An excerpt from my book of interviews:
I asked people, ‘How were you told the facts of life?’
And, ‘What information were you given?’
Here is Belinda, who used to be an escort. She is now in her eighties.
My sister read about Dutch caps. We looked at Old Masters paintings and wondered how having those funny big white hats on their heads would stop women getting pregnant.
In British Guiana, we had native servants who would do the deed al fresco au natural. From the age of five, I was playing 'sex' with my dolls. They’d have their dolls’ tea party, a recitation lesson, then I’d have them mount each other.
When we came back to England, I had a nanny. Katrin was fresh from the convent. She was all mummy could get for me. I expect it was a time of general strikes. Mummy would send Katrin for breaks back to the convent meanwhile sending me for remedial elocution. This would happen when I’d said one too many ‘tinks’, ‘fecks’ and ‘gobshites’. Katrin was largely untaught. In that way of where to hide the purloined letter — in the letters compartment on the desk. Where the leaf — in the forest. Where the mentally subnormal, dyslexic, whatever — in the convent. Convent girls then were expected to take interim jobs as secretaries or shop girls — those that happened to have adequate maths — while waiting for a husband. All this feminist development since those times, and just look at the young girls today on social media being vile to each other about the perpetual reams of slutty photos of themselves with trout pouts. I want to shake them.
Nuns, incidentally, believe it’s a mortal sin to ever touch themselves in their sexual regions. Even when it’s for the sake of cleanliness, which don’t they know, fecks sakes, is next to godliness.
For anything that ails them down there, the Mothers Superior tell the sisters to prayerfully put on another pair of Vatican approved Cami-knickers.
When I began dining downstairs, as it was called, my father, Max, would project slides above the dinner table. He was a gynaecologist.
‘What is this disease, children, tell me?’ my father would ask.
‘Darling,’ my mother would intervene, ‘can we at least have our mains first?'
My mother let on my father had treated Katrin and one or two of her convent cronies. I don’t think it was a wholly unserious idea that he upsticks from his Wigmore Street practise to set up in the grounds of some well-founded Sacred Heart establishment somewhere.
So, really, I would say from my father I learned the precise mechanics. He cleared away some family items in his study at home and rigged up some objects to, I believe, make it look like his consulting room in town. Gauze, Bunsen, forceps. And they were precise mechanics: insert this tab into this flap, more or less, like one of the Make Your Own craft kits. My brother made a point of comparison between glue and sperm.
Katrin put the idea into my head we must, like the Virgin Mary, keep ourselves for that someone special. Ideally, of course, she meant we would go into a convent ourselves and be a bride of Jesus. Which would be quite unsatisfactory if you were marrying for the sex. Though I seem to remember seeing something along such lines in a film where a woman was impregnated by a demon. The music score would become seeringly ominous and the bedclothes would bulge from her calf regions upward...
#sex #sexeducation #sexed #humanbiology #marriage# prostitution #orgasm #fakedorgasm #maleorgasm #sexworker #wheredobabiescomefrom #funnybook #life #humour
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