Body Worship: True Stories Of A Sex Goddess

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Chapter sample:

The New York lesbian collective SCUM asserted that a man had only one thing on his mind. They stated that he would crawl on his belly through a river of viscous snot and vomit, to reach a welcoming vagina. Not true. There are really only two things that matter in the world to men, and anything else pales into insignificance. Chapter sample:

I once ventured to an abysmal Saturday night party in Brighton and pulled a not altogether unattractive young man from Holland. I was at my most charming and witty, and he was coerced into a taxi (despite protestations of needing to catch flights to foreign parts the next day).

Up the stairs… in my apartment … through to the boudoir … keep on coming baby … just put one step in front of the other and the body will follow … Chapter sample:

Bumped into an acquaintance the other day, and being in a frightful hurry I wailed in passing, ‘Can’t stop, have incoming wounded to sort’ – this being a euphemism for ‘Am up to my tits in appointments’. His indelicate rejoinder was ‘Jesus, if you’re getting laid there’s hope for all of us.’

A bitchy barb? Most certainly! An element of truth? Mmm, that’s a tricky one.

The inference was (I assume) that since I’m a peri-menopausal woman of a certain age in this world of facelifts … Chapter sample:

On a girlie evening out in the badlands and fleshpots that Sydney has to offer in abundance, we, the ladies of Victoria Street, decided to do a bit of prossie bonding to celebrate a workmate’s birthday. All went swimmingly until a visit to the toilet proved to be an insult too far.

A lady going about her ablutions muttered under her breath (yet loud enough for her intended recipients to hear) the unoriginal phrase: ‘Bloody whores!’ Chapter sample:

The New Year loomed and I suddenly experienced an epiphany. I would hire a male escort. I would ‘come’ as the old year went. How hard could it be? Here is a salutary tale.

Lulled into my emboldened state of misplaced equality, I began my quest. Here, there and indeed everywhere no hunka burnin' love was safe from my clutches. I was on a mission. Chapter sample:

While slithering hither and thither over a new patron’s body I whispered seductively in his ear, ‘Would you like some more?’

‘Yes,’ he croaked, ‘as long as it will not deprive your other customers.’

Thereby hangs the most convoluted tale. Sad but true in this ‘we pray you don’t understand the concept of good service’ world.

It is traditional on a Sunday, for me to visit my local bar/restaurant. Roasts, drinks and banter with the friendly staff are de rigueur. All was well until my lunch arrived. Chapter sample:

My band of co-workers crowed: ‘Told you he’d be back!’ He had unquestionably the face of the most gorgeous angel on this planet and that angel looked like the delectable and delovely Keanu Reeves.

He also had cerebral palsy and was wheelchair bound.

As mentioned earlier, it was customary from time to time for the specially fitted mini-van of the Valcluse home for disabled (and their carers) to visit our establishment for a jolly. It was without doubt one of the most rewarding (spiritually) and humbling experiences one will ever encounter on this mortal coil. Chapter sample:

I was brought up to be a Catholic. My father, bless him, gamefully did his best to instil in us the basic tenets of the faith with pointless cycle rides to the nearest church. For my part I just sat looking at the back of the pew wondering when all of the stupid ‘Dominus forbiscums’ would finish and when I could go snogging my favourite boyfriend down in the country woods. Chapter sample:

A few days ago, after a good nights sleep, I switched on my mobile phone to see what the new day would bring. My voicemail had recorded this message: ‘Fucking bitch.’ One hour later, while sauntering to the shops, another voice shouted in my ear ‘Fucking bitch’ – and it was barely 9.30 am. As starts to the day go, it wasn’t one of my best. (A wank and three cuppas do it for me, though the latter will suffice if under time constraints.) Chapter sample:

‘Men love big women, and want them in the bedroom for sure, but they don’t want to be seen with a fat tart by their mates,’ opined Leslie.

‘Well, I think I’m anorexic,’ said Christina with a wicked smile.

‘And how do you figure that one?’ I spluttered (for she must be 14 stone).

‘Every time I look in the mirror all I see is a fat person.’

How we laughed! Chapter sample:

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. We all have days when things do not go according to plan. ’Tis merely the universe testing us. If we come through with flying colours, then well done us. What follows are a few examples of not ‘oh dear!’ but a gigantic ‘fucking hell, what have I done?‘

There used to be a dear, gentle soul called Chris who owned a leather workshop emporium. He revelled in making various instruments of torture and/or sexy leather apparel. Chapter sample:

‘Christ she was a real Razorback – but it was late and my balls were going blue with desire. I simply had to do something about it!’

My mate Fred was regaling me with stories of his recent trip to Australia and as usual the subject turned to sex. (Come to think of it, if I was forbidden to raise the subject again I would have sod all to talk about: it’s my vocation and the subject matter stretches to infinity.)

‘Even though I was drunk, I knew she was a bush pig,’ he exclaimed, lapsing into the Aussie vernacular for ‘pug ugly’. Chapter sample:

If the most popular question from a punter concerns the availability of an uncovered blow-job, the most common question anyone else asks is: ‘What’s the kinkiest shit you’ve ever done?’

For the millionth time I reply by rote: ‘Define kinky’. If I furnish the interrogators with any information, somewhere along the line it will be used against me in the most judgemental of ways. Chapter sample:

They say wherever you roam you take yourself with you. You can’t run away from your unhappiness – you can only inevitably experience more. That’s life. Having travelled extensively and with great hope I have inadvertently stumbled across the differing attitudes to sex and sexual relationships. Sometimes this starts at the airport. Chapter sample:

A patron of mine (who is a judge) made a very thought provoking statement the other day. In all his years sitting on the bench, he told me, ‘I have noticed one thing time and time again – that is how different women are in the north and the south of the country’

‘You mean sexually?’ I replied. Chapter sample:

‘How old were you when you experienced your first orgasm with a man?’

Without having to pause and think I replied: ‘That’s easy, I was 33 and it was in this very brothel on April the second at approximately 7.30!’

‘Come on, that defies credulity – 33, for goodness’ sake! What was wrong with you woman? Frigid were you?’ Chapter sample:

‘Do you mind if I’m black, because I don’t want to get there and find that you don’t see black people. What a conundrum! I actually did mind but decided to err on the side of ‘What the hell’.

Why was I being so appallingly politically incorrect? Because seeing a black man as a customer is totally different (nine times out of ten) to seeing a common-or-garden white Anglo-Saxon. Chapter sample:

While eating a very clement Sunday lunch, with an even more clement demigod of a man, (don’t you get enough? I hear you cry), Mark, the owner of the Brighton Rocks, sidled up conspiratorially and proclaimed ‘Hayden had his arse fucked for the first time last night, bless him.’

My magnificent lunch-date choked on his sirloin while I quizzed Mark for more salacious gossip. Chapter sample:

The John Lewis partnership had a catch phrase that said something along the lines of ‘never knowingly undersold’. I was never quite sure what it meant. Did it mean ‘We are charging you more for the privilege of shopping in one of our establishments, you silly elitist sod, you’? It still puzzles me to this day.

I once actually had phone cards printed with a cartoon drawing of two chimpanzees and the accompanying blurb ‘If you pay peanuts you get monkeys’. Chapter sample:

Sydney, Australia, and my befuddled memory (so many men; so few who can afford me) can’t remember if the year was the bicentenary in honour of the intrepid pioneers who helped create all that was glorious in both the outback and the metropolis or if it was another war (Gulf War 1) when the boats came back relatively intact. All I know is that the bay in Woolloomooloo was rammed to the gills with battleships. Chapter sample:

‘So you sucked my cock, but you wouldn’t kiss me – what kind of fucked up logic is that! Would you care to explain?’

My combative interrogator was a customer who at first seemed pretty much a standard deal. As time wore on, what emerged was a prevailing attitude that was beginning to rankle. He had refused to ‘go down on me’ as his penalty-sin-bin, for my not being compliant in the snogging stakes. Chapter sample:

‘You must get to see some strange people’ is the traditional self-satisfied question asked by men who think they’re an answer to my imagined cry in the darkness.

‘At least you do some good – think of the number of rapes you stop’ is another ‘guaranteed-to-make-me-want-to-head-butt-andknee-you-in-your-misinformed-balls’ stupid pronouncement. Chapter sample:

Any woman who decides to enter the sex industry is on a hiding to nothing, if she thinks Richard Gere is coming to rescue her. And quite what one is being rescued from is (to me) perplexing. Is it a job or a calling (call of the wild)? Is it temporary or a vocation?

Let’s face it, if you do anything enough times, it can pall, and you inevitably lust for pastures new and greener. ‘re you a breast or bum man?’ It’s a rhetorical question I often ask my customers, so that I can better understand my fellow man. Chapter sample:

Are you a breast or bum man?’

It’s a rhetorical question I often ask my customers, so that I can better understand my fellow man.

It sates my enquiring mind, and makes me more of a budding amateur anthropologist. The answer given is the one expected. How predictable, and how wonderful, are men? Easy to read, easy to keep happy. A spot of oral (like a cuppa) first thing in the morning and last thing and night and they are yours (if you want them) for ever. Chapter sample:

The year was 1987, and the spectre of AIDS was dangling like the sword of Damocles over the livelihood of many parlours in Sydney. The owners eyed with resignation the suicide equivalent of Beachy Head around the cliffs of Bondi. This was serious stuff. Would the men stay away in droves, and would the silence be deafening?

First the main four parlours (there was really only four of note) had to come up with a strategy, but they didn’t know whether to make a pre-emptive strike with regard to the ‘safe sex’ issue. Chapter sample:

‘I’ll still be able to visit you after you’ve given up working,’ some idiotic and supremely insensitive punters murmur.

In the last few years I have had a newsagent, butcher, baker, and probably a candlestick maker move on to different pastures. I have never tracked them down to their new place of business and demanded that I should still be able to receive their original service. Chapter sample:

‘Did you know that Julie Burchill has mentioned you inher autobiography,’ a mate emailed. ‘Does she speak fondly of me?’ I replied.

I did indeed meet La Burchill some years ago, and we did indeed appear to get on. I have never tried to ingratiate myself with celebrities (but would certainly make an exception in the case of Keanu Reeves and Ian Thorpe) since I’m not star-struck – they defecate and urinate the same as anyone else. Chapter sample:

My sister is a widow. No, Colin my brother-in-law is not deceased – he merely spends every available hour, and a not inconsiderable amount of moolah, on his passion … golf. I once went round 18 holes (titter ye not) on a wet, cold Sunday morning. No wonder Sis is content to baste the chicken, till he comes home for a late lunch. The club house drink could not come quick enough for me. Chapter sample:

If Great Britain were the female body, Land’s End and John o’ Groats would never get so much as a cursory glance, let alone a nuzzle of affection. Antarctica? Along with female septuagenarians, every one knows where it is, but no one wants to go there.

‘Tits first, I’m not a tart,’ we ladies would cry as yet another spotty oik attempted to stroke or (heaven forfend) penetrate what they perceive to be the (hole)y grail. Chapter sample:

My apartment is located on the main bus route to (among other things) Beachy Head. It also receives ‘paying guests’ who exhibit the general demeanour of someone intent on catching that very bus. I do wish they’d cut me out of the equation. Spending time in this sort of company is like assenting to buckets of cold sick being pored over me, at regular intervals, for the duration of their ‘stay’. No wonder they find themselves doling out fat wedges of dosh for a lady to be beguiling and pliant. Chapter sample:

One of my favourite patrons is Reece, ‘man of mystery’. Why mystery? Well, I never ask and he never tells. I joke with him that he’s an international hit-man, and he plays along and never disabuses me of that far-fetched notion. He likes to be blindfolded and then have a feeling of let the games commence – with the breath, footsteps and the clinking of other people in the room. Chapter sample:

Whenever I used to whinge to my mother that someone had let me down or failed to remember me in some way, she used to say: ‘You won’t have them to thank.’