To me sex is beautiful and not to be locked out of sight. Unless my case is abnormal, children are going to experiment until they learn it, and if it’s forbidden to them, then they have guilt feelings like I did.
I had never told anyone any of these things and had wanted to tell Herbie but couldn’t say them. It’s much easier to write things sometimes than to speak them, but once he knows about them then I won’t be afraid to talk with him about them. There’s something about childhood sex experiences that is exciting to me. Maybe it’s the innocence of children. Oh well, now another part of myself is revealed . . .
If you should get to this area, we’d love to have you come see us. I must warn you we’re not rich, but are friendly and would enjoy your company . . . Well, I’ll end this now and hope to hear from you soon . . .
Sincerely,
Saralee
Dear Mr. Wells,
My name is Herbie——— and you have been corresponding with my wife Saralee. I have thought about writing you myself but just haven’t had the time. I do now, so I will. I would like to tell you about myself without seeming conceited, but there isn’t any way to do that, so I will just say that I am very loving. I love pleasure. I love people who enjoy life and living. To me sex is 99% of a person’s life; the other 1% is just existing and finding sexual partners. I don’t know how I reached the feeling I have, since I grew up practically the same as most of my friends, but they seem to have more puritanical ideas about sex.
When I was six years old, my neighbor, who was the same age, was named Arnie. He and I experimented with sex together for a year. We used to go into the cornfield across from my house and try very hard to fuck each other in the ass. Being six years old, it was impossible, as neither of us was very well endowed yet.
I moved to this town when I was seven and met new friends. I had several sexual encounters with a friend named Roy. We would jack each other off and screw each other in the ass—as we used to say, “cornhole.” This went on until we were about twelve. I masturbated regularly from then until today. I didn’t have a heterosexual relationship until I was sixteen.
This happened when Leroy and I were at the drive-in. This big chick came out of the snack bar and started talking to us. She left, and we both cussed each other for not trying to fuck her. So, to prove to each other that we weren’t chickenshits, we said that if she came back we would try.
She came back in about five minutes and we talked her into getting into the car. I (casually!) dropped my keys on the floor, and when I picked them up I ran my hand up her leg and under her dress. She didn’t seem upset so I kissed her and started playing with her pussy. She was very hot and I kept on playing with her. She unzipped my pants and pulled out my dick. She was jacking me very slowly, and then I felt a hand in beside mine on her cunt. It was my good ole buddy Leroy trying to get in on the action.
I pulled down my pants and was going to fuck her but I got caught under the steering wheel. Leroy, taking full advantage of the situation immediately climbed aboard and started fucking away. There wasn’t much I could do at the moment, so I just relaxed and let her jack me for a while.
Leroy finished and got in the back seat. She moved over and spread her legs open and guided my dick into her wet hole. Very wet! I didn’t mind, since it was my first piece, but there was a lot more I would have liked to have done with her. She would have been a good person to introduce me to the art of sex. She was 23 and had big tits.
I like big tits, don’t you, Jack? I hope you don’t mind me calling you “Jack.” My wife calls you Jack and she mentions you quite often. Well, enough about you and my wife, back to me . . .
I got my next experience from a much younger girl. She was fourteen and I was seventeen. She was a virgin, and it was a traumatic event when I first fucked her. Hell, I didn’t know it hurt to get fucked, I always thought it was pretty neat, but I was wrong. I guess that’s why I don’t like virgins. I was pretty shook when she started crying and bleeding all over me and my car and everywhere. I stuck it out with her for four months and fucked her steadily. Well, not steadily but regularly. After her, I just dated around and fucked anyone I could.
Now let me tell you about my so called “hang-up.” I like lesbians and lesbianism. I get very turned on watching it or reading about it. It is not mandatory for me to see it to enjoy sex. but it increases my sexual pleasures. I don’t know when I first realized that I was affected by it, but it has gone pretty far in my mind. I really wish sometimes that I was a girl and could have the opportunity to seduce other girls. Some psychiatrists think that this stems from latent homosexuality, as you probably know. I don’t consider myself as a possible homosexual, but am bisexual under certain conditions. I have had two homosexual affairs that can be counted as such.
One night a bunch of the guys were playing cards and drinking and got a little high. I wasn’t drunk and was fully aware of what I was doing. Everyone left except me and the guy who owned the house. He was a friend, though he wasn’t a close friend. He asked me if I would stay and go to bed with him. I had thought about having this kind of thing happen and what I would do if it did. I really wanted to experience it, maybe because of what I’d done with other guys when I was younger, but I don’t know. I said I would spend the night, but that I wouldn’t do anything to him. He said that was okay but that he wanted to suck me.
We went in the bedroom and got undressed. I was much bigger built than he was although I’m about average. He started sucking my cock and I really got turned on, so I maneuvered him around into a 69 position. Here I was not going to do anything, but as you know, sex in progress is a lot different than just talking about it. I really wanted to suck him and I did. Then I wanted to fuck him in the ass and he let me but it really hurt him. I don’t think he had done much else before either, but I really don’t know.
He fucked me in the ass but his dick was so small I couldn’t really feel anything. I left feeling very guilty about what had happened, and kept on feeling guilty for a long time, until I convinced myself that it was just sex. And it wasn’t bad, either. I thought I had found out what I wanted to know, which was that I was not “queer,” but I hadn’t; I just found out that I like the feelings that come from pleasing people and being pleased.
The next opportunity I had was when I was hitchhiking back home from seeing Saralee while she was in college. A guy picked me up and he got around to asking if I wanted to go riding around for a while. He was driving a Lincoln and I knew that people don’t drive total strangers around for nothing, especially people driving Lincolns. I said okay. We went out riding, and I knew he was looking for a reason to stop the car, so he could make an advance. So I gave him a reason. I told him about a swimming hole we used to go to back in the woods. He said he would like to see it. Perfect.
So here we go to the ole swimming hole. He parks the car and lets back the power seat. I wasn’t too hot but I was still looking for the answers to some questions I had about my masculinity. He started playing with me and took my pants down and started sucking my dick. I reached out and started playing with him and he stopped sucking me to take his pants down. Then he leaned back and just sat there playing with my ear. I didn’t say anything and neither did he.
Then I asked him if he wanted me to suck him and he said he did. His cock was really large. It wasn’t as long as mine, but it was twice as big around. I sucked him off and then he sucked me again. We started to leave and he asked me to go to his house, but I had a lot to do and couldn’t. I really regret not going, but maybe I’ll meet him again sometime. I think I’d know him but I doubt if he would remember me.
I guess I’m about finished with my little story. I think Saralee has told you most of what has happened. I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes for you,
Herbie
A few months ago, I was fortunate enough to be able to accept Saralee’s invitation to visit them. I spent a weekend at their house and met several of their fr
iends as well.
It was my impression that the openness of their marriage and their liberal attitude toward sexual experimentation exists primarily because Herbie wants it that way. He is very much the dominant figure in their relationship, and I suspect Saralee engages in extramarital sex less for its own sake than to fit in with her husband’s image of her and to please him vicariously. Not that this represents enormous sacrifice on her part; she seems to enjoy the life-style they are presently evolving, and to be wholly at ease with it.
A Letter from Karl
Dear John Wells,
I enjoyed entirely your books. Tricks of the Trade, Three Is Not a Crowd, and Beyond Group Sex. In addition to being entertaining and very well written, they provided much information not otherwise obtainable on aspects of life that are important to everyone.
I cannot write much about my own experiences. Not having had any to speak of. In fact that is my problem—no experience! I am sixteen years old and a junior in high school. I have had dates but the girls I go out with are not the sort to be interested in anything beyond kissing, and I have not had any dates with the other type.
I hope, Mr. Wells, that you will be able to help me. For various reasons I think it would be best for me to learn the secrets of sex from a professional prostitute. However, I do not know the best way to do this. On two occasions I have come to New York and have observed girls on Lexington Avenue who I assume are whores, watching them approach men, etc. I walked past some of them over and over again but none of them approached me. As I am small for my age they might think I’m just a kid and for this reason pay no attention to me. I thought of approaching them myself but had no idea how to do this. Also I have heard that streetwalkers in New York are dangerous, being that they will mug and rob a person, even commit murder in some cases. Also I would not know how much to pay them or things of this nature, Also there is the risk of a disease, etc.
Here is where you could help me. You must know of places where someone like me could go. By this I mean a bordello, brothel, whorehouse, house of ill repute—you get the picture. I can come to New York easily as I live less than fifty miles away by bus and my parents are used to me coming to the city from time to time. If you could give me an address and inform me about such matters as price, how to select a girl, and rules of etiquette, I could take it from there.
If you feel it is not right for you to do this, what you could do is this—write the information in your letter and then say that you think it would not be advisable for me to visit such a place, and then you will not be recommending it, if this concerns you.
I feel it is very important for me to have this experience, and the sooner the better. I can’t feature being married and not knowing what to do. Or having a girl who is willing and not having the experience to give her a good time. I am sure you understand.
Sincerely,
Karl
P.S. I swear I am not a policeman or federal agent or connected with the Post Office department in any way.
Daddy’s Girl
It has long been maintained that sexual relations between fathers and daughters constitute far and away the most common form of incest. From my own observation, I have come to suspect that brother-sister incest is rather more common, and that available data does not reflect this because such brother-sister incest is far less likely to come to the attention of the authorities. Furthermore, it would appear that brother-sister sex is not nearly so likely to have traumatic effects upon the personality. Indeed, a large number of men and women with such experience in their past history regard such episodes as insignificant, remembering them dimly, with little discernible guilt.
The father-daughter relationship, on the other hand, is pointed out as a source of emotional maladjustment. Reports of seduction by the biological father—or, far more frequently, by a father figure such as a stepfather, a boyfriend of the mother, etc.—are almost a cliché in the psychoanalytical histories of prostitutes and female homosexuals. While it is questionable as to how often such experiences actually occurred and how often they represent fantasy, in either event there would seem to be a connection between the experience (real or imagined) and the ultimate psychosexual development of the female.
The father-daughter relationship is somehow more conducive to incest than its corollary, the mother-son relationship. one is hard put to explain precisely why this is so. Until the current era of semantic permissiveness, the epithet “motherfucker” was the ultimate insult; even now, when words have lost their ability to shock, it is as bad a word as one person can hurl at another. There has never been any comparable verbal brickbat to throw at a female. And the biblical book of Leviticus, which goes to great lengths to spell out those relationships which are to be proscribed as incestuous, omits specific injunction against father-daughter sex. It has been suggested that father-daughter incest is somehow more “natural,” that we are culturally accustomed to sexual relationships in which the male is substantially older, that the role of the male in a sexual relationship is compatible with the parental role.
Indeed, symbolic incest is an element in many father-daughter relationships which are never marked by its physical manifestation. The overprotective father may be guarding his daughter from her suitors because he unconsciously wants her as a sexual partner himself. The woman who seeks out men who remind her of her father does so not only out of love and respect, but because her own desire for him has fixed him in her mind as the epitome of masculinity.
Often one party, father or daughter, will recognize this mutual attraction and resolve to nip it in the bud. I know a young woman, for example, who was always very close to her father in childhood. In early adolescence, her father abruptly rejected her, shut her off emotionally. This upset the girl considerably, and she has not yet entirely recovered from this rejection. In the course of psychotherapy, she came to the realization that her father had been strongly attracted to her sexually, had been frightened by this attraction, and had literally forced himself to cease to relate to her for fear that the attraction would otherwise ultimately find physical expression. The realization that she had not “done anything” to make him withdraw his love was immensely reassuring to her. She could only regret that her father had been insufficiently sure of himself to maintain emotional closeness with her without being anxious that an incestuous relationship would be the result.
Cathy’s story is an interesting example of the manner in which incest can develop and some of the effects it can have on the persons involved. A fundamental sexual attraction between Cathy and her father had existed from the beginning, yet it seems unlikely anything would have come of it had not circumstances intervened.
I met Cathy at a party at which we talked briefly about nothing very important. A few weeks later I received a telephone call from her. “I’ve read two of your books since I met you,” she said. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to interview me. I’ve had some interesting experiences and I’ve never been able to talk about them. When I try to talk about them with people I’m close to, I get blocked. I thought it might do me some good to talk to you, and that it might even be useful research for you.”
We got together three times. She is an attractive girl just shy of thirty, long-legged, high-waisted, her face permanently showing a guarded expression. She announced early on that she had never consulted a psychiatrist, and joked that talking to me was a perfect way for her to save thirty dollars an hour.
Here, essentially, is what she had to say.
• • •
I remember very little of my early childhood. My mother was almost forty when I was born. She had been married before and had a son more than twenty years older than me. I think I may have met him when I was very young but I don’t have any mental picture of him. He lived far away and I’ve never had any contact with him since. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead or anything about him.
My mother was eight years older than my father. He had not been married before. He was an indus
trial chemist but he only had a bachelor’s degree and I guess this limited his chances for advancement. I know he thought it did and it frustrated him tremendously. He would talk about the importance of education and how he could have amounted to something if he had gone on to graduate school. He always made a decent living, but I guess he wasn’t very good at holding a job. I don’t think he was fired, but that he would get cramped or frustrated in a job after a couple of years and would go looking for something else. I never knew who he was working for because it kept changing. One time he went into business for himself, a testing laboratory, but it didn’t work out and he had to go back to working for other people. This was another thing he was always discontented about.
My mother was a very cold person. The complete opposite of my father. He was very loving. Also very physical, he liked to touch people he was close to. And she was just the reverse. It’s very difficult for me now to imagine them ever making love. I don’t suppose they did it very often. I was an only child. I realize now that the number of children people have has nothing to do with their sex life, but years ago I honestly thought that they stopped making love after they had me, that the only reason my mother did it in the first place was to have a baby, and that once she had me she was disappointed with what she got and decided never to have sex again.
I grew up thinking that my mother didn’t love me. Because she was so undemonstrative. I realize now that I was unfair to her, that she loved me but had difficulty in expressing her feelings. I always took it for granted that my father loved me far more than my mother did, and in return I loved him far more intensely than I loved her. For years after her death I would feel guilty about this. I still do to an extent. I can’t avoid the feeling that I should have loved her more, that I should have let her realize that I cared for her. But it was difficult, she was a very difficult woman to love.
Love at a Tender Age (John Warren Wells on Sexual Behavior) Page 9
