"Sex With Daddy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Stephen A.)

Chapter 7

Almost everything I have read about the "horrors of incest" has gone into length about how ruinous such practices can be to the participants. But what they have failed to mention is the cause and effects, and the pattern that applies to incest as well as to every other aspect of human behavior.

Guilt, of course, is responsible for many traumas whether that guilt is centered on incestuous behavior or not. Also, hatred is a strong part of sexual behavior, which is responsible for later behavioral defects or mental disorders.

What the authorities on incest don't seem to realize is that acts of this sort can be centered on a kind of love and genuine affection that is found nowhere else. Surely, if Daddy had raped me against my will, or if my mother had instilled in me a fear of sex or an aversion for it, things might have been different.

Granted, if Mom had lived, incest would never have taken place. But she didn't live; I don't have my brain filled with moral doubts about right and wrong. I loved my father as a father and as a man – a member of the opposite sex. What we did was pleasurable and to us, at any rate, natural.

Certainly he can be said to have taken the greater share of responsibility because he was the parent and I the child. But once we became lovers, we shared the responsibility equally. He taught me about sex just as he taught me about my school studies and life in general. I was no different – I suppose, in some ways, I taught him, too.

Throughout it all, I felt that what we were doing was right. I loved him with all my heart – and with all my body, too. I wanted to give to him, share with him and be dependent upon him, as a woman is dependent upon her man. If my school work and social life were supposed to have suffered because of the relationship, it didn't. I felt a new thrill of belonging to life and to myself and to Daddy and it inspired me to greater feats of scholarship.

Rarely, if ever, did I get a mark lower than a B and rarely did I balk at school assignments. My social life was exactly what I wanted it to be. Granted, I didn't date, not because I wasn't asked or that Daddy forbade me to, but because I didn't want to go out with immature boys and listen to their silly talk about cars and football.

Except for the fact that Daddy was much older than I, and, of course, that we could never be married, it was just as if we lived as man and wife all those years.

I had my girlfriends and my hobbies which did not include Daddy. But the main part of my life was centered around him. I knew, too, what society would say if it ever found out about us, so I knew we had to perpetuate a lie. I had to act like a daughter when other people were around, but when we were alone in the apartment I was a woman and he was a man and, most important, we were in love.

Gradually, my duties around the apartment began to change to those of a wife rather than those of a child. I began to do all the cooking and the cleaning up and housework. He finished his higher education and stayed away longer because of his career efforts. I will say that certain aspects of our association might be considered wrong, but I went along with them because I felt like a wife and knew that I no longer wanted to be treated like a child. For one thing, I began to smoke even though Daddy didn't want me to. I also made it a point to share a martini with him before dinner.

Certainly, he still disciplined me, but no longer as a father disciplines a daughter – rather as a man controls his wife. And, we did have our arguments, too, but they were never intense enough to shatter the love we shared in any way. If anything, the love became deeper over time and I'd be a fool to suggest that sex didn't form a very great deal of it.

Some people say that a woman has to know a hundred male bodies before she can make up her mind as to whose sexual skill she likes best, but I say this is hogwash. Ever since that first time, I knew in my heart that no other man would ever be able to thrill me like Daddy had done. And I think he knew too that the love was as binding for him, physically and emotionally as it was for me.

After his first doubts crumbled, our sex life was full, and rich, and varied. It was never degenerate or sick, or depraved in any way. Once, I did have my doubts about the satisfaction of only one man, but after one "fling" I came back and I even told Daddy about it. He was kind and understanding about it and it never happened again.

But I was still immature and had little girl dreams about life and love and all the rose-colored romance I thought should go with it. To me, Daddy was a knight in shining armor. He was still very handsome with a touch of grey in his hair and still beautiful to look at when he stripped out of his shirt. He was more potent than he thought he was, and often after he realized he was able to get more than one erection per evening, we would have love play as often as three times a night.

His responsibility was to earn the money to support the apartment. Mine was to clean and maintain the apartment and cook his meals. I'm sure both of us felt totally emotionally responsible to one another.

And yes, there was one thing more. This was something that became increasingly hard to explain in terms of the conflict generated within me. I had to be very careful I didn't become pregnant.

He supplied me with money and told me how to take my contraceptive pills, which, of course, I did. But as the years rolled on and I became even closer to Daddy because of the warmth and tenderness we shared, I knew I wanted to prove that love by giving him a child. Somehow, I wanted to prove that I was worthy of him and as a woman, I could only do that in the ultimately female way – by delivering a child.

But long before that, I began to experience other doubts. When Daddy first mentioned pregnancy to me, I went through a period of fear and my own private world of strange guilt's. I didn't like taking the pills on a regular schedule, and I began to wonder within myself if a girl could get the same kind of thrill if she made love to a woman, as she could loving a man.

I had been introduced to sex too early and I had this nagging feeling that perhaps there were other thrills beyond those shared by Daddy and me. But I knew that the guys around school were not for me – they were just kids, with no sophistication or understanding. Sally, the girl who had let me watch her masturbate with the sawed-off broom handle, gradually became my best friend. I never told her about Daddy and me, but I wanted to, I really did. I wanted to tell her how thrilling it was to be in love and how wonderful it was when a man and a girl made love to each other. But I couldn't tell her these things. Instead, I had to keep silent while she told me of her doubts and shyness.

Perhaps it was compassion, perhaps it was a genuine eagerness to experiment with the world of Lesbos, but, in all the time that Daddy and I shared our love, my affair with Sally was my only "adultery." And it, not the incest, was the only thing that caused me any great guilt. It wasn't guilt over the lesbianism of it, but of cheating on the man I truly loved – my father.

The strange part of it is that homosexuality with Sally made my love for Daddy even stronger and reunited us so that our very souls were fused and could never separate.

But to explain, I must go back to the beginning which wasn't a beginning at all, for I'm sure Sally had thought of it long before I. As I said, we were friends, just like regular wives have girl friends and after school closed that summer we became even closer…