Dreaming of Venus
Explicit Sexual Memoirs
of Life and Love
in Childhood and Youth
By Anonymous
The Wellspring Company
www.wellspringco.com
Copyright © The Wellspring Company 2010
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ISBN 978-0-9696408-8-2
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CHAPTER 1
I have described my own sexual experiences as I remember them. My account may surprise some people. Many people believe that sexual enlightenment does not normally occur at a very young age. I can emphatically confirm that in my own case it did, and for that I consider myself lucky. Far from having any sense of having been abused, my own experiences fill me with nostalgia for times past.
I have made a point of trying to be as accurate as possible in telling my story, as well as in recalling my thoughts at the time and in hindsight. Most of my memories are extremely favorable and nostalgic. I certainly do not regard myself as having been sexually abused. On the contrary, when writing this book, I have trem-endously enjoyed reliving the pleasures of my early years.
The circumstances of my writing this book actually occurred as I relate except for writing the final chapter and editing, which I did at home. I have reported as accurately as possible the contributions from other members of our party. I can vouch for the truth of my own experiences, but not theirs. However, they ring true to me. I know the people quite well, and their stories fit with their personalities. Although their stories may seem far out to some readers, they do not go beyond what I have heard about elsewhere. It’s just that most people don’t talk about these things so openly ¾
which is what makes this book unusual. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
It is hard to imagine a more erotic stimulus than to dream of making love in forbidden ways in a hot country. Little did I know that my dreams were to come true, so extravagantly and with so much pleasure.
As a hardworking and sensually over stimulated professional male working through a New York winter, I was finding that my fantasies were making it difficult to concentrate on my work. My mind was wandering, like a cloud. I was relentlessly dreaming of vacations and of creative love-making. My imagination was constantly igniting irrepressible and insatiable desires yearning to be gratified. Even with legs crossed to lessen the flow of blood, a full fledged erection was almost impossible to suppress. When this happens, I draw my upper lip behind my front teeth and tease it, as I would the tip of an erect female nipple, or the welcoming, wet and writhing warmth of an appreciative clitoris. My pre-coital juices ooze all too copiously. Even with the inner protection of two layers of cotton, tell tale dribbles seep through my suit. When I wear my light-gray pin-stripe, the obvious visibility of a wet stain is a problem. Walking around requires special handling. I have to carry magazines or papers, judiciously, to shield from view the evidence of my erotic fantasies.
For several weeks I lived through a time of immensely exaggerated sensual stimulation. I was looking with special eagerness and directness into the eyes of attractive women. To them I was transmitting the sexual energy of electro chemical reactions fizzing inside my head. I was bringing to life in my imagination what I envisioned behind the clothing that shielded every woman’s nakedness.
My imagination is the locomotive that drives my erotic thoughts. I find I am more stimulated when more is hidden. The inner eye of my imagination is more creative than the eye that sees reality. I am especially aroused when I see a woman who appears to be wearing neither bra nor panties, but who is otherwise dressed in conventional outer clothing. I am deeply moved by the suggestive-ness of the judiciously half-open top that shows the bra beneath, tantalizing, upholding, revealing and yet not revealing treasure.
My imagination can also take off when I think I am getting the point from a suggestive work of art, in any medium. Consider, for example, the frescoes on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican in Rome, completed in 1512 and recently restored. Pope Julius II commissioned Michelangelo to paint scenes from the Bible. Naturally enough, one of the first scenes portrays Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. They are both completely naked. Eve is turning her head toward the serpent to take the apple, the forbidden fruit. So far, so good. Look closely, however, and you see that Eve is turning her head away from an ideal position for taking Adam’s penis in her mouth. The only think lacking from the otherwise obvious blow-job scene is that Michelangelo has refrained from giving Adam an erection. That would have been rather far out for the interior of a church, however libidinous the age when it was painted. It is enough to imagine Adam and Eve doing their oral sex in the heart of the Vatican, with the Pope’s blessing, and to savor Michelangelo’s scurrilous joke.
My lascivious speculations do not detract from my marvelous marriage. On the contrary, I find that all sexual stimulation enhances it. It makes me more responsive. It makes me want to fulfill to the maximum my wife’s sensual desires. Mandy’s mind and mine meet, and so do our sexual desires and attitudes. Mandy also speculates about the attractive men she sees, and she does not begrudge me my speculations. She simply wants us to be sexually honest with each other, which we are. We share, in general terms, the same interests in music, art and literature. My interest in music is more adventurous, while hers is more receptive to innovation in the graphic arts. I work as a financial journalist. Mandy runs the creative department of a small but successful advertising agency. Her creativity draws and keeps a loyal clientele because her entertaining ads also sell the clients’ goods and services. We both play squash at about the same level. In winter we keep fit by playing two or three evenings each week, and sometimes on the weekend.
Mandy is about two inches shorter than me, at five feet eight inches. She has reddish wavy brown hair down to the shoulders. Her complexion is fairer than mine, possibly a result of ancient Viking ancestry that so often combines red hair and fair skin. I am darker, perhaps more Celtic or Iberian, and my hair, always trimmed each week to a discreet executive length that is noticeably longer than West Point, is almost black. I don’t think of myself as particularly attractive or unattractive. I’m fit and trim and I don’t have any obvious defects. Nor do I have the photogenic appearance that would put me naturally into show business or politics.
Apart from the meshing of our personalities, I have an insatiable physical adoration for Mandy. Her body, for me, is as near perfection as is achievable. Although a wide spectrum of physical attributes appeals to me sexually, I love Mandy’s relatively small breasts.. She always says she would like them to be bigger. However, I adore the fact that she has no need for a bra, and practically never wears one. She also has a tight and compact vagina, almost like a young girl’s.
I have had an active sex life, now happily but not restrictively constrained by marriage. I look back with nostalgia at my experiences. I love almost all sex with almost all women. Physical appearance is extremely important to me, but so is a woman’s personality, and in many ways even more so. A powerful personality can make up for much in the physical department, and so can sexual skills, as long as I don’t have to cope with obesity. Like most men, I have dreams of an ideal woman’s body. However, I am adult enough to know the difference between dreams and reality. I have a strong predilection for small breasts that are tight and firm and make me think of a young girl just passing into puberty. I am absolutely not a heavy duty breast person who goes for watermelons. I feel much the same about a woman’s legs and thighs. I like well-made, slim legs, and I like a neat and compact vagina. Some women have flabby and extended labia. These are not positive features, although they do not disgust me either. I have to confess that smallness, slimness and youth-fulness are all an immensely positive come-on. Mandy holds, in the physical department as well as with her mind, a royal flush.
I sometimes wonder whether, as I shall relate in due course, my preferences come from wonderful experiences in early childhood with prepubescent girls and boys.
Mandy and I are 36 and 32 respectively, and we have no children. It is hard to envision how we might adjust to that aspect of domesticity. Maybe we are self centered and even selfish. Between ourselves we are totally committed, supportive and unselfish. Particularly in our love life, everything is open for discussion¾or at least, I think it is. Although we have pretty much established our routines, we sometimes fantasize about being more daring again. When we married, we stopped wandering from one partner to another.
During the past month I included Mandy in my fantasies. Although I dream and fantasize about others, Many never ceases to be the love of my life, emotionally, intellectually and sexually. We were planning to take a break and were weighing the choice between skiing in Vail and a more relaxed and possibly more sensual trip to tropical heat.
My accentuated sexual arousal developed a new head of steam when we went to dinner at the home of a couple who had been casual friends for a long time. Howard is a stockbroker and Rachel works in the personnel department of a bank. We didn’t come together often, although I sometimes thought the chemistry might work for a closer personal friendship between the four of us. Mandy and I are transplants from our respective upper middle class English backgrounds, and we are now rooted in New York, well adjusted, acclimatized and Americanized. Howard and Rachel are our US counterparts. They both come from established old money. Howard comes from Boston, Rachel from Philadelphia, and we are about the same age. The primary difference, apart form our respective countries of origin and our careers, is that Howard is fair and Rachel dark. Rachel has the most incredibly large and shining bedroom eyes, which at dinner she used equally on her husband, on me and also on Mandy.
There was something uncanny about that look, especially in the way she looked at Mandy¾also, I noticed, in the way that Mandy looked back at her.
As we were coming to the end of dinner, Howard brought out a bottle of vintage port as a special treat for Mandy and me, perceived as we were by him as the repositories of the best of English taste for the fine things of life. As the bottle was passing around clockwise for the second time, the conversation shifted to Mandy’s and my tentative plans for taking a vacation.
At once Rachel almost blurted out, “Oh, I’d adore to go back to Puerto Vallarta. We had such a wonderful time there, didn’t we, darling? Maybe we should all get away together”
“Oh, we went there about four years ago.” said Mandy. “When did you go?”
“Didn’t you love it? We were there three years ago.” said Rachel eagerly, asking a succession of questions without waiting for answers. “Where did you stay? Howard, don’t you think we can get away too?”
So it turned out that we had all been to Puerto Vallarta. And we all wanted to go back. Together.
Perhaps I overstate it when I say that we all wanted to go on vacation together. The potentially developing friendship between ourselves and the Sandersons was one thing. Going on vacation with them or anyone else was another, particularly for as long as two weeks. It was not as if we were close friends, because we were not. In any case, Mandy and I like to keep space around us. We like our privacy on vacation. We are wary of disruption of our lives by outsiders. What happens with Howard and Mandy if we find that we don’t like each other? Or if we just want to do different things? What happens if one couple wants to go to bed early, the other late? If one couple wants to lie on the beach, and the other to go exploring inland? In theory the threat of conflicts might be man-ageable if we had separate living quarters, ideally some distance apart. What will theory make of reality? On the other hand I know that Mandy’s and my insularity is almost too much of a good thing. It keeps us from making the kind of closer friendships that we both want. In sum, we were torn with a desire to have it both ways, developing friendships but maintaining our space around us.
Something about Rachel’s spontaneity relaxed me and made me feel that the idea of us all vacationing together might have possibilities. We might all play tennis together and have fun going on picnics and sightseeing, perhaps inland. We seem to be compatible people. It makes a lot of sense for us to go with people we like to a place that we all know and like. I just hope that it may be possible to disconnect from the relationship if it isn’t working for Mandy and me.
The long and short of it is that we arranged to go on vacation together to Puerto Vallarta. There were just a couple of small wrinkles when we came to make our plans. The best available deal was for us all to share a luxury two bedroom apartment in a complex right on the beach. So it might be difficult to draw apart if the need arises. Another minor wrinkle is that Mandy and I were to travel south on Friday afternoon, while Howard and Rachel could travel only on the Sunday. Howard had some urgent business to complete before leaving, and couldn’t get away on Friday. A client was coming in from Los Angeles, and Howard had to take him out to dinner after the papers were signed at the lawyer’s on Friday the afternoon. Then they couldn’t get tickets for a flight until Sunday morning.
The 85-degree heat warmed the flesh through to the bone and relaxed tense muscles. Uniformed staff were slowly but purpose-fully going about their business, from time to time wheeling from staircase to staircase their carts laden with clean sheets and towels. Coconut palms shaded groomed lawns, green from extravagant watering. Bright bougainvillea, red, mauve, yellow, and white blossomed in groves throughout the complex of courtyards and vistas. Along the east side and next to the street was a line of about a dozen tennis courts where just two were in use in the heat of the mid-afternoon. The regular thud of ball against racquet indicated the steady rhythm of accomplished players. Here were Mandy and I, in paradise at last, waiting in the open reception lobby for the assignment of our accommodation.
We prepared in the plane for the sudden onslaught of tropical heat that contrasted so dramatically with the cold and slush in New York. In the plane we took off our jackets and sweaters and packed them away. My pale body now sported a red T shirt and long beige trousers. Mandy had shed her light ski jacket and let down the hair that was normally, if rather severely, bunched together for business and travel. A flowered blouse now hung loose over the waistband of long white pants.
I sensed that Mandy was as overflowing as I was with newly charged sexual energy. She said nothing specific but she didn’t have to. I could tell from her glances over my body, and particularly toward my crotch, that she was as hungry for love as I was. Her eyes, looking straight into mine, conveyed the sensual message that would have been unmistakable even without the smirk on her lips. I stopped for a moment and leaned toward her, raising my hand to pull her hair away from her face. Our lips met. We both stretched out our tongues slightly and rhythmically toward each other.
Mandy’s blouse was tight enough to show that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples were standing erect, holding the cotton slightly, but to me noticeably, out from where it would normally hang were she not aroused. The blouse was partly unbuttoned so that a well directed sideways glance allowed me to see most of her breasts, and almost to her nipples.
Mandy finds that the practicality of traveling from one extreme climate to another requires her to wear long pants for protection against the cold. At most other times she likes to wear a dress. We both find it much more convenient, and much more fun, to be able to lift the hem of a skirt. We both love to let my fingers wander into the forest of the mons veneris, as the classicists called it or as Mandy and I call it, the Mount of Venus. I could see that Mandy had shed the panties that were evident when we boarded the plane in New York. There was no longer the tell tale line from the seam of her panties between the flesh of her bottom and her outer pants. For no particular reason, I began think about the business of underwear. In the olden days, no one ever wore underwear. The rich started wearing underwear during the sixteenth century when they found that fine clothes needed protection from bodily emissions. Before then no one bothered. In fact until recent times most people didn’t bother¾only the rich. Of course, the absence of underwear, particularly on women, allows much easier access to interesting places.
Isabella it was, we now learned, who was checking in the couple ahead of us. I could hardly wait until our turn came. The sexual energy passing between Mandy and me was generating, when combined with the wonderful heat of the climate, an inferno of erotic desire. At last our turn came.
“You must be the Newhouses! Welcome to Puerto Vallarta! We all hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us.”
“Yes, that’s us,” I replied. “But how did you know our names?”
“Oh, we don’t have a big changeover on Fridays and you’re the last people checking in today.”
“Yes, we’re two today. Two more of us are arriving on Sunday. The Sandersons.”
A slight pause followed. “Two more of you?”
“Yes, that’s right. We booked about a month ago.”
“Oh dear. Now let me see. You mean there are really four of you. You’re supposed to have a two bedroom apartment overlooking the sea.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, what I’m going to do right now is to book you into the penthouse on Staircase Number 1. Then I’ll see what I can do tomorrow. It’s one of the best units we have. It’s only a single bedroom. But there’s a big fold up hide-a-bed in the living room. Anyway, you see what you think. You can all stay in the penthouse if you like. And I’ll see if anything else is going to be available from Sunday.”
With that, she handed us the keys to our penthouse and called for the porter to carry our bags.
We followed Pedro, wheeling our bags along beside us, to the far side of the complex. At the bottom of staircase we could see the Pacific Ocean across the sandy and quite uncrowded beach. At the top of three flights of stairs we arrived at a single door ahead, unlike the landings on the lower levels where there were two doorways, one on either side for the separate units. The third floor is smaller than the lower ones, and the penthouse has an air of aloofness and privacy. On entering, we also found that it has recently been redecorated. It is as luxurious as a penthouse should be. The living room is large and separated by a low wall from the kitchen, which is on a slightly higher level, A small passageway separates the bedroom and washroom from the living room so you have to be directly in line to see from one room to the other. This feature seems to allow for a modicum of privacy when both rooms are used for sleeping. Mandy and I think we could somehow handle all of us living in the penthouse if nothing is available to accommodate ourselves and the Sandersons more privately.
In the meantime, we fell into each other’s arms as soon as Pedro left.
We brought our lips together. This time we felt no inhibitions about opening our lips wide, to allow for a more lascivious meeting of tongues than was possible while waiting to check in. Mandy pushed her tongue under my lips and moved it around in a circular motion, almost tickling the skin of my tongue when the two tongues met. Then I tipped my head sideways so I could move my own tongue up and down across Mandy’s lips, achieving a longer reach than was possible in a more vertical position. We pulled our bodies close together and Mandy reached her right hand down to unfasten my zipper.
In a moment, however, she stopped.
“Let’s at least go and look at the sea,” she said, pulling me by the hand toward the large verandah.
Almost as big as the entire penthouses suite inside, there were pots of red bougainvillea on both sides, a wooden table with four chairs off to one side and four white plastic lawn chairs. Looking over the peach-painted stucco wall, we could see the ocean through palm trees between us and the beach. We could also see that we had a view down to the verandahs of the units below. But no one could look down on us. We were visible only if we were looking out over the wall of our verandah and someone happened to be looking up.
Mandy pulled back from the wall of the verandah to avoid being seen by anyone who chanced to look up and toward us. She let go of my hand and undid the buttons to take off her blouse.
“Isn’t this exciting?” she said, kissing me again on the lips, lightly and teasingly.
Then Mandy drew away from me again. Now she took off her white pants to stand naked before me. Saying not a word, she lifted the hem of my red T shirt and pulled it up over my head and off me, dropping it on the table alongside her blouse and pants. Finally Mandy undid my belt, pulled the zipper down and lowered my pants and briefs to the floor.
When we were both completely naked, with our embarrassingly pallid bodies exposed to the still-strong mid-afternoon sun, Mandy resumed her tongue teasing routine. Then she pulled me toward the table and chairs, leading me gently by the hand now attached to my hard, erect and explosively loaded cock.
“Get up on the table,” she said.
I looked at her quizzically.
“Do as I say. I’ve been waiting for hours and hours, for days and days, for weeks and weeks for this moment.”
The table was strong and no doubt would carry me. So I climbed onto it, sheepishly. Mandy now pulled my cock toward her face and started teasing it, as she had my lips and tongue when kissing. She started with a small affectionate peck of a kiss. Taking her fingers to my foreskin, she now peeled it back so she could then bring the tip of her tongue around the glans, the entire head of my cock, working me slowly, slowly toward a frenzy of throbbing ecstasy. Then she worked her tongue slowly up and down my cock, stopping to lick off the pre-coital juices oozing from me. She licked and swallowed with obvious enjoyment. Then she took my cock deep into her mouth and squeezed her tongue and the inside of her cheeks against it as hard as she could.
Anyone hearing my squeals of delight would have known at once that I was in flagrante delicto, in the throes of erotic ecstasy.
“Now it’s my turn,” I said after half an hour of Mandy sucking me and exciting me, teasing me to the limit with passion and tenderness. We always had many fantastic times but the com-bination of what we were now doing and this wonderful environment seemed to surpass anything we ever did before. But I was dying to get my share¾on balance, I think I get even more pleasure from giving than from receiving the pleasures or oral stimulation.
Getting down from the table, I led Mandy to the immense bed in the bedroom. It must have been eight feet by eight feet, an emperor sized bed for imperial love making. We each went to one side of the bed to pull back the covers. Then we came together again for more passionate tongue kissing. I started working my tongue up and down, with obvious sensuality, indicating my eventual intention to work down her lovely body. I delayed the downward progress, however, until I sensed that Mandy would be able to bear my teasing not a moment longer.
At last I pulled Mandy down on the bed and I moved to take in my mouth her left nipple. As Mandy had teased my cock, so I teased with my tongue her breast, moving it around, then taking the nipple into my mouth, and sucking it. While I was doing this, I moved my hand down between her legs, to her wonderful Mount of Venus. On arriving there, Mandy opened her legs to receive my fingers inside her. The wetness of her anticipation was now almost a torrent. I pulled my fingers out and brought them up to my mouth to taste her delectable juices¾I adore women’s love juices, and there is something particularly special about Mandy’s.
Then I moved my face down over her stomach and teased my tongue around her thighs and her Forest of Ardor, as we call the vegetation on the Mount. I was setting her up with anticipation for my taking into my mouth her labia and clitoris. Now at last, came the big moment for both of us, and most especially for me! I moved my tongue to the underside of her clitoris, and then moved it around in circles as I had done with her nipple. I started lapping and drinking her wonderful musky juices. Oh, what joy! Oh, what rapture! I lapped and I lapped, and I sucked and I sucked. I pushed my tongue as far inside as I could. Then I moved to that wonderfully sensitive area underneath where the flesh comes together again. For me and for Mandy too it is enough to stop there, but my tongue on that spot brings her to the pinnacle of excitement and pleasure. In her own inimitable way, Mandy pro-ceeded from one small orgasm to another, groaning and squealing with pleasure whenever it happened. She could go on like this for hours, ideally ending with one huge climax to round off our love-making.
After a time, my cock recovered from the workout by Mandy’s mouth when we were outside on the verandah. We moved to take each other in the mouth, in the 69 position. This we almost always do when making love, and we do it in different positions on different occasions. Sometimes Mandy goes on top and sometimes I do. We often find that the maximum pleasure for both of us for prolonged love-making is when we both lie on our sides. Although we can move more when one is on top of the other, on our sides we can do it more slowly, and make it last longer.
“Would you like to come?” asked Mandy quietly.
“Would you like me to come?”
“I want to take you in my mouth,” she said. “Right now. I’m going to come again too.”
When Mandy makes me come in her mouth, she never stops half way. She takes it all. I stop holding back. I let her suck on me full bore. This time, in our 69 position, I was working her up to a frenzy too, with my mouth on her cunt. We were both heaving in unison, backwards and forwards, and Mandy dug her nails in under my balls. All the while we were groaning and moaning like a couple of the wildest rutting deer. At last we both reached a climax together. I came, with great gobs convulsing out of my cock and into Mandy’s mouth. She sucked and swallowed as hard as she could. At the same time, she thrust her cunt at my mouth with similarly wild convulsions, pressing her sacred places hard against my teeth. Then she pulled her head away from me, as my cock went slowly limp. She pulled her legs together, her loins now at last satisfied and ready to relax from the joys of working so hard against my hungry mouth.
I have always found it wonderful the way that Mandy makes me come in her mouth. I have never known anyone else take so much pleasure in doing it. I have met some women who will not do it at all. Some do it only so grudgingly that there is obviously no pleasure in it for my partner, and little for me. Mandy, though, is totally uninhibited. She loves everything about sex, and especially she loves bringing me to my moment of glory. She says she loves to swallow all the acidic emission I can deliver, both for itself and for enjoying the pleasure she gives me from doing it. She simply sucks and sucks and swallows and swallows as if to savor the last emission I could ever deliver.
After our love making we turned around and kissed each other again on the mouth, gently affectionately, Mandy still with the sea-watery flavor of my semen in her mouth. Sometimes she saves a little to give back to me. This time she insisted on swallowing all of it for her own satisfaction, knowing that I don’t really like it. Mandy says she loves it because within it there is mystery as well as mutual pleasure. Our sexual bonding was, as always, total. We now dozed off into sleep induced by fulfillment as complete as is possible for any two people in love.
On waking later, we went out for our first Mexican dinner, to be followed by an early night of more love making and of unwinding from the stresses of New York. The question hung over our heads, however. How will Howard and Rachel fit into our lives? Will they be sharing our wonderful penthouse? How shall we handle our noisy love-making?
CHAPTER 2
As a writer, I sometimes find myself agreeing with England’s nineteenth century Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli. When I want to read a good book, I write one! I find a certain logic in the idea that a book that I want to write is one that I want to read. I intend to make writing this book a vacation project, as Ian Fleming did when writing the James Bond books¾he wrote one a year during his summer vacations on the north coast of Jamaica.
I have long been considering the idea of writing the story of my early sexual career. It will cover some material that goes beyond the bounds of what is generally available. So be it. My sexual career goes beyond what many people have done. I cannot be the judge of its literary merit but I have hopes for its entertainment value. In any case, I have a story to tell that has value on several levels. I want to keep the story moving so as to maintain my own interest and to keep any readers in my audience turning the pages. I do not envision writing anything as long as the immense and Casanova’s now rather dull Memoirs. Nor do I foresee writing anything so personal and identifiable as the wonderful book by the renowned literary figure at the turn of the twentieth century, Frank Harris. His book My Life and Loves is a masterpiece, although by comparison with today his love-life was rather tame. There is, of course, a long tradition of literary pornography from the nineteenth century and earlier, although very little of it now reads well.
The time has come to combine the tradition of ancient erotic literature with content covering sexual exploits generally swept under the carpet today.
On arising the first morning from the imperial bed, I have decided, with Mandy’s agreement, to set aside time between breakfast and lunch to proceed with writing My Sexual Career, as the book is initially called. The title is a kind of take-off on the title for the hilarious short story by Stephen Leacock, My Financial Career. The format will also include a diary of our experiences on vacation. I shall write a chapter about my early sex life and, depending on how things progress, the next one may be about our current sex lives. I order to keep things rolling along, I shall read to Mandy each chapter as I write it, and then see what develops in the way of feedback. I may write chapters about her experiences, or those of her friends or acquaintances.
How the Sandersons will fit into this plan remains to be seen.
Before starting my story, I shall digress for a couple of pages or so to write up some of my thoughts about sexuality. They are out of the mainstream compared with generally prevailing popular and academic thinking in our society, the so-called wisdom that takes sanctimonious pride in political correctness. I think my views are common sense. However, the problem with common sense is that it is a misnomer¾real sense is actually quite uncommon. My views certainly do not conform to the rigid standards of political correctness¾that expression of our times which embraces so much moronic, ignorant and incompetently reasoned opinion.
In recent times there has always seemed to be kind of double think about sexuality. There is a pretense that children have little or no sexuality, at least until puberty. Then hormones rage that must be suppressed. At the magic age of eighteen everyone is to be liberated and free to indulge in the most wonderful sexual practices to be seen on videos now freely available at rental stores throughout the western democracies.
The last thing in the world that I would want to do is write an endorsement of sexual practices now judged totally unacceptable in a supposedly civilized modern society. It is, however, appropriate to draw attention to the fact that much of the virulence about alleged sexual exploitation is based on hypocrisy and ignorance. It simply does not relate to the real world of sexuality.
As I see it, there are three essential criteria when attempting to set moral, ethical and legal standards in our society. Do both parties consent? Equally important: Are both parties reasonably in a position to give consent? Most important of all: Is anyone hurt by what happens?
When young people are involved in sex among themselves, I have no problem for them, as I did not in my own early years. I have a problem only when there is unfair enticement or pressure. Some people say categorically that there should be no sex involving children at any time and under any circumstances. This uniformed opinion simply doesn’t fit the facts. It overlooks the reality that sexual interest starts in infancy.
The worst of all taboos according to current thinking are incest and pedophilia. Most people nowadays abhor these practices, especially when they occur together. Even these taboos, however, deserve to be put into a context that recognizes the need for balance between sexual urges, the rights of the individual and the real needs of society. The place to look for this balance is in the historical context of human experience over the centuries. At one extreme, there is evidence that mating between brother and sister occurred within the royal family of ancient Egypt. Also, marriage between first cousins has been generally accepted throughout the ages, and the Hapsburg rulers of Austria and Spain were constantly interbreeding. The practical reason for not mating close family members of any species in the animal kingdom is generally sound¾it tends to concentrate bad genes more that it does good ones. For example, the deformities of the painter Henri de Toulouse Lautrec may be attributable to the fact that his parents were first cousins. It was a characteristic of the Hapsburgs that their chins became longer and longer, so that they had difficulty in eating. You can see this deformity in their portraits.
Within families growing up in very confined housing, sexual exploitation by siblings occurs frequently, and sometimes with pregnancy resulting. This exploitation is regrettable and also abhorrent. But it is naive to suppose that it doesn’t happen. With so much improvement in the standard of housing in developed countries, this occurs less now than it used to but this aspect of inadequate housing remains a huge problem in much of the world..
Most people regard pedophilia as the most abhorrent of crimes. The key issue, it occurs to me, is not whether it happens at all but to what extent it occurs with consent. Some people argue that a child cannot give consent. This is a generally reasonable proposition in principle, yet one that fails to consider where the boundaries are, and how rigid they should be. In the heyday of the ancient Greek and Roman empires homosexual relationships that would today put men in jail were considered normal. It was acceptable for men, especially for younger unmarried men, to adopt younger boys as sexual partners. The difference that appears to have made these relationships acceptable in that society was, apparently, that the older man had a positive contribution to make to the boy, as teacher and mentor. These relationships are neither acceptable nor appr-opriate in modern times, but it is worth knowing how they were once regarded. In recent years there has been much hysteria, often fully justified, about sexual abuse by adults in certain boarding schools in the developed world. This hysteria has led to revulsion quite at the opposite end of the spectrum compared with what was once regarded as normal.
In the naively imagined golden age of medieval romantic poetry, sexual activity then considered normal and natural would be considered way out of sight in modern western society. In earlier times, marriage of young people at around the time of puberty, and even sometimes before, was quite usual. In many societies it was not only considered desirable but also necessary to grasp the opportunity for early breeding when overall life expectations were so short. With many lives ending by the age of forty or earlier, it was obviously desirable to arrange for heirs old enough to pick up threads of the family lineage on the demise of the previous generation. It was usual for royal and noble families to bring together their young even before puberty, and children often followed soon after they were able to make it happen. These were arranged marriages of convenience, not of the courtly love of the balladeer. Sometimes, too, marriages were arranged between children and a significantly older spouse, and not merely between young people of approximately the same age. No doubt there was emotional hardship in some of these cases, but that was simply a part of the harder life of those times that had to be accepted.
A typical early marriage in the Middle Ages was that of Catherine de’ Medici and Henry, second son of King Francis I of France. The marriage was arranged by Clement VII, Catherine’s distant cousin, with the ulterior motive of strengthening ties between the papacy and France. The pope himself accompanied Catherine to her wedding in Paris. Afterwards he stayed long enough to pay two visits to the bedchamber on consecutive nights. It was the custom of the time to make sure that the newly wedded fourteen-year-olds were indeed coupling. Later, Catherine was to be a major figure on the international political scene, and the virtual ruler of France for many years. She also had many children fathered by many lovers and, according to widespread conjecture at the time, none by her husband.
What a difference in attitudes compared with those of the current age! We pretend that girls can’t barter their sexuality until they are eighteen. I say barter because, of course, all consensual sex involves some kind of trade in rewards or performance.
In those days there was general sexual freedom even in the church, as we have noted in paintings at the Vatican. The licentious state of the medieval church is illustrated by a delightful quotation from a century before Michelangelo. When the anti-pope Benedict XIII left Avignon in the south of France in 1408, one of his cardinals commented on what they had found and what they were now leaving behind: “When we arrived in Avignon, there were but four bordellos within the city walls. By the time of our departure we reduced that number to one. But it extends from the north gate to the south gate, and from the east gate to the west gate!”
Today, by contrast, there is a pretense that all outward appearances, if not reality, must be pure as the new-fallen snow!
An interesting dilemma of our age is the conflict between a woman’s right to make herself attractive and alluring, which stands in conflict with the right to be free from harassment. Everyone wants to look attractive. But looking attractive for a woman means looking sexy. Looking sexy invites attention from the male of human species, just as it does in the animal kingdom. It’s part of the rituals of mating that are necessary for propagation of the next generation.
The middle ground is elusive. At one extreme, it is frankly unreasonable for a provocatively dressed young woman not to expect advances, even aggressive and explicit advances, if she insists on parading at night in places where predatory young males prowl. If you look like a prostitute and act like a prostitute and are to be found at the time and place frequented by prostitutes, then you must logically expect to be treated like a prostitute. On the other hand, a smartly dressed woman acting like a lady should be entitled to respect, although not so much respect as to inhibit all communication.
It is interesting to observe today the reaction of women in Moslem societies toward the restrictions placed on their lives, and notably the requirement to dress with a degree of modesty widely regarded as excessive. The reason has been forgotten for the introduction of such a strict dress code, and the severe limitations on women’s freedom to do things outside the immediate family environment. The purpose of these restrictions was not primarily to restrict the freedom of women, and to reduce them to the role of chattels, although this came to the practical effect of the restrictions. Mohammed had a wife in business and she led what would be considered by the western standards of today to be a normal, liberated life. The theory behind strict Moslem restrictions was that were intended to protect women from the animal predations of men in their society.
The key to determination of most rape cases in western society generally rests with the issue of consent. Consent and its opposite number, exploitation, are the elusive criteria for determining what kind of sexual relationships are acceptable, and which are not. There is a fundamental problem with trying to establish objective criteria for drawing the lines of demarcation. Is there, for example, consent to sex within a generally abusive marriage? On the other hand, is a spouse entitled to withhold what used to be called conjugal rights? The courts have held, and I think rightly, that extended withdrawal of sex within marriage is a form of desertion. Therefore it constitutes grounds for divorce. Implicit in the marriage agreement is the understanding that there will be mutual satisfaction of sexual desires or, to put it more strongly, sexual needs. Some people, of course, might argue that there is no such thing as sexual need, but only desire, however strong. In the final analysis one can survive without having sex with a partner. Therefore, it is not, like food, a need.
Consent can function on several levels. A prostitute might wish to engage in the trade for money, for the pleasure of sex, for power or for any combination of these and other reasons. A prostitute might be in an overall economic or social situation that is exploitative, but which can be alleviated by selling sex. Faced with the choice between selling sex and not eating, few would prefer not to eat. When selling her body, does she consent?
My own personal experience is the opposite of what is suggested by much of the academic literature, and by much of what passes for prevailing wisdom. My experience is that many prostitutes enjoy what they do. I can’t see how many of my own experiences with prostitutes could have involved faking. For my part, I have always tried to show respect to all partners, even paid partners, when having sex. A major part of my own pleasure comes from giving pleasure to sexual partners.
It is likely that many women who sell themselves for money with which to buy drugs do not enjoy what they do. I have seldom found it difficult to tell identify drug junkies and deadbeats, and have generally avoided them successfully. The general appearance of a woman soliciting for sex almost always reveals to me her desirability. Drug addicts almost invariably look sloppy, and often they have watery eyes. All in all, I can generally tell by looking whether a woman is selling her body only for the next fix, or whether she is doing it, at least in part, for pleasure as well as the money.
In recent years, with the risk of AIDS and ever more prevalent sexually transmitted diseases, and before I met Mandy, I occasionally went out with hookers. I restricted my contact to having them give me a blow job. This is definitely an unsafe practice for the doer. However, I never engaged in sex likely to give me diseases to pass on. In times of pressing need, I would pick a lady of pleasure and take her to quiet spot, if we didn’t have a place to go indoors. I regard it as anti-social not to get well away from where people might see you, and especially where children might see you. It is also anti-social to violate people’s private property, or to leave litter, especially condoms and evidence of having sex. After finding a place for sex with a hooker, we both got on the back seat of the car. I take off my trousers and opened my legs apart. Then I had the woman suck me off and bring me to ejaculation. It may not be pretty or romantic, but it served the purpose a heck of a lot better than masturbation.
An important contribution to the corpus of literature on the subject of prostitution is the wonderful book by Xaviera Hollander, The Happy Hooker. This book shows the upbeat side of prostitution as it exists to an extent far greater than is generally believed. The book portrays women making a lot of money by doing what they liked to do. What more could anyone want? How much more could the famous mistresses of history want? Was Lady Hamilton really exploited and demeaned by Admiral Lord Nelson? Was Nell Gwynne exploited? Or hundreds of others whose names have come down to us through history as the great lovers and courtesans of their time? I don’t think so. When it gets right down to it, what’s the difference between the sexual appetite of a Cleopatra or a Catherine the Great of Russia, and anyone selling sexual favors for money?
As I said at the start of this digression, the important consid-erations are consent and whether anyone gets hurt.
I grew up as an only child on a farm in the south of England. Life was bliss, like living in a Garden of Eden. Despite the after effects of the Second World War and general austerity that continued for several years, we always had money enough for everything we wanted. We had two cars, new farm machinery and several riding horses, including a pony for me.
By the standards of today, life was relatively primitive. There was no washing machine, let alone a dryer. However, money was always plentiful enough to pay someone to wash the laundry, hang it outside to dry and then to iron the cotton and linen pieces, of which at that time there were many. We did not have a television until many years later. Even the radio was rather special, requiring batteries that needed charging, and which seemed always to be flat when most needed. Our home grown electricity came from batteries charged when the milking machine ran, and was DC (direct current) for which few appliances were available. One thing most people would nowadays think remarkable was that we did not have a refrigerator. However, the larder was cool enough for a refrigerator not to be essential, even in summer.
From the vantage point of some years later, I have memories of the house being bitterly cold in winter, since we had no central heating. Winter heating worked on the principle that large open fires should warm the people, not the entire house. When it was very cold, we set up a standing oil heaters in the bedrooms at night, but they were regarded as a treat, for use only in extreme circum-stances.
We lived in a big long thatched farmhouse that was large enough to accommodate, in addition to the family, several employees and a several visitors. There were also farm cottages where our employees lived. The distribution of accommodation tended to depend on the composition of the staff, which varied from time to time. Sometimes we had a general herdsman who lived with his wife in one of the cottages, and the wife worked in the house. Sometimes we had students from an agricultural college staying in the house, or family members for the summer holidays. One way and another, the population of our household was quite fluid but there was always room for everyone.
When I was about six years old, we had a farm laborer who came each day to the farm with his son Tom who was about my age. We used to go exploring around the hedgerows of nearby fields, looking for birds’ nests and wildlife. When it was wet, as it so often seemed to be, we found somewhere to play in one of the farm buildings which, with the main house, formed a square around the farmyard. One rainy day we climbed the ladder to the haylofts above the cowshed. There were bales of hay stacked up in the farther two thirds of the loft. Like thousands of small boys before and since, we decided to build ourselves a private hideaway.
Moving the rectangular bales was quite a job for two small boys but we managed to pull some away from the stack and out into the clear area near the top of the ladder. These we then piled up so as to make a small room behind, perhaps eight feet square, with the wall of the building, including a window, serving as one wall for our den. Then we set up some bales as seats and tables for anything we might want to bring in. The overall effect was such that anyone casually climbing the ladder would simply think that the loft was relatively full of bales of hay, rather than the one third empty that it really was. We had the bales stacked overlapping, the way bricks are laid. This made it possible to use one of the bottom ones on the floor as a secret entrance, by carefully pulling in and out that one bale.
Once the fort was built, we decided to celebrate with a feast. This involved the risk that foraging for supplies might make it known what we were up to and, worse, where we were. You can’t have a secret fort if it’s not secret. In the event, it turned out to be a simple matter to follow Tom’s suggestion to raid the larder for a tin of baked beans, and to bring an opener and a couple of small spoons. We used to get our groceries delivered once a week and to maintain quite large supplies of everything like soups and baked beans, a standby favorite. So it was unlikely anything would be missed. I just had to avoid being seen taking things for the feast.
Upon my return, I found that Tom had been busy. He had been across to the barn and came back with some smooth sacks and a tarpaulin used for covering the oat bruiser. These he spread out on top of bales, to make a convenient and comfortable seat as well as a picnic table. We sat down and dug into our feast in the comfort of our new surroundings. Once into the business of spooning out the baked beans, Tom started talking about the mating procedures for animals. As a matter of course, a child on a farm sees dogs and cats mating, and cows put to the bull. Even by the age of six we had a formula for me to be useful and to make some pocket money. Each time I saw a cow mounting another one, I was to report which one was on heat, the one that was mounted being the important one to identify. Each successful sighting earned the grand sum of three-pence, which was quite a lot of money in those days for a six year old, when several of them were saved up. In those days it cost about sixpence to buy a loaf of bread and ten pence bought a full pint of beer in the pub.
As the discussion progressed and eating of beans came to an end, Tom unbuttoned his short pants, that being in the time before zippers.
“Do you like it?” He asked as he pulled out his cock.
“Well, it’s about the same as mine,” I said, except that it wasn’t quite the same as mine. His was circumcised and mine wasn’t.
Also, his cock was quite stiff and mine was only sometimes like that. Until then I had not so far paid attention to my erections and my sexuality. Tom explained that there were two kinds of cock. His cut one was a roundhead and my uncut one was a cavalier. This had its own Freudian significance some time later when history studies led to the English Civil War and the conflict between the cavaliers (long haired royalists) and the roundheads (short cut parliamentarians).
Tom then pulled off his short pants and briefs and leaned back on the bench covered with the smooth sacks and tarpaulin that he had set up.
“What I want you do is to kneel down in front of me and lick me,” he said.
I was really shy and unwilling at first. It seemed to me that cows licking each other’s cunts didn’t pay much attention to whether there was shit dribbling down over them. It all seemed a thoroughly disgusting procedure to me. Why, you could be poisoned, I imagined. In any case shit was so totally disgusting, and cocks and cunts couldn’t be any better because they were so close to where shit came from. Then Tom said I should remember how male dogs always clean their cocks by licking, and that was good, not dirty. He was clean and I should like it.
Still with some doubts, I went down on my knees and took his small hard cock in my mouth and sucked on it the way you suck on a nipple. Of course, I had no memories of sucking on Mother’s nipples, if I ever did, but I got the idea pretty fast. At first there was a slightly musky, slightly sweet taste and I really quite liked it. Tom’s balls were all tight in its little sack, and his cock must have been the size of a small finger. I must have sucked on him for a good half hour. I was delighted to see how much he was enjoying it because I was enjoying it too. It was a new discovery of an un-known, possibly forbidden territory, and tremendously exhil-arating. I felt myself trembling all over with excitement.