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Taboo Family Sex Story
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Short Story – Lolita Photo credit: danielito from morguefile.com
A new person had appeared in their colony and for Arjun who was always looking for change, she became the subject of close scrutiny and wide speculation. The usual questions of who, from where, went around in the neighborhood, but no one would go forward to speak to her.
Every morning when I left for school, when all the neighborhood was awake with men going to work, children to school and women washing clothes or vessels outside their doors, her door would be shut. In the afternoon when I would come back, which I hated because these eight years of my life had given me enough reasons not to return. Nevertheless I always came back because I knew my mother was waiting for me, afternoons were the only times that we could sit together and talk, I would tell her all what happened in school that day and she would patiently listen to me and after lunch she would go for her work.
Today when I returned I saw the new lady having a big fight with her immediate neighbor, I went forward to see what was happening, “You bas*ard, better tell your wife not to wash your dirty clothes outside my door, you understand?” she was shouting.
The man with an angry face went inside his house and closed the door, then I could only hear the screams of his wife, which was very common in all the houses, so I came home constantly thinking of the new lady. My mother was waiting for me, I told her about the fight while eating lunch, she didn’t speak to me because she couldn’t, today her face was bruised. After the lunch she gave me a hug and went for her work. I was alone at home and could not stop thinking of the new lady, her fierceness, her arrogance, her anger, she was different, different from all the women in the neighborhood, different from my mother.
After some time I went out to play cricket with the other boys. I was famous for my batting, I would hit the ball so hard, it was six most times and four the others. I loved the game, hitting the ball with all my might, the ball reminded me of my father and I would hit it harder. While playing I saw her, she was looking at me and gave me an impressed paan smile. I turned my head away and continued playing, she sat there for a long time looking at us. My mother came back and called me home, the day was over for me. I went home and sat in a corner beside her. She was doing her work. For every small noise from outside both of us would look at the door.
When I was having my dinner he came in, holding first the door and then whatever he could find to support himself. I looked at my mother, she told me to eat fast and go to sleep. He came and sat beside me. Now my mother was constantly looking at his movements and I was trying to swallow the food fast, at last I got up.
“Are you giving me food yourself or should I make you do that?” he shouted glaring at her.
Mother hastily served him. By this time I was on my mat, my head covered with the blanket I had. After some time I slept and he was still having his meal.
Next morning I got up between his snores, mother was washing clothes outside. In an hour I was out of the house for school and as always the new lady’s door was closed. When I returned she was sitting at her door, I went home and had lunch with my mother. After she left, I went out, the new lady was still sitting at her door. I went to her and asked, “What is your name?”
“Come in I’ll tell you”, she said. I hesitantly followed her inside.
“Sit here”. She pointed towards a small chair.
“But what is your name?” I was getting nervous; I decided that as soon as she tells me her name I would run outside.
“You’ll have some sweets?” Before I could answer she brought me some. Sitting beside me she answered my question,
“My name is Lolita and what is your name?” I took one sweet ate it at my own leisure and then answered her, “Arjun”. She just laughed.
“What does bas*ard mean?” I asked her at last.
“Yesterday you called your neighbor a bas*ard and then he did not fight with you”.
“Oh, bas*ard means a bad man, a very bad man. Anyways you want to watch T.V.? ”, she asked me. I nodded in the positive and she put it on. I saw ‘ Sholay’ , the whole movie and I loved it.
In the evening when I heard my mother calling out my name I got up, when I reached the door she asked. “Hey, will you come tomorrow?” I smiled and ran to my mother.
Next day after my mother left for her work I went to Lolita. “What movie do you want to watch today?” she asked me.
“Amitabh Bachchan’s I love all his movies.” I quickly replied.
“Because he beats up all the gundas and drunkards.”
Smiling she put up ‘ Deewar’ and sat beside me with a plate of sweets. I smiled and we both sat together and enjoyed the movie.
When I returned home my father had already come and was beating my mother for money, “You bi*ch you are not worth anything you know!”
He was shouting and hitting her simultaneously. With all my courage I went towards him, “You are a bas*ard!!!”
I shouted and ran outside. I came back late in the night, he was snoring, I went straight to bed.
Now all my afternoons were spent with Lolita. We would watch movies, play games or talk. It was very easy to be around her, I did not have to look at the door or sit in one corner. I was free here.
One afternoon I came to her beaten.
“Hey, what happened to you?” she asked me looking at the bruises.
“They told that you keep all the men under your control. I said that you are atleast better than the mothers who can’t even control their husbands, at this they got angry and beat me up”.
“What did you tell your mother about this?”
“I told her I fell down in school. She will feel bad if I tell her the truth”.
“And my sweets?” She smiled and gave me some. In the evening I did not hear mother calling me, but I knew that she must have returned home, so I left for her. She had returned but did not look at me when I entered,
“Why didn’t you call me today?” I asked her.
“Where do you go in the afternoons?” she looked angry.
“And what do you do there?” she was getting angrier.
“I watch movies and play with her.”
“Arjun listen and listen carefully, you will not go to her anymore and don’t imagine I will not know if you meet her, those boys will tell me again. Ok?”
“No, I will go to her. She is very good, I like to be with her”, now I was getting angry too.
“She’s a prostitute, the bi*ch sleeps with all the men in the neighborhood you understand that and understand one more thing you are not seeing her anymore let alone meeting her and if you don’t obey me I will lock you in the house and go for work ok?”
By now I was crying bitterly and I did not stop till night, I went to sleep without food and made my decision. I will leave this house; I will get up early in the morning before mother wakes up and go to Lolita. It is not my fault if mother wants to live like this, she does not want to change and moreover wants me also to continue live like these past eight years. I will leave this house, I will leave her.
Next morning I got up, mother was sleeping and he was not in the house. I slowly got up, opened the door and went out. No one was around, all were sleeping. I knocked at her door, no reply, she must be sleeping. I sat outside the door. After some time the door opened but it was someone else who opened it, a man. I got scared and hid behind the outside of the door. “You know you are better than that bi*ch”, he was saying.
“Then why don’t you come here often?” it was Lolita’s voice.
“Oh you charge high and you don’t know how difficult it is to remove money from her.” And both started laughing. The man came out. And I saw my father going towards my house. Lolita closed the door shut, she had still not seen me.
I could not understand what was going on. In an impulse I got up banged at her door. She opened it.
“YOU ARE A BAS*ARD!!!” I yelled at her and ran to my house, came to my mother, slept beside her, hugged her tightly and cried.

This article is more than 7 years old
This article is more than 7 years old
It’s long past time to shine a light on what too many children endure. Photograph: Jens Meyer/AP
Thu 29 Jan 2015 13.20 GMT Last modified on Tue 8 Aug 2017 20.04 BST
Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
I never felt like a victim, but long after I grew up, every sexual experience brought me back to that winter night I didn’t understand
T here’s a reason why, when a woman whispers her story of sexual abuse, when she writes about it , when she Tweets about it or carries a mattress around on her back, calls the police or a rape crisis line, I believe her.
The reason is because it happened to me. And you didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.
Uncle “Doug” was an old friend of my parents; he visited our family often and occasionally joined us for holidays. One evening, when I was six, he offered to babysit me and my older sister at his house.
Before bedtime, Uncle Doug told us both a bedtime story about a werewolf who howled at the moon in the bitter cold of winter on top of a snowy hill, just like the hill outside the window over the sink in Uncle Doug’s kitchen. He could do these pitch-perfect character voices, and in that way, he was charismatic and appealing to children. The werewolf would howl, he said, his thirst for the blood of children relentless, until one night he came charging through a window of a house trying to catch the little girl inside. The broken glass pierced his throat, and then he was dead, his head hanging over the sill, blood dripping down the wall to the floor.
And then my sister went to bed, and I sat in his small, dimly lit kitchen, on his lap, as he nuzzled my hair and then my ear and neck, and squeezed me hard and soft at the same time. I remember staring fixedly at the window in his kitchen, into the dark snowy night, through a pane of cold glass, the moon casting shadows, a dark tree, listening for the howl of the werewolf, trying not to pay attention to what was actually happening.
What was actually happening is that he was kissing me, whispering in my ear things I didn’t understand, and rubbing the tops of my 6-year-old thighs, right where my underwear started, while I sat on his lap.
Afterwards, he took to calling me his “wifey” and signed notes to me: “Love, your hubby”. There was never another physical encounter like the one at his house, but when he visited ours, he would request “private” viewings of me practicing my ballet and leer at me longingly in my leotard and tights; he looked for any opportunity to touch me – my hand, my shoulder, the small of my back. After a couple of years, when I started to understand how inappropriate his behavior was, I refused to have anything to do with him.
I never told my parents anything. My only act of acknowledgement that he did something bad was when I crossed out with a ballpoint pen the “Love, your hubby” at the bottom of a poem he had written in my autograph book when I was eight or nine. The poem: “Tulips in the garden, tulips in the park/But the best place for tulips, is tulips in the dark”.
Uncle Doug did not hurt me physically, but he laid the groundwork for who and what I would become with men throughout my adolescence and into my early adulthood – a wreckage of fondled girlhood looking out a dark window whenever a man was on top of me. His adult hand edging up my six-year-old thigh made it seem natural to me when much older men showed interest or pursued me as a teenager. Or perfectly normal for me to try to seduce a 35-year-old when I was 15.
I never felt like a victim – and I might even still argue that I wasn’t victimized enough to claim that label, and instead call myself a product of a premature sexual experience. But for years, every time a man touched me – especially if he was older, even if I pursued him and told myself and him that it was ok – I’d catch myself looking through a non-existent dark window waiting for it to be over. Relationships came and went but never lasted, and I thought both that didn’t have anything to tell, and no one to tell it to.
Eventually, I told someone: after about eight months of dating my now-husband, who was curious and emotionally invested in “us” in a way I’d never experienced, I proudly called myself promiscuous. He looked at me with compassion and confusion and said, “Really?”. I confessed: “Not promiscuous in the way you would think.” And then I told him the truth.
And then I told someone else. And someone else after that. I chose to narrate my own story, rather than let the one Doug told persist any longer in my own mind.
Doug, like most abusers, relied on me not telling. They all rely on us not telling – to save their reputations, avoid consequences, and keep on abusing. Those of us who do tell, who let go of the shame we know we’re supposed to feel, are in such a minority that it enables the rest of you to disbelieve both those that tell and the existence of those who can’t yet. It’s hard for you to imagine being in a group of five women and knowing that one was sexually assaulted. It’s hard for me to believe that we can just go unheard – our experiences unknown – without consequence.
But all of that is why it’s so important for women, for abuse survivors, to tell our stories: because the more of us who do, the more we chip away at the ability to ignore or to choose not to believe. I believe – and I believe that you can choose to as well.



by Singapore Women's Weekly / 


January 26, 2016


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MCI (P) 049/10/2021. Published by SPH Media Limited, Co. Regn. No. 202120748H. Copyright © 2022 SPH Media Limited. All rights reserved.
TRUE STORY: “My husband doesn’t know I share him with my twin sister.”
One woman confesses how and why she let her twin sister ‘marry’ her fiance on her wedding day – and they’re still doing it now!
Growing up, my bff was my sister. We did everything together, from playing with the same toys, to reading the same books and eating the same food. We even had the same friends in school. This might seem strange to some people, but it’s because May* is my twin sister… and they say twins share an affinity. 
I have never felt that I needed anyone else in my life other than May. She’s not just a sister and best friend, she’s my confidante whom I can trust all my secrets to. Even when we went to different colleges, our bonds did not break. We might have developed some different friends and priorities then, but we still talked about everything and shared everything… from new interests to gossip in school… and cute boys we liked. 
Not long after we both graduated from university and found jobs, May moved out as she found a job at the other end of Singapore. I stayed at home with our parents, but kept in constant contact with May. She would visit us during weekends and we would have lunch together to catch up. 
It was during this period that I met and fell in love with Edmund*, a charming expat from London whom I met on one of my work trips. Edmund and I got along so well from the get-go, that we started dating after just a few weeks. And three months into our relationship, he proposed to me! 
May met Edmund during one of our family lunches, when she came back to visit the family. I’d told Edmund about my twin sister, but it was still amusing for him to meet another woman who looked exactly like me. And all of us were amused with Edmund as he could not tell us apart – he even walked into the kitchen and placed his hand on May’s back, only to find out that it wasn’t me! 
But May took it well and joked that perhaps Edmund should marry the both of us? We laughed it off, but at that time I did not expect that things would really turn out that way… 
Because later, during one of my weekly chats with May over the phone she confessed to me that she liked Edmund, and not just as a brother-in-law. She said she had greater feelings beyond that; she revealed that she felt passionate towards him. 
Hearing May, I expected to be upset and shocked… but I was not. Somehow I knew May would love Edmund like I did, because we often shared the same passions in the past. Also, May and I had never kept any secrets between us, so I was not surprised that she was so frank with me. 
I decided to do the unthinkable, I suggested to May that she could sometimes date Edmund in my place – without his knowledge. He could not tell us apart anyway. 
And at our wedding dinner, when I went out to change into my second gown, it was May who returned in the dress, while I stood in the background pretending to be her. We had a huge wedding and many people at the tables had not seen May and I for many years, since we were children, so we were able to get away with it. We never told anybody what we did. I just wanted May to experience the most important day in my life in the same way I did, and I was so happy when I saw that she was in tears of joy when Edmund kissed her. 
From then on, May and I have ocassionally “shared” Edmund. Sometimes, she will have dinner with him after work, instead of me. Or they will go shopping, and she pretends to be me. May and I have promised one another to never reveal this to anyone around us. 
Sometimes I feel bad about keeping Edmund in the dark, but the charade has gone on for so long, so how do we tell him? Perhaps one day we may have to reveal what we have done. I love Edmund, but I love May even more. And for now, I just want her to be happy.
*Names have been changed to protect privacy.
This story was originally published in the June 2015 issue of Singapore Women’s Weekly.
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