replying as a matter of course that I was investigating this particular topic. The response was interesting. In many more cases than I would have supposed, both men and women evidenced an unusually high degree of curiosity about the theme.

“You ought to write about that,” the standard response seemed to be, “because I would suspect this is something that would really interest the average person.” You ought to write about this, the implication seemed clear enough, because this is something that would interest me.

Just recently the woman-boy syndrome has received cinematic attention in The Graduate, in which the sexual relationship of the characters played by Anne Bancroft and Dustin Hoffman serves as the foundation of an extraordinary film. Here, unlike many earlier films which dealt to one extent or another with the same theme, the specifically and exclusively sexual relationship of the two is stressed in no uncertain terms. Its character is underscored, for example, by one delightful scene in which young Hoffman complains that he and Miss Bancroft never talk to each other. An attempt at conversation reveals that the two have absolutely nothing to talk about, at which point they sensibly return to bed. It would be foolhardy in the extreme to equate the success of The Graduate, either artistic or commercial, with its sexual theme; in its larger sense, it is about several infinitely subtler and more relevant matters than the sexual. Nevertheless, one cannot too readily dismiss this aspect which is intimately concerned with the film’s impact and popular appeal, nor can one fail to acknowledge the fact that the special candor with which a forbidden (and largely ignored) sexual sphere is detailed becomes inextricably a part of the film’s overall frankness.

It would seem, then, that the present volume is justified not only by the material which presented itself to my attention but by the interest it may hold for the reading public (one hopes!) as well. How well it does its job, and whether or not the game has been worth the candle, is for the reader to determine.

•  •  •

The particular methodology of this book is essentially that which I have followed in the past. It has long been the author’s feeling that excessive interpretation on his part is largely outside the scope of his expertise and is all too often unwarranted in sexological material, whether or not the author is personally qualified to offer his own observations at such length.

Accordingly, I have preferred to let the various women and boys involved speak, insofar as possible, for themselves. Not all of the subjects of the case histories which follow could legitimately be labeled as “representative”; on the contrary, they are all very much individual subjects of individual case studies, and it is in this capacity that their value chiefly lies.

By the same token, the reader will note that the majority of the material offered is presented in the subjects’ own words, either rendered in interview form or as monologue. The reason for this is two-fold. First of all, it is unarguable that the intrusion of a narrator’s persona into a case report, or a narrator’s paraphrase of data, serves only to diffuse the material and render it at a further remove from the reader. In addition, it seems evident that case histories in the psychosexual sphere are as important for their revelations about the attitudes and perceptions of the participants as they are about the actual circumstances; i.e., the facts regarding who did “what and with which and to whom,” as the limerick has it, are no whit more relevant than how the parties concerned felt about it all. The unaltered responses of the participants are invaluable for such purposes.

As a result, certain matters are detailed in the pages to follow and certain “obscene” terms employed in a manner which the reader might conceivably find offensive. While this is regrettable, it is nevertheless preferable to shock than to censor, and I have therefore made no effort to expurgate the occasionally frank statements of my interviewees.

A word about these interview subjects might be in order. The women whose case histories make up this volume come from all parts of the country and all strata of society. Some of them are members of the overall underground of sexual swingers while others in no way fit into that sexual subculture. Some wrote to me in response to previous books of mine. Others were referred by friends who knew of their sexual proclivities and were aware of my current area of research. Through one means or another, enough willing informants came to light so that I could with ease pick and choose from them to provide the eleven cases which follow.

The reader should meticulously avoid attaching any personal significance to the names of the persons discussed in the following pages, or any personal data which might seem to identify them specifically. All such names and circumstances have been carefully chosen to render such identification quite impossible.

Let me conclude by emphasizing my gratitude to the women who supplied this present work’s material; without their kind assistance there would rather obviously be no book at all, and but for the candor of their replies and the thoughtfulness of their cooperation whatever merit this book possesses would be severely proscribed.

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Title Page

Introduction

A Letter from Noreen

Three Little Maids from School

A Letter from Ruth

Like Father, Like Son

A Letter from Susan

A Male Soul Trapped in a Female Body

A Letter from Diane

My Life Has Had Its Ups and Downs

A Letter from Nick

Maria's Rap

A Letter from Howard

Some Background Notes to an Open Marriage

A Letter from Karl

Daddy's Girl

A Letter from Wes

I Thought My Parents Were Cool

A Letter from Vicki

The Girl in the Front-Row Seat

A Letter from Betsy

I Knew a Lot About Fucking but Nothing About Girls

A Letter from Peggy

An Epilogue...With Love and Squalor

About the Author

Excerpt: Older Women and Younger Men: The Mrs. Robinson Syndrome