Common sense, and eventually our own experience, tell us that even when we have become adults our parents are probably still having sex. Yet it remains uncomfortable to confront; on the whole we prefer not to think about it. That was certainly true in my case - until the day I came upon the clearest possible evidence of my mother’s very active sexual existence, and not only with my father. The evidence was in her own words. Fortunately, I believe, I didn’t make the discovery until after her death,
If I told you my mother’s name you might recognise her as a highly respected writer, the author of a series of biographies of women famous in the arts - Jane Austen, Isadora Duncan, Clara Schumann, Emily Bronte among others. The books were critically acclaimed but hardly lucrative. However, under another name my mother wrote novels which almost always made the best-seller lists, To describe them as erotic fiction would be an exaggeration but her heroines were never virgins, at least not by the end of the book. I did suggest to her once that some of her writing must surely have been based on personal experience, but she merely smiled without replying. Neither before nor after I met my husband did she discuss sex with me. I was no innocent when I married but what I knew had not been learned at my mother’s knee.
Her death at the age of sixty-two, which was sudden and unexpected, left me curiously unmoved. I mourned, of course, but out of respect and gratitude rather than any deeper feeling. My father, twenty years her senior, was in a care home where he needed round-the-clock attention. As the only child, I was both the main beneficiary of her will, and, with the family solicitor, an executor, too. Writers accumulate a great deal of paper: manuscripts, notebooks and letters in addition to the mundane documents of any household. The solicitor had a practice to tend, which meant that I was left to sort what should be preserved, what destroyed.
I had been working my way through a particularly untidy filing cabinet when I came across the diaries. Not knowing that she had kept any kind of daily record, I opened one at random and read:
22nd Monday. The hotel. Still can’t believe K and I can walk in at three pm as tho’ we’re a married couple. Keep expecting polite word from the manager. Fucked nearly all afternoon, only brief rests. K at his cleverest, both ways. Meant to count my o’s but forgot so must have been v special. P wanted full details when I returned and was v aroused so came quickly and copiously in my mouth.
Was I surprised? Shocked? Disgusted? I can no longer remember. But now, more than two years after the original impact, I believe I have my thoughts in some kind of order. After long consideration, I decided it was important not to be judgemental. By the time I had read everything, I knew that no one had been hurt, no one had been coerced. Everyone, including my father - referred to throughout simply as P - had consented, by inference enthusiastically. Indeed, my only conclusion was that everyone had found the encounters highly erotic and intensely satisfying. Unorthodox, certainly, but who really knows the private thoughts and actions of others’ lives? Were my parents so extraordinary or are there many others who savour the delights of unconventional coupling? Tantalisingly, she does not record how they came to this way of life. The journals are simply a record of what happened, who did what to whom and how.
My one dilemma was what to do with the diaries; there were ten in all, closely written in hard-backed notebooks. They dealt only with sexual matters over a period of more than twenty years, although there were many gaps. Had my mother been an anonymous housewife, I would have burned them. But she was a famous author. Perhaps posterity has a right to know. Today they may still be shocking to some minds, but attitudes change and who can say what view future generations may hold?
For the moment all ten volumes are locked away in a bank strong box. I have decided to publish a selection of extracts here to test reaction. I hope that anyone who reads them will let me have their opinion before I make the final decision.
Clearly, my mother was keeping the diaries out of some personal compulsion. They are written in little more than extended note form, far removed from the fluent style of her books. I have my own theories - and in some cases certainties - about the identity of several of the others, male and female, who feature. Some are still alive so it would be unthinkable to identify anyone. However, where I have felt it necessary, I have added a note for clarification.
In contrast to the restraint of her published work, my mother’s vocabulary in the diaries is basic and explicit. There is some evidence that this was reciprocated - or perhaps requested - by many of the men and women with whom she became involved, It seems probable, too, that there was an element of self-stimulation.
Her frequent use of abbreviation can be confusing but, having become familiar with all ten volumes, I can offer the following guide:
a - arse ah - arsehole b - bottom c - cock or cunt, depending on context cl - clitoris d - dick f - fuck mb - masturbate mbn - masturbation o - oral p - penis, prick ts - tits v - vagina
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Thursday 8th. Grouchy mood. Curse, day 4 - L says he doesn’t mind but I do. Too messy. Clear anyway by week-end with L. [L was a solicitor mother met through her agent; their relationship was sexual, not professional] Snapped at P, then apologised, curse is the problem. P suggested mb. He watched me then did himself, used my knickers to come. My o not v good but less tense afterward.
