This Much Is True

When it was all finished and on sale, naturally my commercial instincts came to the fore: I wanted to find out how it was doing. It was called Sexy Sonia: Leaves from My Schoolgirl Diary. I went into Ann Summers (the shop was full of browsing men all deliberately avoiding eye contact) and said loudly to the chap behind the counter, ‘Oh, hello, I wonder if you could help me. I’m «Sexy Sonia» and I wondered how I was selling.’

Some of the customers’ heads turned but the salesman froze. ‘Shhhhh!’ he whispered. He didn’t want the customers to connect me with the tape; I assume he thought that if the punters saw me, they probably wouldn’t buy it.

I said, ‘Oh, sorry, I just want to know… how is my tape doing? Is it selling?’

I was delighted to discover that Sexy Sonia: Leaves from My Schoolgirl Diary was a nice little earner. Not that it made any difference to me financially, because it was a buyout — in other words they give you your flat fee of £300 and off you go. So, I didn’t get any royalties or repeat fees, but it was a matter of pride to know that my voice was stimulating ejaculation all over the United Kingdom.

I just did two sexy tapes; nevertheless, I have been tarred with the brush of pornography ever since. I used to have a copy of Sexy Sonia, but sadly I don’t know what’s happened to it… If anyone finds a copy in a charity shop, do let me know.

Women Are Better than Men: Discuss

I have twice fallen in love with males. There was Anton, of course. I do remember feeling groiny about him. Then much, much later, I fell for a professor of journalism when I was in Shanghai. I told him that he was probably the only man that I’d ever really fancied. I think he was, in equal measure, both appalled and surprised. But nothing came of it. Nothing at all. Then there were the boyfriends in Cambridge, and all those older men in Oxford, but we didn’t copulate in the way that normal people do — only mouth or wrist jobs. It wasn’t sex, it was kindness.

Such experiences were invariably speedy; with men you need to seize the day. Take this story which amuses me even now, possibly because of the coupling/uncoupling of both train and me. I was on a train in Germany in the early sixties and noticed an attractive man sitting opposite me. The train slowed down: I looked hard at him and he returned my gaze. Then he got to his feet, looked at me again and I followed him out into the corridor and down to the loo in the next carriage. We locked the door and began (without words — my German is poor) a vigorous sexual session. This did not include penetration but enthusiastic hand jobs, and on my part, considerable mouth work. After he came, I suddenly realised what the metallic noise I could hear in the background was. In our coupling we hadn’t realised that the train had uncoupled itself from our carriage. In a flash I was running back up the tracks after my departing luggage. My encounter had been absorbing, but not worth abandoning my suitcase for! I managed to grab the last door of the last carriage and drag myself on. I still wonder what happened to him, left in the middle of nowhere with his trousers around his ankles.

I kissed Bob Monkhouse once. Forgive the non sequitur. It was in a BBC television play, Enter Solly Gold, by Bernard Kops. I was playing a small part and Bob Monkhouse had the leading role. In one scene, he had to kiss me. It was the best kiss I think I’ve ever had: slow, searching, not slurpy. I thought, ‘If I was straight, I would go for Bob.’ He was interested in people — wise, kind, funny, generous, all the things you hope a star will be. Most people saw him as just a comedian, but he was much more than that. His eldest son suffered from cerebral palsy and Bob campaigned for disabled charities all his life and, famously after his death, in an advertisement to promote awareness of prostate cancer, the disease which killed him. He is one of my heroes and I’m glad to acknowledge him in this book.

In total contrast I name Terry Scott, who was the nastiest person I’ve ever worked with. How the divine June Whitfield put up with him, I cannot imagine. He was horrid to the chorus girls, tried to grope and kiss them, and if they wouldn’t play, he rubbished them publicly. Of course, he would have behaved himself with June.