At varying times between the ages of perhaps 7 and 10 -- I can't honestly remember my exact age, though I do have the point of reference of a family vacation to use as a waypoint -- my sister and I fucked. She was 5 years older. What I remember about it was that it was interesting and that I liked it. She made it into a game. It would always start with a dare to do something somehow inappropriate, a double dare to touch the other person in some inappropriate way, and would culminate in, umm, a double-doggy-dare to fuck the other. I think this probably happened maybe five times over the course of a few years. But I really don't know.
I certainly never had feelings of sexual attraction for her, and don't think I associated feelings of attraction with sex. I just knew that sex was something adults did and that it was wrong. And, actually, our mother caught us once, not in the act exactly, but me with my pants down, which is rather odd behavior for a brother and sister hidden behind a closed door, when their normal disposition is characterized more by hatred and violence than pants around the ankles. Our mother was very serious and led us to her own bedroom, where she sat us down and sternly asked what we were doing, all before we had an opportunity to get our stories straight. Luckily, Law & Order wasn't on TV back then, and our housewife mother didn't know the importance of separate interrogations. I think we said I was changing my pants, which satisfied her, and that was that. I remember as we were leaving the room I turned to my sister and said under my breath something like, "phew," which prompted her to slap me hard, as she was often inclined to do, and told me to shut up.
Like I said, I'm not exactly sure how old I was, but I was young: I did know that girls were impregnated through sex, but it was my understanding that this was effected by a testicle traveling up-and-out of the penis, where it would be deposited inside a woman for growth into a child. I also remember being quite frightened when, after a relevant occasion came to pass, I realized that my normal allotment of three testicles had shrunken to only two, which plainly meant my sister was pregnant and that I had something called AIDS.
Which is all to say this: why should anyone care about incest? I'm sure it happens quite regularly, perhaps not normally, but frequently enough for it to not even be an oddity, or a problem of any major sort. Probably it's just a part of the human condition. Frankly, I don't give two shits that my sister fucked me, or that I liked it. Slightly embarrassing, of course, as society says it's awful and all that. Hardly a big deal in my life, though. I only think of it when others talk about incest, or childhood sex or abuse. Obviously I allow for the fact that others' experiences might be much worse than my own, especially if some sort of force or violence is involved, instead of simple coercion. But it's always seemed to me that incest in and of itself is psychologically harmless.
I've often thought the same about other forms of childhood sexual "coercion" which lack a violent element.
For example, when I was 13, in 7th grade, one of my sister's (gay) friends needed some help with a poetry project he was working on. He was submitting a collection of his erotic poetry to a (non-existent) contest administered by Berkeley. What he really needed to grab attention and win the grand prize was a collection of photographs of his erect penis for pairing with the erotic poems. What he needed from me was someone to take the photographs. He'd pay me $50 to help him out with this. This went well enough, and the next day he left at my house an incense-scented envelope with $60 inside, which I used to buy some weed.
The next week he needed to redo some of the shots that didn't work out exactly as he had hoped. If I could help him with this, he'd give me another $50. So, cool, another 1/8th of an ounce. So I helped him with the shots, which turned into taking a few shots of myself in various states, turned into jerking off in front of him, turned into him jerking me off, turned into me getting close to climaxing, freaking out at the thought, me trying to push him off, and him holding on tight till I finished.
What I remember most about this is: I liked it. This was my first hand job, and far and away the best I've had. When I'm sleeping with a girl and her hair smells like Pantene Pro V, what I think about is: gosh, wasn't that a nice hand job back in the day in my parents den from my sister's quirky faggot friend? And I guess I feel like my life is all the more enriched for it. I guess I don't know how else to feel. Poor me, I got a killer hand job when I was 13 from a quirky queer. 'Cause let me tell you, this is not the worst thing that could happen to a thirteen year old.
Nonetheless, the fact is he rather forced himself on me. I was telling him to stop, stop, stop, while I tried to push him off. And this wasn't a prolonged thing, of course, but merely a few seconds, because I had waited 'till the apex of this hand job before I protested. I'm not sure why I thought it would be okay to let him jerk me off, but not to let him make me come. I guess maybe I thought if he made me come, that would mean I was gay. Whatever I was thinking, I don't regret the situation at all, because now I know what a good hand job is supposed to feel like. Mostly what I regret is that I didn't do it again, because not only was it the best hand job I've had, but he also paid me $100.
Honestly, I find these childhood stories pretty funny. As I walk the chain of memories which begin at this tangent, I can remember such a slew of hilarious childhood absurdities that I can only wish it were socially acceptable to talk about these things with strangers at a bar, because I could go on for hours.