Chapter 5

As the scope and intensity of my perversion increased, I became sensitive to certain nuances in the body, possibilities that the average woman would never understand. Every act became an erotic act. Walking from my desk to the door, picking up a pencil, reaching for the telephone-all of these became grist for my lust. I had reached that threshold of the total woman; the woman who lives to have a young cock sink into her vagina, the woman who yearns for the adolescent tongue to sweep across her body.

But most of all, I began to see into the mind of the children I seduced. The poet has said, "the child is father to the man." Yet, I know different, for the mind and body of a young man bears no relation to the mind and body he will become when he is older. This insight which I had did not come slowly, it came suddenly because of one child, a child who initiated me into joys which are indescribable.

It was 15 year old Victor who taught me, a woman of thirty-five, that the fingers of a child contain a certain mystery and when they sweep over the body, when they touch gently the quivering nipple, no adult hand can equal that.

It was this child who taught me that the meat of a young man's cock is the sweetest meat in the world.

It was Victor who showed me that when an older woman takes a young man, a whole new world of sensations can open for her. Yes, it was he who showed me that the body of a young man is the most important drug of them all.

I must tell of my relationship with Victor in the most scrupulous detail for it is not only a magnificent meeting between two ripe bodies, it is also the most overwhelming experience of my life in the intellectual arena.

I did not meet Victor by prowling the city streets looking for boys to satisfy my cravings. It was during one of those periods in my life when I felt that life was completely futile. I felt that whatever I attempted either in the world of business or in the world of love would bring me no pleasure.

When these moods were upon me I would often take a day off from the office and visit art galleries in the city. There is something about the environment of those galleries (luring the week, when they are empty of people, that brought me out of the despair which was enveloping me.

That particular time, for some reason, I wanted to look at sculpture. Picking out of the newspaper a number of galleries which were having shows of contemporary American sculptors, I outlined my schedule. It is necessary to do that while "gallery-hopping" or the day will go too quickly to cover all the shows.

The first gallery was disappointing. I left quickly and went to the next gallery. All day long, from gallery to gallery, without pause, and not one show which caught my fancy or gave me the spiritual revival which great art can always accomplish.

But, late in the afternoon, my luck changed. It was in a small gallery, almost a loft, and one that I had never visited before. The show consisted of a number of sculptures by one artist. His name was unknown to me but his work was superb. He worked in wood and primarily with birds.

I was almost numb before those massive wooden birds, so strange and so compelling was their presence. Gradually, I grew accustomed to them enough to try and understand the strange fascination they exerted on me. But, no matter how much I tried or how long I stared, or how I attempted to break down the parts of each figure in my mind, still their power eluded me.

As I was about to leave the gallery, I noticed a strange-looking figure standing in front of one of the birds. At first I couldn't tell whether the child was a girl or a boy. It was a boy, of course, with his hair cut long in the fashionable style. But he was dressed simply with none of the affectations of the hippies. As I watched him, I noticed that his eyes were closed and that he was swaying very slightly in front of the bird, almost as if praying.

He was very small for his age and at first I thought he was about twelve. Everything about him was delicate, his torso, his neck, even the head, wreathed by the long hair, seemed of a gossamer strain. I had the impression that I was watching a butterfly who had somehow taken human form.

I could not leave the studio. There was something so mysterious about the boy that I was riveted to where I stood. He did not even notice me, continuing that strange swaying motion and clasping and unclasping his delicate fingers behind his back.

Finally, I could stand the tension no longer. I walked toward him, stopping when I was not more than a foot away. Still he did not acknowledge me. At that close distance, I could see the delicate features of his face, the thin, almost ascetic cheekbones, and the long, aquiline nose. Finally, after standing so closely, he turned to me and said, bitterly: "What do you want? Can't you see that I am studying the work?"

I was so taken aback by the vehemence of his words that I was silent. He started to move away from me, but I reached out my hand and laid it on his arm. Something inside of me seemed to know that it was imperative this child should not get away. I felt as if I had trapped some rare specie of butterfly.

"Why do you touch, me?" He said, looking at my hand as if it was the strangest of things. His voice was mature and brilliant. "I am lonely."

He smiled at my words and the mask of hostility on his face seemed to melt.

"Yes," he replied, "you seem to be lonely. But good art should remove that loneliness and these works are excellent."

Even after this brief conversation, I knew that this child was superior to me in every area of life. I could discern a sensitivity towards art and life that was awesome. I kept saying to myself that he must not get away. I kept thinking of a way to stay near that strange, fragile creature.

We began to walk about the gallery together and look searchingly at the sculpted birds. He would make a few statements to me about each work, commenting briefly on the form and lines of the work, and their significance to the show as a whole.

As we were standing in front of one particularly striking work, he said: "Notice the thrust of the wings. Do you understand what the artist was doing?"

I was completely under the sway of this brilliant child and could not come up with an answer.

"Let me tell you. The artist is telling us of the futility of the erect cock. He is telling us that the sexual relationships between man and woman are terribly deranged. He is telling us that our species will always be animals until we remove the violence of the cock."

His words, mysterious and profound, created such a stir in my body that I could hardly stand. I could not believe that the young child beside me thought so deeply about sexual matters. A moment after he said those words, I had the strange feeling that I was on the brink of something; something that would change my life and give me an experience unlike any other I had ever encountered.

Victor looked at me, smiling softly. Noticing my shock at his words, he said: "I am fifteen years old but please do not let my age fool you. It is children like myself who hold the key to life. You have heard of piano prodigies and mathematical prodigies; they are quite common at my age. Well, I am a sexual prodigy."

His burning eyes acknowledged the truth of his statement. For the first time I realized his painfully thin body was the result of this passionate dedication. He was a child who was slowly devouring himself with his genius.

"Come with me."

His command shook me out of my contemplation. He began to walk toward a large screen which partitioned one part of the gallery. I followed him. Behind the screen were a number of uncrated works of art and the area obviously acted as a warehouse for the gallery.

The light bulb in the area had blown and it was darker than the rest of the gallery. We stood very close.

"I am going to seduce you," he said.

It was such a ludicrous statement for a child to make to a grown woman. But I did not laugh. For the way he uttered those words, the way his lips formed to make the consonants and vowels, seemed to tell me that here, indeed, was a sexual prodigy.

"Touch my face," he ordered.

I let my hands move over his face, feeling the delicate nose, caressing the thin face. His lips moved apart and I let my fingers enter his mouth, rolling them in the saliva and heat.

He took my hand away.

"You are very cold. Your fingers and hand are the reflection of your frigidity."

I grew angry. I knew I was a warm, passionate woman and my actions had proved that I was a woman who yearned and fought for the sweet cock which plunges between my legs. There was not one ounce of frigidness in my body.

But Victor did not notice my sudden anger. Instead, from his pocket, he took what seemed to be two handkerchiefs. He held them up in front of me.

I touched one. They were of the sheerest most delicate fabric imaginable. Victor draped my hand in one of them and he wrapped the other around his fingers. Then, a moment later I felt his hand move up my dress. Skillfully, he pulled my undergarments down. I was breathing heavily and there was sweat standing out in little beads on my forehead.

"Don't move. Don't be frightened," he said, as if he was thirty-five, and I was fifteen.

His hand with the fabric around it, began to caress the inside of my thighs. I have never felt such an exquisite feeling. The tiny ridges of the cloth seemed to elicit the most incredible lust from my flesh. Back and forth he rubbed it until I was quivering with anticipation.

Then the cloth began to rub against the gates of my cunt. My chest began to heave and I closed my thighs because the pleasure was almost unbearable. His hand was caught in the vise-like action.

"Open them," he murmured, "open them."

Slowly, I obeyed him. He was rubbing more quickly. It was as if there was a fire licking at my shivering gates, waiting for just one moment, the right one, to begin its penetration.

His finger penetrated me, wrapped in the glorious, almost magical fabric.

As it slowly and expertly moved within me, he whispered: "Don't move. Let my fingers love your cunt."

Except for his fingers, we stood without touching. Only an inch away his childish face waited, those delicate features immersed in his work.

My womanhood seemed to open like a cavern before his expert penetration. Every part of me was beginning to respond hysterically to the probing hand and cloth, as it subtly mixed the juices of my cunt with the construction and thrust of his fingers. It was as if that thin hand completely held my destiny, it was as if a few tiny fingers totally controlled every movement of my body. His fingers began to turn in me, infinitely more beautiful and with greater lust than any cock I had ever encountered. The cloth caressed the walls of my quivering vagina like some mysterious and mystical force. My body was going through stages of weakness and strength, each deeper thrust of those magical fingers sent my insides boiling, and my vision began to blur.

"Do you understand what I am doing? I am bringing a child's gentleness to your body. I am bringing a child's sophistication to your most precious opening."

His words were like liquid gold in my ears. His fingers began to dig into the very flesh of my cunt, screwing their elongated shape into the essence of passion. The cloth, gentle to touch, became like the most divine sandpaper when it came into contact with the moisture of the hot, dark place. I began to shake almost insanely and finally, to keep from falling, I laid my head against his chest.

"Close your eyes," he said, "I am going to explore the holy of holies. Close your eyes. Perch your body on my finger. Give your cunt to me."

I began to twist in a bizarre ritualistic dance, trying to extract the most pleasure from his digit. I moved as I had never moved before, impaling myself, giving over my every gyration to the probing magnificence of his hand. My cunt was a pulsating organ, sensitive and receiving, extracting every penetration, no matter how deep, sucking up his fingers like they were the life-line to my body.

"Yes," he said, "dance for my fingers. Show them that you have become a woman and are no longer an animal."

He was right. For at that moment I would have recoiled in horror from the brute cock. I would have turned aside had a man seeked to mount me, to thrust his animal joy into my vagina. The child was showing me a new dimension.

Then he said: "Hold out your hand."

I did so, and he took the other cloth and wrapped it about my fingers.

At first I did not know what he wanted me to do. My body, in such a state of extreme ecstasy, could not be still long enough for my mind to function normally. Then, I knew. Somehow, in the bowels of my lust, I knew. Grasping the cloth, I let my fingers open his pants and began to search for the child's splendor.

"Yes," he whispered, "find me, and stroke me. Bring to me the same joy I am bringing to you."

I stroked his buttock first and the moment I made contact with his flesh, his fingers went so deep and with such strength that my cunt seemed to explode.

Then I found his cock, gentle, fragile like himself, the organ of a child who had dared to go beyond the petty limits of youth. Slowly, in rhythm with his own fingers, I began to play with him, running the cloth over the length of his cock, wiping the globes with the aphrodisiac cloth.

Together we manipulated each other. Never have I felt such an erotic closeness. Our bodies, though not joined, celebrated each other's finger.

But this loveliness lasted only for a few minutes. For as his cock began to respond and as the fires of lust made it leap and dance in my hand, I noticed a cloud on his face. Suddenly, he seemed to be entering a world of savagery. That gentle face was contorted. He pulled away from me and picked up a small sculpture of a bird which for some reason had not been exhibited.

He came toward me, his body completely under the sway of his vibrating organ. Then I saw what he was about to do. I tried to escape him but he had the quickness of youth along with the power of an erotic child, brought swiftly to the peak of his lust.

Holding the bird by its wings, he rammed the beak of the work into my cunt. I almost fainted from the pain. But even my moans would not stop him. Deeper and deeper he rammed the beak in, like some insane cock that was out to destroy its final resting place.

"This is what you really wanted, isn't it?" He asked, his voice brutal and his eyes demonic.

I was thrown back, ever backwards, and then that cruel beak broke the barrier and my body convulsed in a total orgasm, leaving me a quivering mass of flesh in front of him.

That was the beginning. For weeks we went from gallery to gallery, searching out the dark quiet places and engaging in the most subtle and most masterful manipulations. He grew to know each quiver of my cunt, each hidden delicacy which resided there, and I, in turn, knew that fragile cock, which was already ready to leap into my fingers and mouth.

But one day he would not touch me. I began to weep, begging him, asking him for an explanation.

His face grew childish, and his remarkable but bizarre intelligence seemed to shine through: "But I have taught you all I know. What more is there for us? Why continue?"

And with that cryptic statement, Victor was gone, to where and to whom I shall never know. I feel he will never grow to manhood, I feel he would rather die than submit to the tyranny of the cock and forget the subtle mysteries which he had, in his genius developed. I shall never forget him.

Again, we see an incidence of erotic behavior on her part which does not lead to normal gratification. This is obviously a further repression of her guilt at desiring her father's cock. But, if any psychological predictions are worthwhile, the dam will inevitably burst. She will not be able to continue her flight from penetration by the male organ. She will not be able to continue substituting sophisticated sexual play for an overwhelming genital experience. This episode is obviously a bridge, a crossing-over into true genital relationships.

Another important clinical observation that can be made, one which may have some bearing on Jungian psychology, is the fact that the first meeting with Victor culminated in her being raped by the beak of a wooden bird. Such an event has many parallels in world literature. Yeat's "Leda and the Swan" is only one example of women being violated by large birds. Perhaps her experience with Victor was so emotionally powerful that it somehow opened the gates of memory which seems to have been implanted at birth. This would be in accord with Jung's theory of a collective unconscious.

This episode also touches on another area, that of child psychology. It is possible that the best way for any child to relate to an adult is through an erotic experience?

In a puritanical society such as the United States, such a method would be unthinkable. But, if it is true, and could be proven, then the whole structure of our society would have to be changed in order to raise a generation of children free from the murderous repressions which their parents are afflicted with. But this question is beyond the scope of our inquiry.