Delphine Lecompte

Delphine Lecompte (born 22 January 1978) is a Flemish / Belgian poet and columnist. Her debut poetry collection, De dieren in mij [The animals in me], won the annual literary award for the best debut poetry collection in Dutch (C. Buddingh' Prize, 2010), and a second award in 2011.

In relation to MAPs, Lecompte wrote a letter to Humo magazine in August 2021, titled "Pedophilia Dwells in Each of Us." The letter made headlines for its sensitive comments on pedophilia and artistic freedom, and her employer at the time responded by stating they did not endorse her views but recognized her right to free speech. Lecompte argued that pedophiles were a "vulnerable, marginalized group that has been treated for years like sickly scum by the crowd of decent moralists." She also referred to the fact that "most pedophiles never commit pedophilic acts and that every human being is sometimes attracted to innocence and youth", fearing that a witch hunt against pedophiles could lead to more "pedophile excesses and child pornography, which we all want to avoid." She added "It seems wiser to me to learn to know and accept the pedophile. And to accept that pedophilia resides in each of us." She argued that:

[E]veryone has the right to fantasize about violent or non-violent sex with animals, children, dwarves, aphasic truffle pickers, demented organ grinders, albino Aboriginals, and imbecile birdwatchers. Thank God we do not live in glass houses, and whatever filthy sadistic scenarios that keep us entertained during sleepless nights or lethargic summer afternoons are nobody's business, and nobody is harmed by them. [...]

The idea that every person is occasionally attracted to innocence and youthfulness is something that cannot ever be spoken aloud.

And yet, it is true. Look into your soul and try to deny it. Youthfulness is beautiful; young skin is dazzlingly lovely. The innocent, untarnished, frank gaze of an 8-year-old altar boy, a 6-year-old saddle-maker's son, or a 5-year-old Romanian flower girl is delightful—the pinnacle of beauty and heavenly splendor. And it is neither disgusting nor scandalous to fantasize, in your living room and private mind, about explicit encounters and acrobatic situations involving the aforementioned figures.

But nothing is allowed anymore. Even imagination, fiction, and art are being monitored and, if possible, restricted. In literature and visual arts, pedophilia is becoming a taboo again: calls to cancel Gerard Reve, Jan Hanlo, and Balthus for their beautiful erotic masterpieces that flirt with pedophilia are growing louder and shriller. And "Lolita" has been under fire for years. [...]

It seems very dangerous to demonize and silence pedophiles. By doing this, the pedophile is almost forced into a position of illegality and perverse criminality. [...] Most pedophiles struggle all their lives against their sexual feelings toward children. It’s hell on earth, because children are everywhere, and pedophiles are not allowed to touch them. Most pedophiles do not touch children. The vast majority do not rape or kill children. Yet pedophiles are universally despised, abhorred, hated, entrapped, and harassed. Pedophiles are portrayed as monsters, and the media does nothing about it. When a sensitive, compassionate initiative [...] is set up for pedophiles, it obviously receives no platform on ‘VTM news’ or the website of “The Latest News”. Because it is too gentle, too mild, too nuanced, and too merciful. The 21st century, unfortunately, belongs to the blind, seething, ruthless, heartless, spiteful crowd.

Propria Cures: 'The gardener and the five-year-old child'

On May 6th, 2021, the Dutch Newspaper "Propria Cures," latin for "Mind Your Own Business," published an issue in their newspaper on free speech, specifically in relation to pedophilia. The chief guest editor for this edition was none other than activist Marthijn Uittenbogaard, and included contributions from the renown former professor of gay and lesbian studies Gert Hekma (deceased 2022), his gay life-partner Mattias Duyves (also an academic), the emeritus professor Meindert Fennema, and influential journalist Anton Dautzenberg, among others.

Lecompte's contribution was number 8, titled "The gardener and the five-year-old child," which appears to be an autobiographical narrative account of Lecompte's own positively experienced sexual feelings and age-gap sex in childhood. Since most accounts and testimonies published by named individuals or in scholarship involve pubescent or post-pubescent adolescents and teenagers, or are limited to masturbatory experiences, Lecompte's lived experience is especially unique, novel, and brave to express as it involves the willing and wanted, and positively experienced sexual penetration of a pre-pubescent child from the former child's perspective. According to various research studies from Alfred Kinsey onward, the sexual penetration of a pre-pubescent female by a male has the least likelihood of being positively recalled in later years by the younger party. Based on available research known to us, we speculate that Lecompte's experience was positive where others' were not because she herself, the young person, initiated the experience, had fantasized about and wanted the experience prior to its occurrence, and was not subject to 'iatrogenic' or 'secondary harm' because her experience was never discovered, scandalized, or subjected to shame or stigma from parents, friends, or the criminal punishment system. As the author explained, "We were never caught, never booed, never stoned."

Retaining her original formatting, Lecompte wrote:

As a five-year-old child, I was courted by my grandparents' sturdy weathered half-Bretan gardener. But actually I seduced him.

I was in love with his crooked gnarled hands and fascinated by his efficient musical box cutters, and by the cruel unwieldy spades that decapitated earthworms and woodlice [...]

I stroked the gardener's stiff apron and asked him to show me around his world.

The gardener chased me away grimly. He didn't like children. [...]

I knew I couldn't seduce the gardener with words, but maybe the swing would do the trick.

If I rocked very high he could see my panties, but he never looked at me, the rocking child. Let alone the panties. His back was always proudly and stubbornly turned to the swing.

Nevertheless, every Friday I wore my tightest cutest panties in the hope that the gardener would ever glance at them. After six months, I gave up.

I needed to be bolder. I devised a plan: on Thursday night, I would sneak down to my grandparents' basement to disguise a bottle of gin and a goblet of apricots in syrup, and I would then gobble up this rich, irresistible feast with the gardener the next day. [...]

At first I watched the gardener like a horny sneaky voyeur: I gaped unabashedly at the sagging pants and at the sweaty slit leading to the anus.

I wanted so badly to stick my finger in that anus and fall asleep in the sun in the grass.

The gardener turned around and caught me. But he was not annoyed, rather amused.

He called me to him, patted my crown and told me I could tip out the wheelbarrow full of weeds in that corner over there.

But the wheelbarrow was too heavy and the gardener came up behind me and put his hands on my hands and pressed his blissfully hard midsection against my back, and I thought I was going to cum. [...]

The next Friday was the day: without swing, without gin, and without apricots I went to my goal.

I said to the gardener, 'Caress me in the bushes, I need it. I've been waiting so long.'

The gardener seemed moved, and he obeyed, thank God.

He tenderly laid me on a tarp between two conifers. He carefully removed my clothes and groped my small limbs with his dirty warm fingers. It was delicious! He built it up heavenly slowly and I almost didn't last, but finally he reached my vagina. [...]

We experienced two years of fun, nay ecstasy. I spoiled him too, his penis in my mouth. Tricky it was not, on the contrary.

Even the penetration was much less painful than expected. [...]

We were never caught, never booed, never stoned.

But one day his sister died and the gardener was able to get a better job: detective in Newport.

In my poems I regularly introduce the gardener as a character. I then invariably call him "the pedophile gardener," but that's not right. We were a couple, a vulgar blind foolish happy in love innocent couple.

It was beautiful and it was not perverse. Or if there was perversion involved it came from me.