by Ward Fulton
The moral standards of the very poor are often impaired by the type of life forced on them by poverty, the crowded conditions that bring youngsters into constant contact with sex, so that they are neither surprised nor offended when it happens to them. Among the very rich there are instances of youngsters who are given too much too soon and who are therefore bored, seeking stimulation by some means other than the plentitude around them. Many of them turn to sex for that stimulation.
Douglas, in his searching study, says that "among the so-called 'privileged' there are 'pockets of moral poverty' as real and perhaps more detrimental to society than the financial pockets of poverty."
Jill W- and the others, as shall be seen, all came from very wealthy families, families that were, in the terms of Maxwell Douglas, "pockets of moral poverty." Each instance cited in this volume has a different triggering motivation that turns the young girl toward sex, notably, incestuous sex. However, each girl was caught up in some form of sexual activity because the family or associates lived in a "pocket of moral poverty"-where those homely, middle-class mores had little or no meaning.
Even though the immediate triggering motivation in each instance was different, the basic fact remains, that the families, and hence the children, lacked those very standards.
Jill W- lived in a jet-set society among a.particular set, the swingers, where sex was a way of life.
Fay Y- (Chapter One) represents defiant rebellion, one of four categories noted by a program administrator for another juvenile center. His list, developed over years of study of the juvenile delinquent problem, notes the causes as: identification; peer group status; search for affection; and "punishment" of parents. Fay was deliberately seeking to "punish" her parents for their neglect of her when she turned to sex. She was also probably seeking to garner affection long denied her by her parents.
Motivations are rarely as clear-cut as the categories developed for them. There is often an overlap, a blend of drives, and, in the cases cited here, often an underlying feeling of boredom from too much indulgence, too many worldly and material "things" far too readily available too early in life.
Vance Packard, in The Sexual Wilderness, particularly notes this restlessness among the youth that all too often breaks out in sexual delinquency. He lists eight basic causes, ranging from the shift from breast feeding to bottle feeding of infants (common in-the past generation) to fear of the potential destruction inherent in nuclear warfare. Among these eight causes he notes that overindulgence is among the most potent, since an excess of material possessions stultifies any sense of achievement.
Certainly overindulgence in material things strongly influenced both Jill and Fay.
In the case of James and Jane I-, the musical twins (Chapter Two), material possessions was not so much a contributing factor as lack of parental affection along with isolation from their peer group.
The feeling of frustration due to too many material possessions that fail to stimulate to achievement is not a real factor with James and Jane. They had the satisfaction of achievement in their music. Yet, however great that personal satisfaction may have been, they were driven to it by an overambitious mother who apparently gave little thought to their need for affection as well as authority.
Alexis S- (Chapter Four) is the product of a broken home, and a sensuous father who gives her the affection she has been lacking from her gay, young-looking mother and introduces her to sex. Although the act is incestuous and forced on the girl, "the association in the act of a grown-up, who, to the child, must represent the omnipotent parent, probably condones the transgression." At least this is the opinion of a group of child psychologists.
To Alexis her father was not just a representative of "the omnipotent parent," he was her actual father. Aside from an initial revulsion, Alexis accepted sex and even relished it, continuing her practices with her brother, once the sex act was "condoned" by her father.
Eddie M- (Chapter Five) is a study in tragedy, as will be seen.
The stories of these five youngsters, each caught up in an incestuous relationship, were selected because each represents some particular motivation that can drive even those of the rich to sex as an outlet for frustrations. It is perhaps impertinent even to hope that this volume will find wide circulation among the rich and that, if it does, will have any material effect on mitigating the conditions outlined here. However, there is much to be learned from these instances that can be applied to alleviate similar conditions at any economic level.
These case histories demonstrate one thing clearly-that without the warmth and affection of parents in an environment of those much maligned and scorned "middle-class mores" a youngster may allow his frustrations to turn him toward sex in all its distorted facets.
Chapter 1 Fay: Who Loathed Her Real and Famous Name
"You know who I am, of course. Or at least who my father is. Unless, of course, you're one of those people who are too intelligent to look at television. At that, you look intelligent, which is something few-really intelligent people do. One of the most brilliant men I ever knew looked like a half-wit. And my father, of course, looks like a jolly, jolly big daddy to the world-and he's a louse. But a very rich louse.
"In this astrakhan hat and sable coat I look- what would you say? Twenty? Look at those haggard lines around my eyes and the droop and petulance of my mouth. Would you go higher? Twenty-five, perhaps? Of course, you know how old I am. Sixteen. One of father's secretaries will have given you the facts in my case. Oh, father wouldn't have done it himself, I'm sure. In the first place, he wouldn't know the facts-unless he heard them from one of his attorneys.
"My father is much too busy being big daddy- ever so jolly with his cute kiddies program. I imagine that, next to Dr. Spock, he's supposed to know more about children than anyone else. At least, television viewers seem to think so. Father has to keep a pediatrician on his staff-with his secretary-just to answer letters like: 'Bobbie's a cute little rascal. Should we make him put out his cigar when nursie changes his diaper? He's only twenty-six.' Oh, maybe not quite that bad, but they do ask my father some of the most absurd questions. Real stupid, some of 'em.
"But then I think people who watch my father's show and think he's really a jolly, jolly big daddy to all those cute little darlings with their carefully rehearsed 'spontaneous' remarks are pretty stupid. He keeps a real motherly woman-actually she is, and ought to be out on stage instead of him-just to coach the cute kiddies. And stand by, with a microphone-and a speaker behind each chair-to remind them when to pipe up with those spontaneous howlers.
"Of course, it's good show business. Fabulous on the money end. And I don't suppose I'd be so bitter if he carried over being jolly big daddy at home. We kids could have used a little of the jolly big daddy. Mother is worse. She lectures, you know. On how to raise the little darlings. And talks about her four little lovelies until you'd think we were all six years old. And Ted is twenty-four. Alex is twenty-two. Phil would have been twenty-if he hadn't driven his car off the Coast Highway at ninety. An accident? You know the Coast Highway. Would any sane person drive it at more than forty? Unless he wanted to miss that curve at the top of Bent Elbow. He did that the day after I got picked up as a prostitute.
"He took the quick way out And left me to face the mess. Certainly, Phil was the one who started me off. Oh, just a little matter of incest, that's all.
"When did it start? When I was thirteen or so. But don't blame Phil for starting it I don't. I seduced him. Phil was weak, though. So when I got caught he couldn't face up to it, face his part in my 'delinquency'-in making me a call girl. He was afraid all that would come out. So-an accident!
"He didn't know my father very well. But then, how could he? We rarely saw him. But father couldn't let anything mar that beautiful, beautiful image of jolly big daddy. His sponsors might cancel. If his own kids go to hell in a handcart, well, cover up, quick. Like he had six lawyers down at court to sneak me out before I could say who I really was. Th
ey marched in like a centipede in pin-striped trousers. My father needn't have worried. I was using the name 'Mavis' in my-profession. 'Mavis T-.' With printed cards even.
"My father's shrewd. At least shrewd enough to recognize he's a phony and ready for any quick cover-up necessary-like my 'delinquency.' Hell, let's be frank. That's what I'm here for, isn't it? I'm a whore. A real, high-type call girl.
"Mother isn't smart. She's convinced herself she has a message for mothers of the world. And delivers it, regularly. For two thousand dollars a night. Plus travel expenses. She was furious with me-not because I was getting laid by half of Hollywood, the rich half-but because my being caught interfered with her lecture schedule. And what I got caught at might damage her 'image.' She's even convinced herself that the image is real and that she does have four little darlings. One is dead, one's a whore. And Ted and Alex, who escaped early. Ted's out on his own producing documentaries-honest ones. And Alex is doing social work. It seems rather fitting she elected to work for the blind-her own mother and father never could see her. Or didn't bother to.
"I didn't have any talents, except my cunt. Does that shock you? No, I suppose nothing much shocks a psychoanalyst. You must be a very good one. Or, at least, very expensive. My father wouldn't have anything but the best-or anyway most expensive.
"Have you seen our house? Mother always refers to it as 'our darling little bungalow' and father-on the air-calls it 'our cottage.' It has' thirty-six rooms. And an indoor-outdoor swimming pool. Last count we had eight maids. No butler, though. It would be difficult to refer off-handedly to our butler, but mother can smile sweetly and say, 'I just couldn't keep up my busy, busy routine and have any time for my four little darlings if I didn't have a maid.' With eight she still didn't have time for us.
"Sure I'm bitter. Left to wander around thirty-six rooms-fourteen with television sets, tuned to 'our' channel-I was bored. Even my governess was bored. I think she took it out with one of the chauffeurs. Or maybe each of 'em in turn. I needed a governess like I needed a third head. What I needed was somebody to hear my lessons, my homework, somebody interested, like a father or mother should have been.
"So I turned to Phil. He was seventeen or eighteen then and took things kind of serious. He even wore glasses, but I think they were plain glass-just for effect. Because he took them off if he really wanted to look at something. Like me. Naked.
"Oh, sure. I did a striptease for him. A la Salome. Incidentally, did you know she wasn't but twelve or thirteen when she did that dance for Herod? I read that somewhere. Well, I was just her age. Fairly well developed, too. Oh, we had the best of diets and exercise, so we all kept in pretty good shape. It wouldn't do for jolly big daddy's kids to be sickly. Might be bad publicity.
"We had a riding master, a ballet maestro, a eurhythmics instructor, a fencing teacher, a judo expert-I'm Brown Belt, incidentally-and a gymnast-I can do a backbend and kiss the floor-so we'd be fit. Of course, quite incidentally, they kept us out of mother's way, so she could prepare her 'little talks' on how to raise children-with loving, tender care.
"The four of us, Ted, Alex, Phil and I, had the children's wing'-Mother always called it 'the nursery' in her lectures. A nursery! Each of.us had our suite and there was a study room-with four of the cutest desks you ever saw and not big enough for any of us to sit at-and a recreation room and a special diet kitchen and dining room, with our own chef and maid. By the time I did my Salome act, and got laid, Ted had already moved out and Alex was at college, so there was just the two of us, Phil and me, in our wing, which was practically a separate house.
"There was a 'property room' in the hall between our wing and the main house, for all those 'darling' floppy hats with enormous velvet roses, and very pointed, high-button shoes, and fancy vests, and beaded gowns, so the cute kiddies could 'dress up' for the show, pretending the things had come from their mommies' attics. That's where I got the scarves for my Salome act.
"I can't honestly say, when I started it, that I meant to fuck Phil… Does it surprise you I know the ugly words? I learned them in my trade. Men like to talk 'dirty' to girls they've paid for, so I got a liberal education… I just wanted to shock him, I think. Phil was so abstracted, so solemn. He needed to be shook up. I went in the private lav in the rec room and stripped and fixed myself up in scarves. I don't think there were but six, but that didn't make any particular difference. You couldn't see I was naked until I got down to about three.
"Phil was just mooning when I.came in and started the Scheherazade suite on our hi-fi. He didn't really pay much attention to my prancing, at first, even if I am a pretty good dancer. But when I started shedding scarves, he looked. Really looked, even taking off his glasses for a better view.
"When I got down to two, Phil was gawking and shaking his head every now and then. He even pointed out to me, 'Fay, you haven't any clothes on… ' Fay's my real name, as you know. And I could see-he was interested. I had my eye on his walking shorts and they were beginning to swell. So he not only knew I hadn't any clothes on, but that I was a girl-which I don't think he'd realized up to then.
"When I was down to just one scarf-and it was a pretty skimpy one-Phil was sweating and licking his lips. And his prick was jumping inside his shorts. I was beginning to feel things, too-in my nipples and breasts and down at my groin, my cunt. I did a slow, wriggling backbend, right in front of him, so he could see my snatch right through the chiffon- and he was looking, all right. I could have played parlor golf with his eyeballs. And the bulge in his shorts was bulgier.
"The backbend and the wriggling did things to me, inside. My cunt got hot, really hot, and was opening up, and even the light chiffon across my teats teased at my nipples, making them stand up-and ache. I think that's when I really decided I was going to screw Phil. I know I did a lot more wriggling and humping of my pelvis than the music called for, but by then neither of us was paying any attention to the music.
"Then, as I came out of the backbend, I dropped the last scarf. I was naked! It was a wonderful feeling, dancing naked, with an almost grown man watching me and gulping, with his dong swelling and jumping inside his shorts. And I was going to get him to throw it to me if I had to peel his shorts off. And maybe grab his dong.
"I had a nice little figure, even then, with teats big enough to shake a little when I shook my shoulders, and well-rounded legs. Not much hips, but that wasn't the point-it was what was down there, at my hips, between my legs. My little cunt, opening and wetting and getting hot.
"I strutted a little, pelvis pushed up, so Phil could get a full view, and moved my shoulders, writhing my teats. It was exciting me-and I know it was exciting Phil, because he almost got up off his bench he was straddling, and then sank back, sweating. I, circled the bench, just brushing Phil's shoulder with one teat-it was like a really hot spark jumped between us-and moved around him. He swiveled his head like an owl to watch me.
"I came around front again and slid onto the bench, facing him. Phil backed up and I had just a little space for my rump to rest on, with my legs spread wide so he could look right into my pretty blue eyes-or my cunt. He picked my cunt, staring.
"The music had quit, but I kept on moving, in a sort of snaky rhythm that wiggled my teats and moved my pelvis around, slithering a little closer on the bench. Phil gulped and reached out slowly, to run his hand "along my leg and up to my slit, blinking as if he didn't really believe it was happening.
"I didn't either. Believe it was happening. It had never happened to me before-anybody's hand on my snatch, unless it was back when my governess used to bathe me. And I never thought just, a touch like that could trigger such intense emotions. Hot flashes shot all up through me, making it difficult for me to breathe.
"Phil put out one hand and touched my breast. And I started quivering. Not planned wiggling, just shaking. And when he leaned over and kissed my nipple-wow! I slid my ass up the bench until my cunt was practically against that big bulge-and working on it. With his hand right on
my slit and a finger playing around the inner lips.
"I reached down and wiggled a hand up one leg of his shorts until I could feel his pecker, jumping and thrashing around like it wanted out I wanted it, out-and in me by then. Or thought I did. If you could call it thinking. It was just sheer emotionalism, devastating excitement.
"Phil stood up, sort of halfway, and stepped out of one leg of his shorts and then the other-and dropped back on the bench, his pecker throbbing right against my stomach. He spent a lot of time trying to skin out of his T-shirt-and all that time his prick was rubbing up against me, practically setting off sparks I could almost see. I humped a little and slid over the top of it, so it was throbbing right under my cunt and practically in my ass. Phil wiggled a little, rubbing it back and forth, and sent hot shivers from my cunt right up through my chest.
"As soon as he had his T-shirt off, he grabbed me close, pulling my teats-up against his chest and kissing my neck, moaning and mumbling. But for a guy who was only sixteen then-he seemed grown-up to me-he knew a lot about getting into a girl. I think the governess had been giving him lessons, between chauffeurs.
"He humped backward, dragging his prick and that big pulsing, purplish head along my ass and across my slit, which was so stimulating, I nearly screamed. I didn't, for fear he'd think I was scared. Well, I was. I had started something-I didn't know quite what-and it was happening! Oh, was it happening. Not just his pulsing head stabbing at my slit, but what that was doing to me, up inside, and down there and along my legs, already spread wide.
"I don't think I could have stopped him then, even if I had wanted to. And I didn't want to. Well, I did-and I didn't. I wanted to stop him because I was scared-scared, hell!-I was terrified of that big pulsing head and what it would do to me-maybe tear me wide open. And I didn't want to stop because-well, I wanted to find out, to learn what all this excitement was about. I seemed to know this wasn't all-that this was just a buildup to something lots bigger.