I am writing this because I've grown tired of all the negativity about incest. The literature and the stuff on the net emphases the torments of "Incest victims," but what about those of us who have had a positive incest experience? Nobody wants to know about us.
All right, helpless kids who are forced to submit to adult sex power games I can understand, but what about consenting adults?
For centuries homosexuals have been burned at the stake, imprisoned, ostracised, been treated as psychotic, have had to hide their sexual preference; now it's okay between consenting adults in lots of countries. What about those who enjoy incest?
I have enjoyed an incestuous relationship for many years now, and I continue to enjoy it, in fact I'd have to say it has been one of the most fulfilling experiences in my life; so I want to tell you about it.
I suspect it's not an uncommon story but one not often told, unless of course it is written as a piece of fiction; then it can be embellished with all sorts of lurid details. If lurid details are what you want, then tune out now because mine will be a plain, unvarnished narrative.
To begin with I was above the age of consent when it began. Whether I am beautiful, attractive, pretty or sexy it's not my place to say. All I can say is that I never had any trouble getting males to copulate with me; that is fact, not fiction.
My story begins with tragedy; the death of my mother.
Tragedy because the relationship between my father and my mother was one of the most loving you could ever come across. They had that rare experience of staying "in love" until the day mother died. If ever a married couple became one flesh and one spirit, they did.
I say that their relationship was never exclusive. Because they were secure in each others love they had love to give – to me especially. Within their orbit I knew the warmth and caring of love.
And yes, the sexual side of their marriage remained passionate, and in this aspect they were all in all to each other.
When I was a child I didn't know how to interpret those whispers, cries and groans that came from their bedroom at night. As a teenager I came to understand, and rejoiced that my parents could still give expression to their love through sexual union.
I know that sex can be beautiful or ugly – ugly when rape is involved, when paedophilia destroys a child's trust in the parent, but I knew from seeing my parents often embracing and kissing that theirs was a beautiful sexual relationship.
I was twenty when mother died and I had been on the point of flying the coop. They had brought me the point of early maturity, and I felt ready to try my wings.
Mother's death brought that to a halt. I was an only child and I felt that I must remain in the family home at least for a while.
If I was distraught at mother's death my father was shattered.
He is a writer with a very sensitive creative talent. I shall not mention his name, but many of you will have read his books, or seen the adaptation of his works on film and television. I hoped to follow in his professional footsteps.
For weeks after her death father could not or would not write anything. He hung around the house or went out on lonely walks, trying to come to terms with his great loss. It was as if in his wanderings he was seeking mother, emotionally unable to accept the fact of her departure from his life.
I suppose it was not only mother's death, but the manner of her dying that made it worse. That scourge of our time, cancer, was the cause. Surgery, radiation, chemo-therapy and for what, eighteen months of life dragged out in misery?
Along with my father I watched her die; watched her change from a healthy, life loving woman of thirty nine, into a stained bundle of bones lying in a bed.
Yes I admit it, towards the end I wished her dead, and the reason? Because I loved her I wanted her pain to cease, wanted her to be released from the grinding agony of every day.
My father never said so, but I think he felt the same way. The profound love he shared with her was not selfish, and he could let her go if that was what nature or God or whatever decreed. But when the time came and she did die it left such a terrible emotional wound he could not face the reality.
His work was much in demand and deadlines came and went. Publishers, television and film producers tore their hair out and father was in danger of becoming a has-been.
I loved father dearly and watching his slide down the slippery slope to professional oblivion was almost unbearable.
Mother had been a great inspiration in his life and work. It was her smooth running of the household and care of the finances that gave father the freedom to write; she was also quite capable of making suggestions concerning his work, and he often said that her name should appear alongside his on the title page. Mother would laugh and tell him not to be ridiculous, saying that her contributions were simply prods to his talent.
Like many creative people father had a very powerful libido. He and mother were well matched in this respect, as witness their almost nightly copulating overheard by me.
I thought that not too long after mother's death father would have to take another woman since he was not the type to remain celibate. He was a handsome man and I felt he would have no difficulty in getting a sex partner.
The idea of a woman other than mother entering our lives did not appeal to me, but I recognised father's need. To my surprise it did not happen.
It seemed that father felt that no one could replace mother. What he did about his powerful sex drive I don't know; perhaps he masturbated, but if he did I feel sure it was not satisfactory. Father was the sort of man who needed the real thing, a woman. One of the things that most hurt me at this time was that father seemed to cut himself off, not only from other people, but also from me. From a warm loving father he became remote and monosyllabic in his responses to my attempts to talk with him. We had not even been able to comfort each other over our loss.
Often at night, and long after we had both gone to bed, I would hear father up and restlessly prowling around the house. A lonely and bereaved figure and I suspected, sexually frustrated.
I loved this man and to see him the way he was I found unbearable. One night, I think about four or five months after mother had died, I acted.
Lying one night awake in bed I heard him start his house wandering, and then faint sounds coming from the kitchen as if tea or coffee making was taking place. I listened for a while and then got out of bed.
"This is enough," I told myself, "I'm going to confront him with his behaviour towards me and his general lethargy."
It was the courage of love that decided me, and I went in search of him.
I found him sitting at the kitchen table staring at the cup of coffee in front of him.
He glanced up at me and before I could change my mind I said, "Father, this can't go on."
He stared at me for a moment and then, much to my distress, I saw the tears start. I went to him and sitting on his lap I did the womanly thing and drew his head to my breasts.
"You can't go on mourning mother like this," I said, "and we can't go on living in this house as if we are strangers. I'm your daughter and I can't bear to see you like this."
In a voice choked with sobs he said, "I miss her so much."
