Friday, 31 July 2015

Milk by Rose W. Erotic Lactation Fetish

If you are one of the thousands who read Rose W’s short story “Post Mortem,” you will understand that Rose’s writing is something very special. Rose has an amazing feel for pathos; making something deadly serious into something uncomfortably amusing. Rose also has an uncanny intuition for hitting the reader with tragedy when you least expect it. Rose has no fear of the taboo. In her tale, “Milk,” Rose illustrates an alluring fetish – Erotic lactation. Here is an extract from Rose’s new tale “Milk” available now at Amazon UK
and Amazon US.

There were six of us in the maternity ward, but only four babies. I was in a bed next to the door, with a woman called Tracy on my left and a woman called Faith opposite. Tracy’s son Ashley was with Michael, upstairs in the Special Care Baby Unit. She’d had a caesarian, and wasn’t supposed to climb the stairs, so we went up in the lift together, wearing dressing gowns over our pyjamas. She had to hold onto the rail, looking weak and pale.

“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. It hurts, but I’m okay. You?”
I tried to smile. “I hope so.”

Our babies were in aquariums, with tubes up their noses, like small mauve creatures at the zoo. We were allowed to reach in though a hole in the side, ‘to hold hands’, which meant that we could extend a finger for the baby to hold. Ashley obligingly wrapped his tiny hand around Tracy’s fingers, but Michael just lay there, no matter how many hints I dropped by nudging his palm with a fingertip.

We had to continue to express milk, too. Tracy squirted white jets into the funny contraption, but I was about as good at it as Michael was at holding hands, dribbling only a meagre trickle into the bottle, but at least it looked like a bit more like proper milk, and not the yellow stuff. We laughed about it together. I said I’d never make a dairy cow, and she asked me what I thought of her udders. However, pretending that the little bottles were cocktails, and clinking them together, changed my life.

“Cheers,” said Tracy.
“Cheers.” I wasn’t paying attention, so I didn’t see whether Tracy drank any from her bottle, but the sip I took from mine was like my first square of chocolate all over again. “Bloody hell.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” With my insides quivering, I looked at the puddle that was left in the bottom of the bottle.
“Come off it. That looks like nothing the way Kylie Minogue looks like Dolly Parton.”

I glanced at Michael in his aquarium, and downed the rest of the milk. It was sweet and slippery, and it didn’t taste any more like cow’s milk than bitter chocolate tasted like the horrible carob stuff from the health food shop.

Tracy was aghast, seemingly talking with her mouth wide open. “What did you just do?”
I licked my upper lip. “Nothing.”
Tracy laughed. “You just drank all the milk you expressed.”
I looked into the top of the bottle, wondering if I could get my tongue inside to lick out what was left. “There wasn’t very much, anyway.”

She laughed again, and held out her little bottle. “Do you want a swig of mine?” She might have been joking, but I didn’t care. She still looked amused as I took the bottle from her. Her milk tasted different, but just as delicious, the way Dagoba doesn’t taste the same as Green and Black’s, and I got the same quivery feeling inside.
“Jesus, Jan.”
If the nurse hadn’t turned up to see how we were getting on, I’d have drunk the rest. “How are we doing, ladies?”

Recovering my composure, I held up the two bottles and busked it. “We were just comparing notes. Tracy’s not doing too badly, but I’ve hardly managed to wet the inside of mine.”

Tracy sniggered as I handed her bottle back to her. There was milk still beading her nipples, like tiny white pearls, but she didn’t get to express any more, because the nurse took the bottles from us. When we were on our own again, Tracy asked, “What was that about?”
“What was what about?”
“You and the milk.”
“It’s to die for.”

Tracy squeezed a few drops from her nipple onto her finger, and licked it. “Don’t see it myself.” She repeated the action on the other nipple and held her finger out for me. “Here. You have it.”
I sucked the milk from Tracy’s fingertip. There wasn’t much of it, but it was still worth having. I tried squeezing my own nipples, but they didn’t even ooze.

When we went back down to the ward, Faith was trying to feed her baby, but the milk squirted everywhere whenever the baby took its mouth from the nipple. Tracy caught my eye and shook her head, as if she’d read my mind.

The other four had regular visits from their partners, but Tracy seemed to be as much on her own as I was. I didn’t like to ask, so I was quite pleased when she brought the subject up. “Aren’t you married?” she asked. “You look respectable.”

“I’m a maths teacher, so I suppose that makes me respectable, and I’m theoretically married, though my husband ran off with another woman six months ago.”

“The bastard.” That was starting to look like a consensus. “Is it his?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“And he still hasn’t come to visit?”
“He’s in Australia, working. Presumably on his way back by now. I wasn’t due for another fortnight. He had intended to be here. What about you?”

Tracy shrugged. “I don’t know where he is, and he didn’t know I was pregnant. He’d probably be a useless dad, anyway.”

The next time we went upstairs to express milk, I didn’t even manage a single drop. I tried for about ten minutes, but all that happened was that my nipples swelled. Tracy managed almost an entire bottleful, and she obviously saw me staring at it. “Do you really like it?”

I nodded, speechless, afraid to ask.
I didn’t have to. “Here. Just don’t drink it all. Leave some for Ashley.”

Hoping it wasn’t a tease, I reached out for the bottle, hardly believing she was handing it to me. Leaving some for Ashley was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do, but I managed to limit myself to less than half. “Bloody hell, Tracy. That is so delicious. Thank you. I’d never have believed it would taste like that.”
Tracy laughed as she took the bottle back from me. “Lucky thing you’ve got a friend like me then, since you don’t seem to be able to deliver the goods yourself.” She applied the pump to her nipple, and more milk squirted into the bottle.

“You don’t mind?”
She laughed again. “Course not. I think it’s funny.”

The links for "Milk" by Rose W at Amazon UK and Amazon US

"Post Mortem" a debut story from Rose is at Amazon UK and Amazon US

Friday, 24 July 2015


For the younger generation there is nothing so entertaining as shocking their parents and grandparents. This, they always do with a flourish; if they get a reaction, that is wonderful and is definitely worth the effort. In the years of George, the Prince Regent’s rule over London’s fashionable elite, the younger generation, shocked the older generation in a bold, extravagant gesture, with a brand new dance; the Waltz.

The year was 1815, the ending of the time of the Napoleonic wars. The government, led by Lord Liverpool, negotiated a peace settlement. The king had nothing to do with the details. Poor King George III had descended into madness and George, his son, the Prince Regent was too intent on going to licentious parties and generally having a pretty wild time, to be bothered with the politics of foreign policy.

Within the rural and urban counties of England, there was a mood of social and economic malaise, yet the Prince Regent and his entourage of the young aristocracy, exuded a mood of confidence, exuberance and expectation. There was an explosion of outrageously expensive design on an unprecedented scale. New styles were embraced. And then there was this decadent new dance craze.

The Waltz was a couples dance, as opposed to the traditional group dances. The gentleman actually clasped his arm around the lady's waist, giving the dance a dubious moral status. The Waltz was a dance born in the suburbs of Vienna and in the alpine region of Austria. It was foreign, that in itself was enough for the parents of the young, English  aristocracy to view it with suspicion.

The shock of the new. Each generation thinks that they are the originators of this phenomenon, but it has been done so many times before.

Before the scandalous Waltz came along, dancing had been civilised. You danced in large groups, only occasionally touching each other. Flirting would be done with eye contact. In the Waltz, you held your partner in an embrace for a whole dance. Touching, whispering to each other; social rules were broken. A strong arm around a slender waist. Long, delicate fingers cling to a firm shoulder. Warm rounded flesh beneath fine, creamy lace, or translucent muslin. White thighs pushed apart with an insistent, probing knee. Breasts, yearning for urgent caresses, crushed against a broad chest. Waltzing was dirty dancing for the Regency teens. The impact of the Waltz would probably have had the same effect on the older generation, as any sweet grandmother today stumbling into a full on swingers party.

The waltz was criticized on moral grounds by those opposed to its closer hold and rapid turning movements. Religious leaders almost unanimously regarded it as vulgar and sinful. Continental court circles held out obstinately against the waltz, seeing depravity in every swaying, graceful move.

In July of 1816, the waltz was included in a ball given in London by the Prince Regent. A blistering editorial in The Times a few days later stated:"We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz was introduced (we believe for the first time) at the English court on Friday last ... it is quite sufficient to cast one's eyes on the voluptuous intertwining of the limbs and close compressure on the bodies in their dance, to see that it is indeed far removed from the modest reserve which has hitherto been considered distinctive of English females. So long as this obscene display was confined to prostitutes and adulteresses, we did not think it deserving of notice; but now that it is attempted to be forced on the respectable classes of society by the civil examples of their superiors, we feel it a duty to warn every parent against exposing his daughter to so fatal a contagion."  (Source: The Times of London, 16th July 1816)

Even as late as 1866 an article in the English magazine Belgravia stated: "We who go forth of nights and see without the slightest discomposure our sister and our wife seized on by a strange man and subjected to violent embraces and canterings round a small-sized apartment - the only apparent excuse for such treatment being that is done to the sound of music - can scarcely realize the horror which greeted the introduction of this wicked dance."

Reportedly, the first time the waltz was danced in the United States was in Boston in 1834. Lorenzo Papanti, a Boston dancing master, gave an exhibition in Mrs. Otis' Beacon Hill mansion. Social leaders were aghast at what they called "an indecorous exhibition."

I thought that the 1960’s generation made a pretty good case for shocking the older generation. It seems that they had nothing on those wilful teens of Regency England.

Friday, 17 July 2015

Necrophilia; Fucking Dead People

Necrophilia; it’s a tough one. Is it a fetish or a perversion? What do you think? It’s a strange and disturbing phenomenon. It’s haunting; it’s taboo. But let’s not be squeamish; we’re going to talk about fucking dead people.

Yes it’s tough, but because it’s tough and makes us squirm, that’s not a reason not to talk about it. I think it’s a good reason to talk about it. Google is always a good place to start, so that’s where I went. And going on what you can find on the Web, with just a basic search; there’s a helluva lot of folk, curious and wanting to know more.

Are they all shouting “disgusting” and running away? It seems not; they’re intrigued. Reading about it; writing about it. Yearning for it…

Janine Ashbless writes a great necrophilia story, in Montague’s Last Ride,” in her “Cruel Enchantment.” collection. Jan Vander Laenen writes another great necrophilia  tale in his short story, “The Epistle of the Sleeping Beauty.”

So, necrophilia is there. It’s in the stories that we tell each other, from Classical Greek and Egyptian Mythology, to the Victorian Gothic. It’s in Fairy Tales and it’s in Popular Culture.

In the Greek legend of the Trojan War, the Greek hero Achilles slays the Amazon queen Penthesilea in a duel. Upon removing her helmet and seeing her face, Achilles falls in love with her and mourns her death. The soldier Thersites openly ridicules Achilles and accuses him of necrophilia. Achilles responds by promptly killing Thersites with a single blow. (In some traditions, Thersites' accusation is not unfounded—Achilles was so stricken by Penthesilea's beauty that he could not control his lust for her, even after her death.)

In Egyptian mythology, we are told of the myth of Osiris and Isis. It tells of the god Osiris, who had inherited his rule over the world from his ancestor Ra. Osiris was murdered and dismembered by his jealous brother Set, a god often associated with chaos. Osiris' sister and wife Isis reassembled Osiris' body so that she could impregnate herself and conceive an heir.

So the template for necrophilia is there, in our oldest stories. Mythology gives us permission to explore those dark and secret ideas.

And what about our current obsession with vampire stories? Starting with Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula, are they not a fantasy about a physical union with the un-dead?

And as for Heathcliffe in Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, he sure as hell didn’t dig up Cathy’s body to gaze on her beautiful face.

And there’s so many more. In Cormac McCarthy's Child of God (1973), the protagonist Lester Ballard finds a dead couple in a car, and carries the female corpse back to his cabin to engage in sexual acts with it. After losing the corpse in a fire, he begins murdering women to create dead female sex partners for himself.

Georges Bataille's gruesome novella Story of the Eye ends with the main characters performing perverse and sacrilegious sexual acts on a passive priest, who is raped and strangled to death as he climaxes. After murdering him, the characters continue to perform sexual acts with his dismembered eyeball.

Edgar Allan Poe once described the death of a beautiful young woman to be one of the most beautiful images. (By this, he was not saying that it is a good thing for young women to die; to him melancholy and pain were sources of beauty.) Also, his poem
"Annabel Lee" includes, towards the end, possible necrophilic imagery. As does his short story, “The Fall of the House of Usher.”

Oscar Wilde's scandalous play, Salome, based on the Biblical story of a Judean princess who performs the Dance of the Seven Veils for the Tetrarch, Herod, in exchange for the head of John the Baptist. When Salome finally receives the Christian prophet's head, she addresses it in an erotic monologue that has highly suggestive necrophiliac overtones.

And coming closer to today’s literature.

In Toni Morrison's novel Song of Solomon, (1977) Macon Dead is explaining to his son Milkman that he is disturbed by the relationship that his wife Ruth had with her father, Dr. Foster. Shortly after Dr. Foster's death, Macon caught Ruth lying naked in bed with her father's corpse, while sucking on his fingers.

In Canadian author Barbara Gowdy's short story, "We So Seldom Look On Love", a funeral parlour employee learns how to make the penises of recently dead men erect, and she commits sexual acts on the corpses until she is caught. In 1996, the story was adapted into the film Kissed.

Can’t leave out Fairy Tales either. Some Commentators like Marina Bychkova read the story of “Snow White”, as having a necrophiliac theme. Disney has sanitised it, just as he has done with “The Sleeping Beauty.” In a much older version of the story, the handsome Prince doesn’t just kiss the sleeping/dead princess, he rapes her.

From the Web.

“Sigmund Freud maintained that our deep childhood experiences (or lack of them) affect our adult lives in a profound way. In other words, when people are highly functional in their childhood experiences, this mirrors their adult reality, and when adult people are highly dysfunctional as children this, too, mirrors and mars their adult experiences.
There seems to be strong indications to support this concerning necrophilia. The list of necrophiliacs seems to clearly support Freud’s viewpoint. Here is a brief list: Ed Gein, Jeffery Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Albert Fish, Denis Nilson. All of these personalities had strained strange childhoods, felt abandoned, felt rejected and felt worthless. According to Dr. Jackson it is the perverted and extremely aberrant feelings of loneliness, rejection and abandonment, this feeling of total isolation, and total inability to connect to another human being that propels necrophilia.

As disturbing as this approach might be for some, in a nut shell what is being said here is that the necrophilia evolves to a state where the surest and easiest way to have total control, total acceptance, and total success in relating to another human being tragically descends to the point that the human being which is to be the object of intimacy is, of all things, a corpse.”

From the Web again.

“Erich Fromm, the psychologist and philosopher  considered that necrophilia is a character orientation which is not necessarily sexual. It is expressed in an attraction to that which is dead or totally controlled. At the extreme, it results in hatred of life and destructiveness. Unlike Freud's death instinct, it is not biologically determined but results from upbringing. Fromm believed that the lack of love in the western society and the attraction to mechanistic control leads to necrophilia. Expressions of necrophilia are modern weapon systems, idolatry of technology, and the treatment of people as things in bureaucracy.”

It’s described as “the highest taboo,” worse than rape, paedophilia, bestiality. So what’s going to happen if you do get caught fucking a corpse? The law in the United Kingdom says that fucking a corpse is very definitely illegal.

From Wiki;
“In the United Kingdom, sexual penetration with a corpse was made illegal under the Sexual Offences Act 2003. This is defined as depictions of "sexual interference with a human corpse" (as opposed to only penetration), and would cover "depictions which appear to be real acts" as well as actual scenes (see also extreme pornography).
As of the Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008, it is also illegal to possess physical depictions of necrophilia, electronic or otherwise. Necrophilia-pornography falls under the governmental description of extreme pornography, of which, possession is classed as illegal under the aforementioned act.”

So in the U.K. you’re not only breaking the sexual offences act law if you indulged your profane urges and fuck a corpse, you’re going to be hauled up for possessing “extreme pornography” as well.

In the United States, there doesn’t seem to be a blanket law covering the whole country. The law varies from state to state. As of May 2006, there is no federal legislation specifically barring sex with a corpse. Here’s a few examples of how the states differ in their application of the law.

In Arizona, It is unlawful for a person to engage in necrophilia. A person engages in necrophilia by:
1. Having sexual intercourse with a dead human body.
2. Having sexual contact with a dead human body, other than the contact normally required to store, prepare, disinfect or embalm a dead human body according to standards of practice in the funeral industry.
1. "Sexual contact" means any direct or indirect touching, including oral contact, fondling or manipulating of any part of the genitals, anus or female breast by any part of the body or by any object.
2. "Sexual intercourse" means penetration into the vulva or anus by any part of the body or by any object or masturbatory contact with the penis or vulva.
F. A person who violates this section is guilty of a class 4 felony.

In California, you can get up to eight years in prison, for the act of necrophilia. In the state of Georgia, you can get ten years in prison, for the same offence. In Nevada it’s considered a Class A felony with a maximum penalty of life in prison.

I still don’t know whether necrophilia is a fetish or a perversion. Certainly the sub-text in the Sigmund Freud statement, and the quote from Erich Fromm, seem to see necrophilia as something that needs to be “cured.”

So I’m lost for a proper conclusion.

How would I feel if a relative of mine who had passed, was “played” with? I would not like it at all. I would be distressed, incensed, livid. But, as I don’t think I’m likely to come across a necrophiliac any time soon, that’s as near to making it personal as I can get.

And not forgetting contemporary literature; Post Mortem by Rose W. Sweetly gentle; a dying woman's last wish. Post Mortem is available at Amazon UK and Amazon US

Friday, 10 July 2015

Rape fantasies

 The Rape of Ganymede; Peter Paul Rubens (1611)

I think a lot about our erotic fantasies, those wonderful tales that we tell ourselves. We cast ourselves as the hero, or heroine as we delve into our deepest, darkest desires. Yearnings that teeter on the edge of the profane, the taboo. I talk to friends about their fantasies; sometimes, I put their fantasies into my stories.

 Some of us fantasise about being raped. Not just about relinquishing control, about being forced. I am talking primarily, from a feminine perspective; some women have rape fantasies, but I’d never considered that men might have rape fantasies too. And I don’t mean a male being controlled and forced to serve, and service a beautiful woman, or women; there’s plenty of those stories on the web. I’m talking about a man fantasising about being raped by a man; being forced, being violated.

I hadn’t thought about that, until I had a conversation over a bottle of wine, with Justin.
I’ve known Justin for years, I was often a guest at his home, when he was married; like so many of us, he’s now divorced. I was friends with his wife, and with his two great kids. Justin drifted a bit after the divorce, he’s a freelance photographer, so he can find work wherever he goes. He’s unusual, rather than good looking; sort of Scandinavian, with silky, straight pale blond hair and stunning eyes. Watchful eyes, dark grey and heavily lidded. When he’s old, with his angular bone structure, he’ll look like an eagle.

Justin and I always end up talking about sex. We’ve never had sex, not with each other, but he knows about my stories and I’m aware of the private portfolio of his work. He told me about a book he’s putting together for a guy he knows who is a Dominant. Justin has photographed the Dom’s favourite slave girl, in every intimacy imaginable. The book will be exclusive. It will be a piece of pornography that collectors will kill for. Probably only a dozen or so copies will be made.

We were silent for a while. I poured more wine, then Justin told me about his own fantasy. Justin fantasises about being raped. Raped by a man. Violated.

I wasn’t shocked; there’s not a lot that shocks me these days.

There’s not a great deal on the web, but I found this.
“I know this is screwed up and unbelievable but I have no sexual attraction to men at all, only women, but for some reason, every time I get really horny, I have fantasies about someone bigger then me dragging me in an ally, pulling down my pants and raping me, especially when I stop masturbating all together, I have wet dreams about it.

It's taking over my life, I want to be raped; nobody knows this because I'm afraid someone might stage a rape and that's not what I want, I want it to hurt, be real and walk away…”
Cory James.

Male rape is acknowledged in the Greek myths.

Ganymede, the youngest son of Tros, the King of Troy, excelled in physical beauty. He was looking after the flocks of sheep, when Zeus, having fallen in love with him, swooped down in the form of an eagle, seized him and took him to Mount Olympus.

“When the gods in classical mythology fall homoerotically in love, they never do so with other gods or with adult human males; rather they always do so with a mortal youth. They enter into liaisons in which they, like Zeus, act the part of the erastes to an adolescent who, like Ganymede, serves as the eromenos. The sexual acts imagined to be performed by the divine-human lovers, though not described in detail, can be assumed to conform, just as the structure of the relationship does, to the cultural ideal of pederastic unions.”
From glbtq

“In Greek mythology, the rape of women, as explained by the rape of Europa, and male rape, found in the myth of Laius and Chrysippus, are mentioned. Different values are ascribed to the two actions. The rape of Europa by Zeus is represented as an abduction followed by consensual lovemaking, similar perhaps to the rape of Ganymede by Zeus, and went unpunished.

The rape of Chrysippus by Laius, however, is represented in darker terms, and was known in antiquity as "the crime of Laius", a term which came to be applied to all male rape. It was seen as an example of hubris -- pride and arrogance, and its punishment was so severe that it destroyed not only Laius himself, but also his son, Oedipus.” WIKI

“Laius, the king of Thebes, is thought to have been the first mortal to bring the practice of the love of youths to the Greeks. What we know for sure is that while he was still too young to rule, his cousins, Amphion and Zethus, grabbed the reins of power. With the help of loyal subjects Laius fled Thebes to save his life, and sought refuge in Pisa, a neighbouring kingdom. There King Pelops welcomed him warmly in his castle. When Laius reached manhood, Pelops entrusted his son, Chrysippus, ‘Golden Horse,' to him so that he would teach the boy the charioteer's art. The king loved Chrysippus best of all his sons, and wanted him well trained in the arts of war. Laius did as he was asked, but fell hopelessly in love with the beautiful youth. During the Nemean games, in which the pair competed in the chariot races, Laius kidnapped the boy. By then Amphion and Zethus had met with misfortune, so he was able to take him back to Thebes where he kept Chrysippus, by force, as his lover. It was not as if he did not know what he was doing. "I have understanding," Laius said in his defence, "but nature forces me."
From Gay-Art-History.

The 1972 film “Deliverance, directed by John Boorman, from James Dickey’s novel of the same name, features a male rape.

Four Atlanta businessmen, Lewis, Ed, Bobby and Drew, decide to canoe down the Cahulawassee Riverin the remote Georgia wilderness, expecting to have fun and see the glory of nature before the river valley is flooded by the construction of a dam. Lewis, an experienced outdoorsman, is the leader. Ed is also a veteran of several trips but lacks Lewis' machismo. Bobby and Drew are novices.
Pulling ashore to get their bearings, Bobby and Ed encounter a pair of unkempt hillbillies emerging from the woods, one toothless and carrying a shotgun. After some tense conversation in which the hillbillies appear to be goading the others, Ed speculates that the two locals have a moonshine still hidden in the woods and Bobby amicably offers to buy some. The hillbillies are silent; menacing. They force Bobby,  at gunpoint, to strip naked. Bobby is then chased, humiliated, ordered to "squeal like a pig;" then he is violently sodomized. Ed is unable to help because he has been tied to a tree and is held by the toothless hillbilly.

In James Dicky’s novel, the narrator is Ed. Bobby has been ordered to strip off his trousers and pants and lay across a fallen log.
            “The white bearded man was also suddenly naked up to the waist. There was no need to justify or rationalize anything: they were going to do what they wanted to do. I struggled for life in the air, and Bobby’s body was still and pink in an obscene posture that no one could help. The tall man restored the gun to Bobby’s head, and the other one knelt behind him.
            A scream hit me, and I would have thought it was mine except for the lack of breath. It was a sound of power and outrage, and was followed by one of simple wordless pain. Again it came out of him, higher and more carrying…The white haired man worked steadily on Bobby, every now and then getting a better grip on the ground with his knees. At last he raised his face as though to howl with all his strength into the leaves and the sky and quivered silently while the man with the gun looked on with an odd mixture of approval and sympathy. The whorl-faced man drew back, drew out… Bobby let go of the log and fell to his side, both arms over his face.”

The terrible images stay with you, long after you’ve stopped watching the film, finished reading the book. The violation is graphic, in both Boorman’s film and Dicky’s prose.
And just when you think it can’t get any worse, you realise that the rape precipitates real tragedy. There is more to come, they just don’t know it yet.

I have put this piece together, because the concept of violation, of being forced, disturbs me. It really does disturb me. And writing about it, is the only way that I can deal with it.

But from my friend Justin’s point of view, and Cory James, a real rape is not just something to be desired, something to fantasise about, it has an urgency, it is a real need.

Friday, 3 July 2015

Incest; the final taboo?

Incest; the final taboo. It is taboo, as far as I am able to ascertain, in every society on the planet. The exceptions to the rule appear to be royal dynasties, in particular the ancient Egyptian Kings and Queens.

There’s something alluring about incest; if not why, over the millennia, do we persist in telling ourselves stories about it?

Once upon a time, long, long ago there was a father and his two beautiful daughters. The father’s wife had recently died. Apart from his two daughters, the father was alone in the world. The two daughters got their father drunk and seduced him. Both girls became pregnant and gave birth to sons. No-one seemed to mind; even God. It really wasn’t such a big deal.

Even to our media hardened ears the story is shocking. You can just imagine the newspaper headlines if it were to happen today.

The story is from the Bible; The Genesis 19 account of a father and his daughters ensuring the survival of the human species through an incestual act; it is an archetypal story woven into the very fabric of changing social norms and psychological dynamics unfolding over several millennia.

Sophocles tells the tragic tale of Oedipus. Oedipus -- who marries the widowed queen Jocasta, not knowing she is his mother. After many years of prosperity and conjugal bliss, a plague falls on the people of Thebes. Upon discovery of the truth, Oedipus blinds himself, putting out his eyes with the long pins of his wife’s brooches. Jocasta hangs herself. After Oedipus is no longer king, Oedipus' sons kill each other. Everybody dies.

Fast forward millennia. “Brookside” 1996: A British Soap, famous for its challenges to our views. The incest storyline, in which brother and sister, Nat and Georgia Simpson,
are discovered in bed together by their younger brother, is described by Phil Redmond, the producer, as “breaking the last television taboo.” It was so shocking an MP urged viewers to complain "in their millions".

Ian Rankin’s detective, Rebus, has a crime to solve. An eminent obstetrician is murdered – his throat cut, the arteries in his wrists slit open. It’s literally a bloodletting – he has bled to death. Near him there is a tiny coffin – an effigy of a tiny baby inside smiles. A Bible lays opened at Genesis 19 – the story of Lot and his daughters. There’s a creepy exposure of incest in Ian Rankin’s story; this is incest that has produced a child, a daughter. The daughter traces her birth mother; Fiona. She is understandably shocked when she learns the truth about her parentage. Her mother is also her sister; when the daughter asks Fiona why she didn’t stop the abuse, she is told that there was no abuse;

“There was a time when I wanted him to stop, but I couldn’t. I love him.”

The intrigue of incest has gone full circle and leads us back to where it all began. The tale is as relevant today, as it was millennia ago.

And the stories keep coming. Only last week, Colin Hobbs published his incest story;

“Dad, Daughter and Her 3 Friends – A Perfect Harem” - Part 1.

Okay, the title suggests that you’re not going to get the sophistry of Sophocles, but the point is, the taboo is still demanding to be heard right from antiquity to the present day. Somehow incest keeps bubbling to the surface of our consciousness.

Here is a link for a free download of part one of Colin Hobbs’ book.

You can buy the book here.

You can read the tale of Lot and his daughters here.