Chapter 5
Older Girls Are Grateful
Margy P. represents a small group of women who are often overlooked-women such as Margy have not only been ignored by the community of scientific research, but, even more sadly, by individuals in their own lives whose aid they have sorely needed. Although mentally quite bright, and physically very attractive, Margy remained unmarried at the age of 28. This fact, in itself, would hardly merit our attention here. Many modern young ladies do not marry until that age or later for many reasons. One might almost say that the concept of the "old maid" is growing more and more inappropriate as a description of any contemporary American female.
But the exchanging of marital vows was not the only thing that Margy, at the age of 28, had not experienced. Something far more vital was lacking in Margy's life. For all of her 28 years, Margy had never had sexual intercourse. Margy was as much a virgin at that age as she had been when she was a school child. Her hymen remained intact, and she had not once participated in an act of coitus. Like the woman whose story was told in a recent motion picture, Margy, at 28, was a woman who had simply never had a sex life. Her story came to light only after her eventual marriage at the age of 30. Her husband, who recognized the uniqueness of her sexual history, mentioned the fact to a friend who was employed as a psychology teacher at a nearby university. From there, she was contacted and interviewed in depth by a mutual colleague who made the following account available for inclusion in this study.
Margy recounted her experience in the presence of a tape recorder, and after being assured she would have complete anonymity, she permitted the inclusion of her story in this study of initial sex experiences. An exact transcript of that record, told in Margy's own words, follows.
I am Margy (surname deleted to insure anonymity) , and I agree to record my sexual history for the purpose of the psychological research you've told me about, Doctor. I'm 30 years of age, I'm Caucasion, and I'm five feet six inches tall and weigh 125 pounds. You said it was very important that I tell you as many details about myself as possible, so I guess you mean for me to give a basic description of myself first. Well, I have auburn-I guess some would call it redhair. My complexion is fair-when I was a little girl they called it peaches and cream. And my measurements are 36-23-37. I don't exactly look like I did when I was a teen-ager, but I haven't gained much weight since then. Ron, my husband, says my figure is very pleasing to him.
I've only been married a few months, now, as you know. I understand that your main interest is in my earlier sex life ... before I was married. It's kind of embarrassing for me to talk about it, Doctor, but I had problems that made me ... well, of course, you already know about it ... I never had sex with a man until I was 28 years old. In other words I was a virgin for the first 28 years of my life. Oh, I wanted to, Doctor. It wasn't that I didn't want to. You've already helped me enough so that I can admit that fact to myself. For most of my life I wasn't even able to do that much ... to admit that I wanted sex, I mean.
I guess I'd need to start at the beginning for this to make any sense. Well, I was one of two children. I had an older sister who was killed in an automobile accident when I was nine. My sister was 17 at the time. She was riding in a car with her boyfriend and another couple. One of the other boys was hurt pretty bad, but my sister was the only one killed. Her boyfriend was drinking at the time, everyone said, but it was hushed up to keep him out of trouble with the law. They said enough damage had been done already, and that there was no reason to make it any worse if it could be avoided.
But my parents always felt real bad about it. From then on, they hardly let me out of their sight. They were always scared to death that something was going to happen to me. Another thing I found out a lot later was that my sister had been ... sexually promiscuous, I guess you'd have to say. My parents never said anything at all about that part of it to me, but I had a cousin who was only a couple of years younger than my sister and she told me all the details after a few years had passed.
I was kind of shocked when she told me. She said my sister had acquired a reputation among the guys in her school for being a ... for always ... well, what she did was perform fellatio on almost any boy who wanted it. My cousin said my sister was once caught by a school janitor going down on a guy right in front of his hall locker. It was after school and there weren't many people around, of course. They had been practicing a play that night Word never got back to my parents about this little episode, apparently, but my cousin said there was quite a scandal about it. Instead of reporting my sister to school authorities, the janitor ran the boy away with the threat he'd be reported and get into big trouble if he didn't clear out fast. Then he ... well, my cousin says that according to the rumor going around after it happened, the janitor immediately unzipped his fly and exposed himself to my sister. And said something really lewd to her like, "If you like to eat the one-eyed worm, you little slut, I've got one right here waiting for you. You'd better blow me real good or else I'm going to tell the girls' counselor what you were doing to that kid. And if I do that, they'll toss your sweet little cunt out of this school so fast it'll make your head swim." So my sister got right down on her knees, took his old penis into her mouth and did it for him. And after that, the janitor used to make her come down to the broom closet at lunch hour and do the same thing two or three times a week.
I don't know whether that all happened or not, but I wouldn't doubt it. Even as young as I was, I sort of knew that my sister was ... well, that she was kind of "sexy." We had separate bedrooms, but I would go into hers when she was getting ready to go out on a date. It seemed very romantic to me, at the age of 9, to think about having a boyfriend and everything. I didn't have any conception of sex at the time, but it was still all very exciting to me. So I'd always go talk to my sister as she was getting dressed and ask her where she was going on her date.
So I'd always see her putting on her clothes in preparation for her date. I was always interested in sneaking looks at her breasts, because t didn't have any yet, and I always wondered what mine were going to be like. She always wore real pretty underclothes-real frilly and lacy and everything. She would always parade in front of the mirror as she got dressed and she was always making saucy little smiles to herself and standing sideways to see what her figure looked like. Sometimes she would even pull her skirt up and look at her legs. I guess when she did all this, it was to see how she looked to boys. For whatever reason she did it, it always fascinated me to watch her.
When she returned from a date, that was even more interesting to me. My parents' bedroom was at the rear of our house, so they couldn't see my sister when she was parked in front of the house with her dates. But my bedroom was in the front, so I was able to see what took place quite clearly. I'm sure that my sister was quite aware of the fact that my parents couldn't see her, or else I'm sure she would have been afraid to do what she did. At my present age, of course, such activities as I saw through the car window on those nights are more acceptable to me. But at the age of nine, what I saw had conflicting effects on me.
I thought what my sister was doing must be very bad or she would not be so secretive about it. Yet, watching her and her boyfriends seemed to produce a physical effect on me ... a very pleasurable effect, too. I suppose, Doctor, that you could say that's when I was first sexually aroused. Of course I didn't interpret what was happening to my body as anything sexual then-I didn't know anything about sex yet, intellectually. But thinking back on it, I can assure you that I was aroused. My genitals were definitely involved in the stimulation.
I know what you're thinking, Doctor. You're probably thinking that I ... well, that I masturbated myself then. I didn't though. The genital stimulation I'm speaking about was much more subtle. My vulva would become turgid and warm, and I'd get feelings there that I now realize could have been heightened by manual stimulation. But, as I say, at that age, I just never thought of doing it.
Anyway, I guess I should tell you what I saw my sister do with her boyfriend in the car. They didn't ever actually have sex there. I guess they were both afraid. Since they were sitting right in front of our house and parked right on a public street, I guess there was every reason for them to be scared. But they sure made up for not being able to perform regular intercourse!
Usually it would begin by my sister's date sliding over to the middle of the seat, away from the confines of the steering wheel. Then they would start necking. By this I mean they would kiss each other on the lips and on the ears. Eventually, the boy would always get around to playing with my sister's breasts. There was a street light, so I could see them quite well. His hands would start roaming around the front of her sweater and before long he would be kind of "milking" her breasts through her sweater. That would usually make my sister start squirming around in the seat.
I guess the boy could tell she was excited when she started doing that. He would then run his fingers up under her sweater and his hand would become lost to my sight. Sometimes, though, he would pull her sweater up after he did this and then I could actually see his fingers in contact with my sister's breasts. I could see how he would begin caressing her all around the area of her breasts, paying special attention to her nipples, and to the area I now recognize as the areola. At the time, I simply thought of the areola as the "brown place around the nipples." My own breasts, Doctor, now that I'm a mature woman, have rather prominent areolas. And when I was a girl of nine, although I hadn't a trace of breast development, I did have a couple of inches of brown around each of my little nipples. So when the boy would caress my sister's breasts, I could identify with what was going on-especially when he would be toying with her right around her nipples and areolas.
But that would only be the first stage if it was a boy my sister especially liked. Before long I would see her hand go between his legs and start rubbing him there. I thought this was especially bold of her and never tired of watching her do this. Then she would put her hand down the front of his pants and come out with the boy's penis. She never even bothered to unzip his fly-she would just dart her hand down his stomach and come out with his prick.
Doctor, you must realize that discussing something this intimate is somewhat arousing to me right now as I'm telling it. I hope that's normal. Well, I'll go on.
As soon as the boy's prick was out of his pants, he would become very excited. For one thing, of course, he'd take what she'd done for him as direct invitation to touch her vulva. I'm sure this is exactly what she had in mind, too. So they would engage in mutual masturbation a while. As soon as they had gotten each other very hot by playing around with their sex organs, their little rendezvous in the car would invariably end in the same way. At some point-now that I know more about it I think it must have been when my sister was having her climax-she would suddenly drop her head down onto his lap and close her lips on his hard penis. Then I would see her move her head up and down, increasing the speed as she went along. She would have his penis, which by this time would be so big and red that it seemed about to burst, in both hands and her mouth at the same time. Then in just a few seconds I'd see the boy raise his hips up into the air and open his mouth and close his eyes. I wasn't close enough to hear them, so I never knew whether he was saying something or just breathing hard. Anyway, that was always the end of it.
My sister would always take a Kleenex out of her purse and wipe his penis for him. I always wondered about that, because I didn't know about the male ejaculation, so I thought she must just be wiping off her own saliva from his penis and I wondered why she did it. After she had done that, they would come to the door and he'd kiss her goodnight. Seeing her do this in the car made it easy for me to believe what my cousin told me a few years later about my sister and her activities with the school janitor.
Well, in the fall, when the accident happened and my sister was killed, a great change seem to come over our family. The funeral was very sad, with a lot of kids my sister's age attending. I could tell that my parents were very broken up about it. Of course, I was too, because I'd been pretty close to my sister. In the days to come, I was to see just what effect my sister's death had on my parents. Primarily, their reaction was one of exaggerated protectiveness toward me. They seemed sure that I was in danger, no matter where I was. They even started having me call them at noon every day just to tell them I was all right. When some of my school friends noticed this they thought it was pretty weird. At first it was just a joke, but then it became worse.
Even up through junior high and high school, my father would bring me to school every morning and come and get every afternoon like clockwork. What made it so bad was the fact that he would lead me right up to the door of our school. And when he came back to get me that afternoon, I was supposed to wait at the door until he came all the way from the car to get me and lead me by the hand again. You can imagine the effect this had on all my friends. They began to think of me as being really strange. I felt so sorry for my mother and father, because I knew my sister's death was on their minds when they did these screwy things, that I never had the heart to say anything to them about it.
A secondary effect this had was on my dating life. All the boys thought I was some kind of a kook, so they never asked me out. And when they saw my father leading me right up to the school door every day, that was enough to convince them I probably couldn't go out on dates anyway. I never actually knew whether my parents would have allowed that or not, Doctor. Do you know why? Well, I'll tell you why. All during my high school, not one boy ever asked me out. Not one! Of course, in a way I couldn't blame them. After all, it did look pretty strange, the way my parents were and everything. Then, during my senior year in high school, things got even worse, if that's possible.
That spring, my mother died of pneumonia. That left only my father and me together. I want to emphasize something, Doctor. I wasn't a bad-looking girl at all. I mean, you can surely see by looking-at me right now that I have been of at least average attractiveness when I was a teenager and a young woman. You can see my legs, doctor. You can see my face and my ... well, you can at least see how my breasts look through this blouse I'm wearing, even if you can't see how they look in the flesh. I assure you that I don't wear falsies or anything. I don't even wear a girdle, Doctor. The reason I want you to notice this is so it'll be clear to you that the only reason I was never asked out by a boy was because of my parents-not because of the way I looked. For a long time, I had a considerable inferiority complex about that, sc I just want to get it off my chest.
As I said, things got even worse after mother died. My father didn't have any brothers or sisters, so he thought of our situation, I guess, as just he and his "little girl" against the world. After I graduated, my father put me to work in his jewelry shop as a counter clerk. It was decided I wouldn't go to college, I now realize it was much more my father's decision than my own, but at the time I thought it was what I, personally, wanted. I suppose you could say that my father sort of "brainwashed" me into thinking I had made up my own mind, but that wasn't really true. And the complicated thing about it is that I can't entirely blame him for doing what he did. For wanting to have me around all the time, I mean. I don't think that it was a conscious thing on his part. It was just because he was so lonely. He just needed me around for company. After all, we both had lost all the rest of our family-his wife and other daughter-my mother and sister.
Along about this time was when my father and I began to undergo a certain subtle change in our relationship. Since I had almost no friends, and since I was with him almost twenty-four hours a day, because I worked with him as well as lived in the same house with him, we grew closer together. I guess it was natural. I cooked the meals at home and did all the laundry. And I made the beds and did the things my mother had done around the house when she had been alive. This isn't to say that he was a slave driver or anything like that. He wasn't at all. I've said I worked at the jewelry shop but what it really amounted to was just kind of hanging around there. My father had other employees who actually did most of the work. So I was just there in order to relieve his anxiety about me being out of his sight, I now realize. But at the time it seemed perfectly normal.
There was more of a change than that, though. The other part of the change is what made me like ... like I am now. I mean attracted me toward older men sexually. My husband, as you know, Doctor, is 53 years old. Most women might think a 53-year-old man was too old for them at the age of 30, but not me. Ron was 51 when I first met him, you know, and I was only 27. But before I get started telling you about my husband Ron, I guess I should tell you more about my relationship with my father.
When I was home with him, I usually had a sort of routine. I would fix dinner, then after we ate and my father and I washed the dishes, we would go into the living room and just talk. As the months went by, my father and I became pretty close. I discovered him as a man, not just my father. Of course, I can't emphasize too strongly that I was still very much his daughter, and that our relationship was primarily a father-daughter closeness. But there was definitely another overtone to it, too. I'd be lying if I denied it. It was more on father's part-at first, anyway-than on my own. But it was decidedly there in the back of both our minds. I may as well say it. You already know what I'm talking about. Sex. Pure and simple sex. Well, maybe not so pure-or so simple, either, for that matter. But, ugly as it is, sex is the only word for it. Sex between father and daughter.
But here's where it gets complicated, Doctor. Because ... well, just let me tell you some things that happened after Father and I were alone in the house. During these times after dinner when Father and I would sit in the living room and talk, I began to have my whole outlook on life changed. He would read me poetry and philosophical works and he'd have me read things to him, too. Then there was our music. Although Mother hadn't particularly cared for it, Father was crazy about classical music. With Mother no longer around, Father began to play records he hadn't played in years. And I developed a love for the music, just as he had had many years before. This pleased Father to no end, and we spent many a delightful night listening to music and reading to each other.
The first time sex ever presented itself out in the open was during the holiday season about a year after mother died. We were going to have a big dinner with all the trimmings, including drinks afterwards. We had just come home from the market, and I was taking a shower before getting dressed for the evening. Father was getting an early start on celebrating by having a few drinks before we started preparing dinner. I remember being glad that he was doing it, because he had worked hard all week and I felt he de served to relax and enjoy himself. I took a long, slow shower and then stepped out onto the floor to dry off. I pulled the towel down my back, snaked it between my legs and pulled it back and forth, drying my pubic hair. I continued doing this for several minutes.
I guess it would have been a nice show for any man to see, but that thought didn't cross my mind until I heard a loud noise outside the bathroom. I walked over and opened the door, not thinking to cover myself, and found my father bending over picking up a key ring full of keys that he had apparently dropped. For a second he just stared at me in my nakedness and neither of us spoke. Then he quickly mumbled something about his key ring, picked it up and walked away.
I was still standing there when he looked back over his shoulder to see me again. Only then did I cover myself, but I did so very slowly, just drawing the towel up to where it covered my pubic area and my breasts and looking back with what I'm sure must have been a glazed-eyed look toward my father. Then we both sort of turned around at the same time. He went into the living room and I went back into the bathroom.
When I was back in the privacy of the bathroom, I remember feeling kind of strange. I knew my father must have been looking through the keyhole and watching me dry my nude body, but my reaction to that knowledge was strange. Even though I knew he had been looking at me when I had no clothes on, I just passed it off to myself-consciously, at least-as something perfectly normal. I guess I was afraid of letting myself believe what was obvious-that my father had been interested in viewing my sexual parts while my body was unclothed. I made myself believe, instead, that he must have been just concerned about my well-being-and that he had just been "looking in" on me as though I were a child.
At dinner, when I saw him again for the first time after I'd caught him looking at me in the bathroom, neither of us mentioned what had happened. But here's something that I suppose must be important psychologically, isn't it, Doctor. You see, although neither of us mentioned what had happened, it wasn't as though we were ashamed of it, or guilty or anything. It was rather that we just mutually accepted it as something completely unimportant, something not worth mentioning. Of course, this wasn't true, but that's the way we did it, anyhow.
After dinner we listened to music and had a beautiful time together. My father had continued drinking and so had I. I guess that's kind of funny, too, in retrospect. Scotch was what my father always drank, but for me, he poured wine. I suppose that he didn't yet consider me old enough to drink hard liquor. But he knew how old I really was, for sure, because he had just gotten over seeing my nude, woman's body a few hours earlier. I went to bed first that night and my father stayed up to read some. This wasn't unusual because he often did that. But I noticed as I left the living room that he didn't even have a book in his hands. He was just sitting in his easy chair sipping his scotch.
After I had taken off all my clothes, including my underwear, I had gotten into bed and was lying on my back under the covers. I suddenly decided that we must have our floor furnace turned up too high, because I was uncomfortably warm. So I kicked off the covers and was just lying there on top of my bed drifting off to sleep when I heard my father walk slowly up to the bedroom door and peer inside. It wasn't the custom of either of us to lock or even to close our bedroom doors at night because we were the only two people in the house and we always knew where the other was. So all my father had to do in order to see his darling daughter with no clothes on, was to walk up to the door and look in.
I was just drifting off to sleep, as I said, when he did this. Why I didn't get underneath the covers then, or at least roll over on my side, I'll never know. At that time, I told myself it was because I was too sleepy to care, but I suppose the real reason was that I had a trace of exhibitionism in me and I wanted my father to see me nude.
Whatever the reason, I just lay there and let him feast his eyes on me. Since he was standing in front of the light coming from the living room, I could see him well, but he couldn't tell that I could see him, because the light was off in my room and besides that I had my arm lying across my head so that my eyes weren't visible to him. There was plenty of light for him to be able to see everything I had, though. And from the way he was acting, that must have been plenty! He thought I was asleep and I just let him think it by not moving a muscle.
That's when my father did something that would probably have frightened me if I hadn't been so drunk from the wine and so sleepy. He walked into the room a few steps and watched me closely to see if I moved. When I didn't, he was sure I was asleep, so he reached down and very slowly unzipped his fly and let his penis fall out of his pants. The look on his face was one I'd never seen before. It was a look I guess my mother had seen when they were in bed together, though. Because as I watched him he started slowly slipping his hand up and down the shaft of his penis. I was fascinated, and I didn't move a muscle for fear I would scare him away. It was the first time I had seen a male's penis since those times I used to watch my sister necking with her boyfriends in the car outside our house.
As I watched, his face became red with color and he continued to slip his hand faster and faster up and down his penis. He was apparently doing the same thing to himself that I had seen my sister do to her boyfriends in the car. I must have been really naive, because I remember thinking that I'd never thought about a boy doing that to himself. Or a man or a woman. Right there, while I was watching my father masturbate, I resolved to try it myself at the first opportunity. I was amazed, even then, to think I had never thought of it in relation to myself before.
As I watched my father masturbate, he kept getting hotter and hotter, and his hand kept getting faster until finally the same white-looking fluid that came out the penis of the boy I saw with my sister, oozed out of my father's penis. I remember noticing that it ran down his penis, onto his hand and the floor, but it didn't shoot into the air like I'd seen it do with the boys my sister was with. I didn't know then what the difference was, but I understand now that it was because my father was so much older than they were.
After my father ejaculated, he left the room at once, being very careful not to make any noise. In just a few minutes, he came back with some tissue paper and wiped the floor up so I wouldn't see it the next morning. Then he gazed tenderly upon me for a few more seconds, then turned quietly and left my bedroom for the night.
I immediately started playing with myself-masturbating-as soon as he had left. I wanted to make sure he didn't see me if he returned, so I crawled back underneath the covers. I was very hot from having watched my father play with his own sex organs, so in just a few minutes of gently stroking my clitoris, I was rewarded with a strong, satisfying orgasm that left me breathless. I couldn't imagine why I had never discovered this pleasure on my own initiative.
That night, in my sleep, I experienced what was to be the first of a long series of dreams that continue right up to the present. I dreamed things that I thought were unbelievably nasty and dirty. I can more readily accept the dreams now for what they are-simply the result of the sexual repression I had undergone for so many years after my sister died. But at the time, I thought they were terrible.
I know that I should tell you about these dreams for your study, Doctor, but honestly, they're so sexy and dirty that I'm still pretty embarrassed to talk about them. Well, here goes-I'll do my best.
My dreams would always either have my father in them or else another man who was about the same age as my father, but whose identity I could never quite make out. In the dream I had the night my father masturbated in my bedroom, I saw him in the car with my dead sister and she was masturbating him just like she had done with those boys. She even sucked ... she even performed fellatio on him. But then it seemed that they saw me watching them through my bedroom window. Then I dreamed that they ran into the house and burst into my bedroom before I could get my clothes on. In my dream I was grown, with fully developed breasts and a hairy, fully rounded mons veneris just like I have now. But my sister seemed to be the same age she was when she died-17.
After bursting into my bedroom, I dreamed that my father began to lick me between the legs as I lay on my back in bed. I dreamed that my sister was removing my nightgown, my panties and my brassiere while Father was licking me there. And when she had removed all my clothes, she appeared in her coffin at the foot of the bed, looking dead as she had looked on the day of her funeral. Then it seemed like my father quit performing cunnilngus on me and ran to my sister's coffin where he stuffed his penis into her mouth. When he did this my sister seemed to come alive and she raised up from the coffin and began to suck on his penis just as she had done in the car.
Next, while I was watching my father get his penis sucked by my sister, I saw my mother rush in the door and spin my father around toward her. She then displayed her sexual organs to him, and he pulled his penis from the mouth of my sister and began to copulate with my mother about three feet in the air. They just seemed to float there, copulating like rabbits, while my sister sank back into her coffin and appeared, once more, to be dead. As soon as my father had pulled his penis from her mouth she had seemed to begin to lose color. Just before her head struck the satin coffin pillow she was once more a dark, unhealthy gray-colored corpse.
As my parents continued to copulate in the air, I became aware that another person was in the room with us. It was one of my sister's old boyfriends. He walked past where my parents were suspended in air and as he approached my bed I could see that he had a long, erect penis sticking out the fly of his pants. He walked to my bed and spoke to me, but I could not understand what he was saying. It was as though I was watching a silent movie. His lips moved but nothing came out. This was especially strange since, in my dream, I could hear everything else quite well. As an example, I was even able to hear the sloshing sound of my father's penis as it went in and out of my mother's vagina.
Then as the boy reached the side of my bed and started to lie down beside me, I saw my sister's arm begin to rise out of the coffin. It appeared she was beginnning to get out of the coffin. Just at that moment, the boy leaped up from my bed and ran to the coffin, where he proceeded to push my sister's arm back in beside her. He then began frantically closing the top of the coffin so that my sister was no longer visible.
After he had done this, he leaped up on the top of the coffin and began slamming nails into it with a large black hammer shaped like a penis. At the last stroke of the hammer on the last nail that made sure my sister could not possibly get out of the coffin, the hammer shot a stream of sperm onto the walls which made the whole room shake and made the sperm flood the floor as it slid down the walls, rising eventually to about two feet deep and appearing to threaten my parents' position in the air, where they were continuing to copulate as enthusiastically as ever.
Then the boy swam through the sperm to my bed, where he immediately leaped on top of me and started to insert his penis into my vagina. But before it every touched me, my parents fell from the air and sank below the surface of the white fluid. Just as this happened, I woke up. I was so incredibly stimulated by this mad dream that I once more masturbated to a screaming climax although I had masturbated for the first time in my life only a few hours before. Relieved at last, I fell into a sound sleep and had to be awakened by my father in the morning even though I usually woke quite easily by myself.
We went to work as usual, and nothing was mentioned by either of us about our confrontation in the bathroom nor about his being in my bedroom the previous night.
'A few years later, when father died, I was really alone. I was left enough money to take care of me handsomely, and I still had the store to run, but my sex life really suffered. It just plain wasn't any fun to stimulate myself sexually without my father watching. I was "25 and had never been kissed"-literally. Of course father's death meant something else to me, too. It meant that for the first time in my life, I was absolutely my own boss. I could do just about whatever I wanted to do. The trouble was that I had become so accustomed to my life with my father that I couldn't develop new interests for a long time.
Eventually, after several months, I started actively to seek male companionship. But I really felt lost, attempting it, because I had never had a normal relationship with any male in my life.
One of the girls who worked at the jewelry shop belonged to a bowling league. She was perceptive enough to at least realize that I seemed more lonely with my father gone. She asked me if I'd like to go bowling with her sometime and maybe meet some guys. I readily accepted.
The second time I went I met a fellow whom I allowed to take me home. I didn't play any games with him. I let him know by certain looks and motions that I was interested in him sexually. Actually, he wasn't an especially good-looking fellow, but he was nice enough, and he was sufficiently sexual in his talking to me that I thought he would be good for me. One noticeable difficulty presented itself right from the start, however. He was too young.
Oh, he was three years older than I was, but he was so much younger than my father that I thought of him as being a baby. He lacked the sedate manners of my father and, for all his quietness and ease, he seemed much too rambunctious for my tastes. But I decided I would see what could be achieved with him. After we'd arrived at the door I asked him in and gave him a drink. Then I told him-sort of playfully-that I was going into the bedroom and that if I stayed longer than he wanted me to, he should come and find me. I knew that doing this was ridiculously juvenile, but I was interested in getting right to the matter of sex without beating around the bush about it. I suppose I should have known I would make a problem for myself by handling it as I did, but I went through with it, anyway.
I simply removed all my clothes, donned my sexiest scanties, and lay down on the bed. Then I called to him, and in a very sugary voice I said, "Bet you can't find me! And if you do find you shouldn't see me like I am now."
What I was referring to was my nakedness. Everything was going fine for a few minutes. He came searching around toward the bedroom where he knew that I was, and he made a game out of it, making barking noises and sniffing as he came as though he was a dog looking for some small animal. That was perfect. He was entering into the spirit of what I was doing fine. But when he found me, he ruined it. He immediately dove into the bed where I was lying and started to yank off my panties and at the same time began to rip off his own pants. As he did this he soon displayed a big erection, but his suddenness in coming to my bed, and his apparent lack of any interest in watching me for a while before coming to me made me lose all desire that I might have had. I was sorry, but his impatience, or at least what I regarded as impatience, made me turn cool to his advances at once. You can guess what happened then, Doctor. He left only a few minutes later yelling at me, "What kind of a fucking prickteaser do you think you are anyway, you dumb fucking cunt! You must be out of your head, to turn me on like you did and then play cold-ass with me when I get there. You can take your silly games and stick them up your ass!"
For the next several months, the story was pretty much the same. I'd meet someone, bring them home and then I just wouldn't be able to react the way they seemed to think I should. Then finally, when I was 28, I met Ron. I guess I was pretty aggressive about the way I met him, but I'm glad now that I was.
He entered our shop as a customer one day and left his watch to be fixed. When he walked up to the desk, I noticed that he was carrying a couple of phonograph records under his arm. When I noticed that they were classical music, I casually complimented him on his good taste. He responded even more warmly than I thought he would. He began telling about the soloists and the orchestras on the two records, and soon we were engaged in a lively discussion about them. I'm sure he considered himself much too old for me. But before he left, he asked if I might care to go to a concert with him. I could tell that he was especially pleased when I told him I'd be delighted to go.
That was the beginning of a beautiful relationship for Ron and me. As we got out of the car, my skirt happened to ride up on my leg rather high and I knew that Ron had gotten a glimpse of my lace-bottomed slip, if not my panties. His reaction warmed me all over. He cleared his throat and turned his head away. It was exactly as my father would have done! I was overjoyed. And my feelings proved to be justified.
Before the night was over, Ron and I were making love. Actually making love! He was so shy and so reticent to see me nude that he paused a little while at the door of my bedroom and shamefacedly looked in on me, hoping that he would see me without my seeing him. That did it. I knew that here was a man I could love. Within an hour I was working on his poor old penis and getting it harder than I'm sure it had been in years. And in his eyes was not only desire, but gratitude as well. He was old enough that his potency was definitely less than it had once been. But that was exactly the kind of situation I needed, so I gently coaxed his flaccid penis to a healthy, strong erection that delighted him. A short time later, when I was 28, we were married. People can say what they please, Doctor, but I'm much happier with my 53-year-old husband than a lot of them are with their 30-year-old ones!
I guess that's all I have to say, Doctor. I think I've told you what you were interested in. Just one more thing-I realize that I'm not "normal" in my sexual life. I know now that my relationship with my father and the death of my sister and mother made me different from most girls my age. But I only hope, Doctor, that other people who have emotional hang-ups are as successful in getting them resolved as I have been.
PSYCHIATRIST'S SUMMARY
Margy P. is a member of a very small segment of the female population in terms of the age at which she first experienced coitus. The latest figures with regard to this aspect of sexual activity indicate that 89.7% of American women have engaged in coitus by the time they are 25. Moreover, of the remaining 10.3% of American women who do not have coitus until after their twentyfifth year, 7.4% never participate in the act due to infirmities, chronic spinsterhood, insanity or death. This leaves an extremely small sampleonly 2.9%-whose chronological incidence of coitus parallels the experience of Margy. But in Marges case, we have good reason not to be so concerned with her age at first coitus as with her reason for never having participated in the act earlier.
While it is obvious that her parents' excessively severe restrictions after the sister's death figured prominently in Margy's long abstention from normal sexual intercourse, her dream sheds perhaps more light on her particular emotional state than any other single factor. We must keep in mind that dream analysis is at best an extremely subjective matter, and is often impossible to carry out with any degree of assured relevance to the case in question. It is my belief, however, that Margy's dream, because of it's unusual clarity and its number of clear-cut sexual associations, lends itself particularly well to this form of consideration.
The frequent appearance of her father in Margy's dreams simply means that to Margy, her father had come to represent sex in its most simplified form. Her father's activities in her dreams point out what Margy projects upon him as her own views of sex. She is unable, for example, to associate a stranger such as her sister's boyfriend, with the act of sex, since her father, as we have said, is assigned the role of representing sex in her dreams to the exclusion of all other persons. It is for this reason that Margy saw her father haying sex with her sister in the automobile in which she was accustomed to viewing other persons in real life.
Note, however, that a transference is madeshe sees her father performing the sexual activities with her sister that were in fact performed by another person, namely, the sister's boyfriend. This is because her father, while representing sex, nevertheless carries with him the vestments of head of the family-a moral and even spiritual position not to be demeaned by the performance of self-inspired sex acts. Therefore, the father is seen to perform not sexual acts of which he is the premeditated planner, but rather the sex acts "out of the brain" of someone else-once more, her sister's boyfriend.
For the same reason, when she sees her father engaged in a coital act with her mother, his activities must remain similarly unsullied in the eyes of Margy. Her dream-vision of their "floating in air" satisfies this requirement, rendering them "above" (in a very literal sense) the idea of sex, which Margy associates with the ground, the earth, or in this particular case, with the floor.
In this way, and in this way alone, is she able to accept the fact of her father's act of intercourse with her mother.
Margy sees her sister as the symbol of unwholesome acts perpetrated by females. Because she secretly desires to perform the same act (fellatio) with her father that she has witnessed her sister carry out with him-and in real life with her boyfriend-she eventually sees the sister die and become relegated to a coffin. In Margy's eyes, this death, while real in the sense that her sister did indeed die during Margy's life, is tantamount to divine "punishment" for the commission of the "evil" sex acts with the father, which Margy surreptitiously envies.
by the same token, she must be forever restrained from repeating such acts. This is why she sees the boyfriend nail her sister into her coffin. Further, this is done at a time when the boyfriend is about to have sex with Margy herself, a situation which she greatly desired in the waking state when she was a young girl looking from her bedroom window into the parked car where her sister performed fellatio on her boyfriend. The penis-shaped hammer with which he performs the task symbolizes the force of what she sees as her father's concealed desire for her as a sex object. Although this feeling apparently actually existed in her father, this is irrelevant to the hammer's significance in the dream state. For in her dream she sees not what truly exists, but what she wishes did exist, even though this fact be concealed from her consciousness by the ruse of dream symbology.
It is not surprising then, that when "the dam breaks" (that is, when her father's sexuality is unleashed) in the form of the hammer's ejaculation, ruin is the result She not only sees her father perish because of the act, along with her mother (they must necessarily suffer the same ignominious fate, since they were participating in the same "shameful act"-and this in spite of the fact that their "sin" is somewhat diminished by being performed in the air, "away from earthly shame," as it were). She also witnesses this sinking into the sea of spermatazoa at a time before the sex act with her sister's boyfriend can be accomplished. In this way, she exculpates herself from the "sinful" act-which she nevertheless greatly desires-in time to protect herself from participating in the sexual act which is about to be offered her by the sister's boyfriend.
Ron, then, with his more advanced age and his interests similar to those of her father, is a godsend to Margy. It is inevitable that she should be strongly attracted to him, and the proof is that she seemed very happily married two years after having done so. Only one further comment is necessary here: it is only hoped that, in Margy's words, "other people who have emotional hang-ups are as successful at getting them resolved" as Margy herself was.