My name is Erin, I'm thirty-five years old, and I have never slept with my father. It's good to get that off my chest. I haven't always told the truth. Have I thought about it? Indeed I have, frequently, and for nearly a decade. If the opportunity arose, would I actually sleep with my own father? A few months ago, despite my years of filial longing, I wouldn't have known how to answer that question. Today, I know the answer.
About a year ago I found myself travelling frequently on business Seattle. (I'm a divorced Chicago lawyer, working with municipal governments in the West to shape water management policies. Sound fun? It actually is.) For about six months I spent a few days each week in this city, relishing the time to explore the diverse neighborhoods, the museums, the shopping, feeling deliciously invisible and anonymous. One afternoon as I idly read through the "Entre Nous" section of the local alternative weekly magazine, I ran across an unusual ad: "The Sisters: a welcoming community for women who have experienced adult incest. 21+. Wed. nights, 7-8:30." Intrigued, I emailed Jan, the contact listed in the notice, and over the next few days enjoyed a friendly correspondence with her. As the listing implied, the Sisters turned out to be a small group of women who met once a week to share their experiences and socialize. Each Sister (as they called themselves, suggesting I suppose both the group's comradeship and possibly their family activities) had explored a sexual relationship with an adult family member, usually an uncle, brother, or father. Because the group was not primarily therapeutic but rather social, they limited their membership only to those women whose experiences were consensual, adult, and essentially positive. And, though I'm not proud to admit it, I lied my way in.
In retrospect the entire episode probably doesn't reflect well on me, but I have to admit I loved every minute. I began by reinventing myself, a spy in the house of iniquitous love. I dyed my dark hair blond, changed my makeup and wardrobe, and started calling myself Linda. I became a Sister. Each Wednesday night we gathered in a private dining room at an upscale restaurant; each Wednesday night we shared a meal and drinks; and each Wednesday night, in addition to discussing politics, art, and work, we shared our stories of family love. The stories I told about my new relationship with my father were fiction, of course, but the desire and passion I described for him were very real. These meetings had a profound effect on me—here were intelligent, kind women, mostly middle-aged and educated, who were not embarrassed or uneasy about their secret relationships. They felt safe opening up in the group, together acknowledging that what society condemned they could nevertheless accept and even embrace. Each night I went into the group hesitant and a bit guilty, and yet each night I left grateful ... and aroused.
One night we ("we"!) were joined by a newcomer, a striking woman in her late forties, fashionable, elegant, and anxious. I gathered that she had come from work, which explained her somewhat imposing business attire, her camel hair overcoat, her dark brunette hair pulled back accentuating her high cheekbones, her suit, stockings and heels. She was welcomed and encouraged to introduce herself. She told her story: she was a widow, she was a successful businesswoman, she was a church-goer, she was normal, she drove a Volvo, she had a masters degree in History, she had a twenty-six year old son. And for the last three years, she told us in a trembling voice, she had been overwhelmed by a desire to sleep with him. I listened to her story in rapt attention, utterly transfixed by her mixture of clandestine desire and profound unhappiness. At a certain point Jan politely interrupted her and explained that this group was only for those who had experienced incest, not for someone who fantasized about it—and it would alter the group's dynamics to include her. (Of course I kept quiet as all this was happening.) Everyone in the group was very kind to her, offered her all kinds of supportive suggestions without judgment, and wished her the very best. That night I lay in my hotel bed thinking about her, imagining her son, overcome with unsettled excitement. I touched myself, perhaps freed by my assumption that I would never see her again.
But I did. About a week later I went into the city's branch of my bank and there she was at her desk, the bank manager, visible through the large window that separated her office from the attractive, 19th century lobby. It took me a few seconds to place her; even after our eyes met, the shock was such that I put the pieces together slowly. As I walked out, again I caught her eye and this time I gave a little nod, which she cautiously returned. I gave myself a few days but I went back—of course I went back, I had thought about little else—and this time I checked my makeup and wore my attractive Tiffany-design scarf. Upon entering, I smiled at her through her office window. When she smiled back, I got chills. The third time I went into the bank I was emboldened by a large vodka martini at lunch, which gave me the nerve to walk past her secretary and into her office. I leaned against her desk and blurted out, "I know this is against the rules of the group, but since you never officially joined ... I just have to say to you that your story touched me deeply, and that I thought you were courageous to come ... I have thought about you often ... and I can completely relate to your story. I mean, completely, completely ...." And then I was stuck. I didn't know what else to say. She sat there holding a small file of loan applications, blushing, a tense smile frozen on her attractive face, unable to respond. I mumbled an awkward apology, and not knowing what else to do—unable to entirely turn my back on this gorgeous woman but knowing that I had absurdly crossed a line, and had done so in her own private office—I foolishly handed her my business card and left.
It never occurred to me to wait for her call. I spent the next few days feeling stupid and exposed—why had I left her my real name and number? I flew home, and put the whole weird thing behind me. And a couple nights later, when the phone rang and a warm but tentative voice said simply, "This is Helen," it meant nothing to me. "Helen?" And that's how our friendship began. That night we talked for three hours, and the next night as well, until it became a bedtime ritual. Over the next few months we talked nightly on the phone. We never actually had phone sex—Helen was very shy about her own sexuality and neither of us had any sexual experience with women—but over time our conversations turned from serious to relaxed, from stressful to intimate, from cordial to, finally, erotic. Because our friendship began with an unqualified trust, we held nothing back. Together we felt safe in our shared secrets, and eventually we came to embrace our forbidden fantasies. They began to take on a different feel. We were no longer ashamed. Instead, we slowly came to see our desires as loving, authentic, and even ideal. At times, as we lay in our beds two thousand miles apart, we wondered together whether the ultimate act—with her son, with my father—might turn out to be the ultimate experience, the ultimate love, and the ultimate union. In fact, we came to embrace the possibility of making these dreams real: of very carefully, very cautiously, very lovingly making them real.
In March her son, Dylan (named for the Welsh poet), who lives in San Jose, told her that he was coming to stay with her for a week while he attended a work-related conference. As the visit approached, Helen and I didn't back off of our nighttime phone-cuddle. In fact, we talked three and four times each day. We did not explicitly discuss whether she would attempt to seduce Dylan, but that extraordinary possibility was the unspoken subtext to all our conversations.
I knew that Dylan was arriving on Thursday afternoon and would thus have a few days before the conference began. I spoke with Helen late morning on Thursday, a short and breezy conversation. That afternoon I followed his arrival in my mind; knowing his itinerary, I imagined his plane landing, I imagined him getting a cab, and I imagined him giving his mother a big hug and kiss when he got home. I imagined her lips on his cheek, and her arms holding him close. I imagined everything that would happen and everything that might happen. I took the afternoon off from work to be near my phone, and I stayed near the phone all night. Would she dare act on her desires? Probably not--and admittedly maybe that was for the best. Might she nevertheless be aroused by his presence in the house? Yes, I was sure she would be feverish. I couldn't wait for the night's phone call.
When the phone did ring, it was well past midnight. Helen was quietly sobbing.
I felt my stomach drop. "Oh, shit," I thought. This could be bad. The reality of it all suddenly overwhelmed me, and I felt the world crashing down around me.
"Helen, sweetheart, what is it?"
Her weeping subsided when she heard my voice. "Oh, Erin, it wasn't at all like I thought it would be. Nothing went right." By now I had too much nervous energy to lie in bed, and I got up and walked around my room, holding the phone.
"Helen, I'm here. What happened?"
"Nothing happened. Nothing will ever happen. Everything that you and I have talked about, that all was real to me, you know? For the first time in years, thanks to you, I accepted what I want. I don't care if it's wrong or people say it's wrong or whatever, I don't care. When I talk with you, I know that I am being with myself about my love for Dylan. And tonight"—here she caught her breath—"I realized that it will never happen. I will never even know if he could love me in that way because he will never initiate anything, and after tonight I know that I can't either. I just can't show him how I feel. It's hopeless."
