What History and Sexology Reveal about the Problem of Pedophilia
It is a hot midsummer's day in a small town just north of Atlanta shortly before the Epstein sex scandal hits the fan. Maybe the teenage girl who passes me as I exit the department store is sexy. But I don't think so.
She's asparagus thin and much taller than the older rounder woman, possibly her mother, who enters the store alongside her. They do not speak to each other or to me. The girl's gaze is downward, her attention is fixed on a cell phone. She wears more makeup than her young skin requires, and her dishwater blonde hair is pulled into a bun at the back of her head.
I notice these two, in part, because the girl can hardly walk. She's wearing denim blue jeans and platform shoes that add about three inches to her height. The jeans are not yoga pants or tights, but they might as well be. That's how snug they are. Between the shoes and the jeans, it's not difficult to figure out why she walks like a robot without bending her knees. And yet, she clip-clops into the store as if evolution had always intended for humans to walk this way.
I can't see my own face, but I don't think I react. The sight of a skinny teenage girl in tight jeans doesn't do anything for me. I see her as a girl in the process of growing up. And that's about it.
For the guy entering the store a few feet behind the girl, however, something different is going on.
Nabokov's Nymphet Remains Misunderstood by a Culture that Winks at the Sexualization of Children
I don’t care about Jeffrey Epstein. I care about the girls. I see the term “Lolita Express” in the news alongside passenger logs that include the names of rich and famous men, most of whom are white, and the only relief I feel is that Epstein did not have the audacity to give that name to the aircraft himself. The reference to Nabokov's famous novel came from the press, as did the nickname for the 72-acre island he owns in the Caribbean—"Orgy Island."
Cute, but it's not funny
Lolita is a tragic figure. She is completely undone by the lust of a sophisticated, well-educated adult, who by possessing the object of his desire transforms it into something entirely different, initiating her demise. The novel is a double tragedy. It is the story of Lolita's ruin and that of her putative stepfather and abductor Humbert Humbert.
Consider what it means to call Espstein's airplane "Lolita Express." Especially when the alleged sex trafficking of underage girls is part of the equation and an alleged open secret.
Does Forgetting about Sexual Assault Make It Go Away?
Nestled on an island far across the Pacific, the Hotel G20 requires the most exclusive credentials in the world. It's an invitation-only getaway. Crimes have been committed to earn a place here. Or so it's been said. As with most exclusive hideaways, what you see on the surface (should you fly a drone over), is nothing compared to what Hokusai art lovers might call the "thunderstorm beneath the summit." It is here that the Short-Fingered Vulgarian meets with his boss, The Bare-Chested Horseman, to go over the books.
Although he nods agreeably at the spreadsheet, the Bare-Chested Horseman is not pleased. His undilated pupils tighten to the size of pinpricks. Two black dots in a pair of unblinking eyes. Something is bothering him.
“Idiot! Did you really rape some woman in a department store?”
“How do I know, boss?” Though he tries to look bemused, the short-fingered Vulgarian seems bewildered. “You think I keep track of ‘em all? But I did read that excerpt from her book, and—”
“You read it?”
“Well I had Huck read it to me over the phone. Anyway, it sounds kind of familiar. Especially the part about pushing her into a fitting room. But she wanted it, boss. She was laughing the whole time. Besides, you can do stuff like that when you’re famous.”
“So you keep telling me. But once again your sordid past threatens to jeopardize everything we’ve worked for. What are you trying to do to me?”
I like big books, and I cannot lie. My background includes talk radio, newspapers and TV news. I've hosted a morning-drive classical music program on the California coast and published nationally in Reader's Digest, the Christian Science Monitor, and Playboy. I've won awards for my journalism and my fiction. One of my essays even made it into an anthology for college English courses. For real? Yes, for real.
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