Deliciously Bad Gets Ranty

I have a problem. The problem is I am angry. Really really angry, and I'm trying to write. I don't like writing when I'm angry because I find a lot of points get missed and lost and I get a bit shouty and sweary which, in turn, makes me look like a petulant child who hasn't got her own way
So I might just put down a few points now before I forget and then, come back to it all a bit later when I am feeling a bit calmer.

Okay. Slightly calmer rant... Slightly...

This all started on Saturday night when a friend wrote a Facebook status (and I will tell you now I am paraphrasing because this particular “friend” has since deleted me and I have no access to the actual status post to copy and paste it verbatim).
The status asked that if sex work was as empowering as some sex workers “claim” it is, would they then encourage their daughters to enter the profession? And then she went on to say no, of course they wouldn't because really it's a degrading and exploitative job and no-one should ever feel proud or “empowered” because of it.
She continued to quote (I say quote, but there were no actual links or anything) statistics that the majority of girls who work get into it solely because of drug habits and last resort desperation, and that the ones who advocate it as a positive thing are just kidding themselves because everybody knows there's nothing empowering or positive about sex work and it's never actually a “real” choice.

She says this knowing full well what I do, that I am also a mother to a daughter, and that my world, my job, my career has been built of the positivity of sex work.
I couldn't help but wonder if her whole status was a dig at me. If not completely she would have known full well that I'd not only see it and read it, but that I would also comment on it, and that I would comment on it the way I did, so why not block me beforehand, or make that particular “thought” invisible to me?
No, I think there was definite intention there for me to see it, and for me to respond.
So I did.
And I got blocked.

The thing is, when it comes to my daughter and what I will “encourage” her to do, it actually has nothing to do with a specific job or title and has everything to do with giving her the tools to make choices and decisions on her own.

I will “encourage” her to be a good and decent person. To treat others with respect and to not judge anyone by how they look, where they are from, who they love or what they do for a living. I will “encourage” her to make her own well-informed choices and live her life in a way that makes her happy, satisfied, fulfilled and confident. Whether that future job is as a surgeon or a sex worker is entirely her choice and, if I do my job as a parent properly, will be the right choice for her.

However the thing that really really pissed me off in her uninformed and ignorant rant was the idea that sex work is not empowering or a real “choice” and that all of us sex workers who claim it is are just kidding ourselves or have been “brainwashed” by the patriarchy into thinking it is.

I am going to put it in a very simple way.
I love sex. I fucking LOVE it. I have loved it before I even knew what it was or that there was such a thing as the patriarchy. All I knew was that something down there felt really good.
As I grew up and learnt more about it I loved it even more. And as I started to do it I realised I was really, really good at it.
So, something I really enjoy, am good at and can be paid to do is somehow NOT my choice?
I work for myself. I have no pimp, no manager, no brothel. Just me and a few advertisements dotted around the place, but I am being forced into this?
No. Really I am not. And to say that I am is insulting and ignorant.

Now we come to the whole “exploitation” thing. But before I go any further I will put in my usual disclaimer: I am aware that the sex industry is not perfect. I am aware there are many, many girls who are being forced into this work. Being trafficked and held prisoner. I know there are drug problems and that rapes and attacks happen. I know there are men who exploit this industry to the point of girls being killed while they work. I know this. I am not a fucking idiot. I have spent the last fifteen or so years researching, writing about, talking about and talking to sex workers. I know the drill. I know there is a horrible dark side and I would never ignore that or pretend it's not there.

However (and it's a pretty big however) every coin has two sides, and there are some really amazing, positive sides to the sex industry.
For example, when my “friend” goes on about the people who use the service, she claims they are all just degrading women and using women and seeing women as nothing but objects, I wonder what she would say to one of my clients who I will call Phil.

Phil was shot in the back when he was nine in an accidental farm incident. He has no feeling below his waist and is in a wheelchair. He is quite shy too and finds it very hard to talk to women, let alone have the courage to ask one out on a date or be intimate with.
But he is human. He has urges and needs and desires. He calls me every few weeks and I go and hang out at his house for a few hours. He's a funny guy and we get along great. He is a great kisser, considering he's not kissed all that many girls before, and really knows how to use his hands and tongue. Yes, he pays me for my time. That's my job. But there are times that I go hang out and have a coffee with him just on my own time because we get along. We chat on the phone sometimes if he is feeling lonely and I have even gone out to dinner with him and my husband. I genuinely like him and he genuinely likes me.
If it wasn't for me he would get absolutely no sexual intimacy at all and I think that's a real shame. Sex is a basic human need like food and shelter and (look at the problem with the catholic church) can turn people funny if they can't have it.
Phil is not my only disabled client, there a couple of guys I see who have mobility issues and other disabilities, but who are (like I said) red blooded humans who want and desire sexual contact but, because of their situations, really find it difficult to find.

Are they really just exploiting me? Isn't it (when you really think about it) almost the other way around? I mean they are paying me $3-400 an hour for what should essentially be free and is for most people.

I wonder if this "friend" of mine has ever heard of Accsex and the fabulous work they do. I seriously doubt it. But I can tell you that every single person involved in that program would be so very insulted by her attitude. And saddened. Really really saddened.

Then there are my female clients. I actually see more and more women these days, but there are two I see a lot. One is a bored bisexual housewife who likes to spend days in bed watching lesbian porn and eating pussy, and the other is a lesbian who works such long hours and travels so much she has no time for a relationship or even to meet someone for casual sex.
Is she exploiting me? Is she just some fucked up, sleazy misogynist who wants to humiliate and use me?

There's Gary who has just been divorced and really doesn't want a relationship, but still wants to have sex. There's Fred who, at 30, was still a virgin and was scared he would disappoint a potential mate so wanted some tips. Harold is 70 and his wife died last year. We don't have sex but he likes to cuddle and talk about the days when he and his wife had a wonderful sex life. Actually a lot of my clients don't want sex. They want company and conversation.

Susan has really bad endometriosis. Like really severe. She cannot have sex at all. It is painful and uncomfortable and upsetting. And I mean all sex. Not just penetration. Unless she takes super-strong pain medication she finds all orgasms painful and, because the medication has some severe side effects, she really doesn't take it all that often.. But she really wants her husband to be able to have a sex life so she called me. I went out for coffee with her and we chatted for a long time about the whole thing and now, every month or so I go out to their place and spend an hour with her husband. Sometimes she is there, sometimes she isn't. But the arrangement works really well for them both and they have a wonderful, strong relationship.

I see couples who want to experiment and spice up their love life with a threesome. I see people who have lost their partners to illness and accident. I have even spent time with a very gay man who just wanted to make sure he was gay (long story, have blog about it, will post one day).
I do not believe a single one of these people is exploiting me or using me or treating me as just an object. To say that is almost like saying that I, as a woman, am not allowed to enjoy or be promiscuous with my sex life because enjoyable non-relationship sex is purely men's territory and anyway men only want sex to use women.
It is highly insulting to every single one of them (and to me) to make that claim.

Once again I will state that this job is my choice and I fucking love every damn second of it. To claim I do not is ridiculous.

In the course of the last few years writing my book I have spoken to over two hundred working girls and I can tell you for an absolute fact that out of all of them there are only three who entered into the job as a last resort for money, and that none of them did it to pay for a drug habit.

I will also tell you that in that bunch of two hundred there are law students, medical students and even a couple of police officers. There are mums and wives. There are women saving to buy a house. Women supporting their families because their partners are unable to work for whatever reason. And there are women who, like me, do it purely for the sex. Yes there's money involved. It's a job. But to say it's only about the money is stupid. I mean, would you do YOUR job for free??
The difference is that I rarely come home from work in a foul mood from dealing with all the shit most people deal with day to day with their bosses, work colleagues, and jobs they have to do. I get to play and laugh and joke and orgasm at my job.

This “friend” of mine claims to be a feminist. But, in my understanding, the word “feminism” it is about allowing women to have the right and freedom to make their own choices. Whether it has to do with work, voting, sex, autonomy, money, whatever. It is about choice and, in my opinion, that should not be conditional. It should just be.

End rant!
(PS All names have been changed)

Fetish Fascination

Some of my favourite Sophie columns for People Mag were the "Sophie's Choice" ones where I got to research and list all sorts of fun things from my favourite sexual positions, to the best sorts of vibes to buy, to which silver screen hookers were my favourites...
This is one I wrote on some of the more left-of-centre or more interesting fetishes I've come across or heard about... 
It's short and sweet and I hope you like it.

(PS I do have many more in-depth articles and pieces on fetish. This is just a basic look, so please don't jump down my throat for being "surface" based. I am very aware fetish is a much more complex thing than just "liking something cos it feels good"... Thanks and carry on!)

 

I have a real thing about fetishes. I don't particularly have any myself (unless you include my fascination with other people's) but I come across them all the time through work and they really do intrigue me.
The most common ones would probably be the foot and shoe fetishes but over the years I've seen and heard of some pretty funky and interesting ones. Here are a list of some that have really stuck with me, if not just cos of their different-ness

 

1. Plushophilia

Also known as “Furries” these are people who get turned on by soft toys and people dressed in furry character costumes. As much as it might seem like it, this fetish has nothing to do with children or under age sex at all. It's usually all about the softness of the toys and the feel of the fur on their skin.

 

2. Hybristophilia

You hear about it all the time. Some random girl sends letters to and falls in love with a psychopath in prison. This whole fetish is about being aroused by criminals, and usually pretty nasty ones at that. I dunno. It certainly explains my strange crush on Chopper Read.

 

3. Macrophilia

This is something I actually once saw on a Jerry Springer show. People who get totally aroused by fat people. I'm not talking girls with curves, I mean really, really fat people. Some of these Macrophiles were literally force feeding their partners to this obese extreme size to satisfy this desire. I've gotta say, it was one of the more gross ones I've come across.

 

4. Sitophilia

This one goes really well with Macrophilia. It's when you get sexual arousal from food. Eating food, smelling food, being covered in food. It doesn't matter how, what or where, there just has to be food around and the party can begin.

 

5. Frotteurism

I reckon peak hour trains are full of these people. That's when you get excited and aroused from rubbing up against a complete stranger without their consent. It's a bit gross and it's also illegal but it's also kinda hard to pick when your wedged like a sardine into a hot overcrowded carriage.

 

6. Aquaphilia

Forget sex in the shower... When you're an Aquaphiliac sex is the shower. Being in and around and touched by water is what gets these fetishists off. I once had a job where the guy just wanted to pour water over my back. It was fun in a no sex kind of way.

 

7. Phalloorchoalgolagnia

A lot of you blokes will cringe at this one cos it's about sexual excitement derived from receiving a good ol kick in the nuts, or pain to the genitals. I think I know where the "Oorch" bit comes from... Surely that's the sound they make!

 

8. Toonophilia

Yes we all think Jessica Rabbit is hot, and some of those Manga girls, with their big eyes and long legs, are totally sexy too, but if you can't get into sex without thinking about cartoon characters or you get wood whenever you see woody woodpecker, then you're a toonophile.

 

9. Agalmatophilia

Remember the movie Mannequin? Well that guy kinda had this. It's being in love with, and sexually aroused by, mannequins, models and sculptures. It's pretty much harmless unless, of course, you decide to act upon in in the middle of Myers or the Gallery's sculpture garden.

 

10. Maiesiophilia

Love the shape of a pregnant woman? Get a bit tingly thinking about her round belly and swollen breasts? Then this is the fetish for you. Whereas a lot of pregnant women end up feeling big and fat and totally uncomfortable during the last stages of pregnancy, Maiesophiles find this to be highly arousing and completely horny.

Stolen Identity

(This is something that happened to me about five years ago, while I was still working loads and was also writing the Sophie Loves Sex column for People magazine. Unlike most of my Sophie tales where certain details have been changed to protect the (not-so) innocent, this one is practically word for word what happened, and I haven't really changed a thing. You'll see why. Read on...)

 

Something happened the other night that has left me feeling quite uneasy and, I should also say, a little pissed off. It takes quite a lot to upset me and piss me off so, when it happens, it's usually because something really fucked up has occurred. This is one of those times and the only real outlet I have to set the record straight are the pages of this magazine so that is what I am doing. I can only hope it gets to the right people.

Let me set the scene for you.

A warm summer night. Two bodies tangled together in the sheets. Skin sweaty, breath uneven. His hands running over my back, my body still feeling the buzz of orgasm running through it. He reaches for a smoke and a drink, lights one for me, sits up in the bed and smiles.

“That was fantastic,” he says with a grin “You’re the second girl I’ve been with since I’ve arrived in town and I can’t get over the calibre of you city chicks.” He drags on his cigarette and trails a lazy hand down the curves of my body. “And not just that,” he continues. “But you all seem to really enjoy your work.”

I return his smile and take a drink. “Yeah,” I say. “Work’s pretty fun.”

Then he says something I’m really not expecting.

“Hey, do you ever read People magazine?”

I look at him. Not too sure where it’s going, not too sure what to say, so I shrug and say, “Yeah, sometimes… Why?”

“Oh,” he says, his eyes shining bright. “Cos there’s this chick who writes a column all about the sex trade, and how much she likes it and stuff. Sophie is the name she writes under. Have you ever read it?”
Again I am kinda speechless. “Yeah, a couple of times… Why?”

And then he says the thing that knocks my socks off and completely throws me.

“I met her,” he says with a star-struck look on his face. “That other chick I told you about. The one from the other night. She told me when she was here that she actually writes it!”

“What?” I nearly drop my smoke on the bed

“Yep,” he says, almost proudly. “She doesn’t use Sophie as her working name of course, but she was telling me all about it and it just sounds brilliant. I mean, she gets to work in a job she loves, and then gets to tell the world about it! Lucky girl hey?”

“Extremely,” I say through gritted teeth.

The rest of the booking was spent listening to him go on and on about how it was like some sort of dream come true, like meeting his favourite TV star or hero. And I just had to sit there, smiling and nodding, and wondering if I should actually say something.

I decided against it. I think I would have looked silly protesting that no, Sophie is really me, and not some bitch who has no imagination of her own. I mean, would he have even believed me? Or would I have just come off like some sort of tosser? And not only that, would it make him think that probably neither of us were in fact Sophie after all and ruin his warm-fuzzy feelings about working girls and a character he quite admired?

I decided, yes. It probably would. So I didn't say anything.

He did say a couple of things that made me smile though. The first was that he got the impression she enjoyed the talking about writing it more than the actual doing it. And that, even though she was hot and sexy and fun, he had always expected her to be a little more “into” the client and not so much “into” herself... And the other thing he said that made me feel a little better was that he’d always pictured Sophie a little slimmer, more like how I looked.

But all that aside, as I said before, it’s left me quite unsettled. Firstly because of the obvious reason of having someone pretend to be me and take credit for my work, and secondly because I don't want people to think the things I write in here are lies or exaggerations or that I don't love my work as much as I say I do in these pages. So, to set things straight, I’ll just say this.

I don’t go on about this column when I am at work. I just don't. You might be lucky to find out if the conversation heads that way, but I don’t make it a habit to boast to every guy I see. It's tacky and unprofessional and just is not something I do.

So I'm really sorry, guys, but if you do happen to make a booking with “Sophie”, I'm going to tell you now, you really most probably aren't. A good test is to ask her the title of next week's unpublished column, or the week after that. She won't know. The real Sophie will know, and will tell you. I promise you that.

So, Nadia (Oh yes, I'm calling you out by name), if you’re out there reading this getting some new ideas for crap to spin, just know this: I’m on to you. I know your game. And not only are you making a bit of a fool of yourself, you should really be aware that there's only one of me. Only one Sophie. And nothing and no one but me will ever live up to the real thing.

 

Coming Clean

This is an old story from my People Magazine Days... Has been re-edited and changed a little... But is essentially the truth... As is everything I write.

Not so long ago I did something on a job that I've never, ever done at work before. In fact, it's not even something I really like to do all that often in my personal life either and I have to admit, when the receptionist told me about it, I was a bit taken aback.

“He wants me to do what?” I tried to keep the shock out of my voice

“He wants you to clean,” she said, stifling a laugh.

“Like actual scrubbing and stuff?”

“Yes,” she said, not hiding her mirth any more. “In the nude.”

When I got to his house he led me into the bathroom. It was a huge room with a spa, a two-person shower and even a bidet. Everything was white and sparkling. The taps and knobs were gleaming gold and the fluffy white towels and bath mat looked like they'd never soaked up a drop of water in their entire lives. On the bench top was a spray bottle full of water, some sponges and a pair of yellow rubber gloves that I could tell were going to be too big.

He sat on the edge of the spa as I got naked. Slipping off my dress sexily and stepping out of my underwear. He didn't seem to be that interested at all, until I started to pull on the gloves.

Because they were so big, I kept getting my fingers all mixed up in the floppy, rubber hands and, as I twisted and pulled and tried to get them on, I noticed him beginning to watch me intently, his cock growing harder with every pull and wriggle.

When I finally got them sorted (and by sorted I mean each finger in each finger-hole. They still looked over-sized and ridiculous) he breathlessly passed me the spray bottle and sponge.

“Can you do the shower first?”

I stepped into the cubicle and sprayed the glass around me, wiping the sponge over the glass and watching him through it. He was really enjoying it, sitting forwards, his eyes on not on me but on the sponge against the glass, his hand gently stroking himself.

I reached up to get the top of the screen and he gripped himself a little harder.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do the top. Get it sparkling”

I had to hold on with one hand and kind of lean my body up against the glass to balance myself. It was cold against my nipples as I stretched up and across cleaning along the top. I figured he would be enjoying the show of breasts moving against the glass but no. His eyes were still on my hand, wiping the sponge back and forth across the glass.

“Mmmm, yes,” he murmured between little grunts and sighs. “That looks fantastically clean. Really sparkling. Now come and do the spa.”

I went over and sprayed inside the tub, wiping my sponge slowly along the bottom. It really was a huge spa and reaching over to the other side was almost impossible so I got in, on my hands and knees, my arse to him.

As I scrubbed back and forth I rocked my body with the motion, moving like I was being fucked from behind by an invisible person. I'm always told what a great arse I have and what a fantastic view it is so I thought I'd give him something to enjoy.

He didn't. “Could you turn around a bit so I can see what your hands are doing?” He asked.

I obliged by turning around and wiping the sponge against the tiled wall next to him.

“Yes, yes. So clean. So very very clean.” Was all he would say. Over and over, tugging at himself and intently watching my hands. As he pumped harder and his breath got shorter he started to speak in short staccato sentences.

“Spray it,” he breathed.

I sprayed the wall with the water bottle.

“Yes. Yes,” he said. “Now wipe it. Wipe it clean.”

I wiped my sponge against the tiles.

“So clean,” he murmured. “So very very very clean...” The last word was like a drawn out moan as he came with a splurt onto his belly and hands.

You know, I've never really been all that good at cleaning but, considering the tip he gave me, and the fact he asked me to come back the following week to do the vacuuming, I guess I can't be all that bad. And I suppose it'll do me good to get some practice in if I ever decide to do it for real at my own house.

Sex Screen

Sex is a funny thing, and I mean that quite literally. I think the term “bumping uglies” is one of the most accurate when it comes to the actual act itself.

Sure, you can go on about the romance of “making love” and the idealism of “seeing fireworks” and all those flowery terms, but really, when you think about it, the sweaty, grunty, almost desperate act of sex and the (hopeful) end result of orgasmic climax is quite often bloody hilarious.

Unfortunately, though, a lot of people get so caught up in these romantic ideals that, when sex doesn't match up to their expectations, they can end up feeling a bit empty and lost and, in the worst cases, totally turned off and feeling like they're doing something wrong.

Part of the problem comes from the images and information we are constantly fed by magazines, TV and movies. Soft lighting and Vaseline lensed cameras showing beautiful people moving slowly together in a passionate and sensual embrace is all very well for entertainment's sake but it really doesn't give a realistic view of what sex actually is.

It doesn't show the sweat soaked, brow-crumpling concentration face that guys often make when they're in the throes of passion. It doesn't show that awkward legs and elbows “hang-on-a-minute-while-we-change-positions” moment and it most certainly never shows the “stop-what-you're-doing-and-put-a-condom-on” part. In short, it's a big old lie and really shouldn't be taken seriously.

This all became even more obvious to me the other day when I was at home watching a movie. I can't remember the name of it, it was one of those Midday movie tear-jerker things where the main character (usually played by some aging has-been old sitcom star) is searching for her kidnapped child, or running away from her abusive husband, or is the small town girl trying to make it big in the scary city (or maybe she was a small-town girl in the big bad city searching for her child who's been kidnapped by her abusive husband... You know the ones) . Anyway, in one part of the movie she was having sex with this guy (not the abusive husband) in the shower.

I'm sure you can picture it. It was all wet and steamy with lots of slippery soap action and close up shots of water beading on skin and hands running over curves. So anyway, they were going at it, pushing up against the fogged up glass, when suddenly the shower screen broke and shattered on the bathroom floor. The passionate couple looked at it, laughed a bit, and then went right on fucking, as if nothing had happened. I think it was meant to be a slight bit of comic relief in what was essentially a heart-wrenching and depressing film, but it just didn't sit right with me.

In my cynical, and not to mention logical, mind I thought, hang on. What about the broken shards of glass all over the bathroom floor? What about the danger of slipping on all the soap that was lathered over them and the floor? And what was stopping them from falling and splitting their heads on the towel rack or sink now that there was no wall to stop them?

Surely someone had pointed this out to the director?

Surely Oc-Health and Safety had been over it with them?

Surely it was just common sense that the audience would find this unrealistic and insulting to their intelligence.

But then I started to think of some of the other movies I’ve seen where the viewer is supposed to be so swept away by the romance of the situation they forget that, in actual reality, it isn’t the sexiest of positions or places to do it in at all and I realised it's not just the cheaply made Midday movies that expect us to believe the unbelievable when it comes to sex scenes.

Take Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze for example. In that famous “Ghost” scene, with The Righteous Brothers crooning away in the background. They made pottery look like the most sensual and sexual experience you could ever have, but did you ever stop to think what would happen if they actually got to the bit where he went to put his hands, covered in half drying clumps of clay, down her pants? Yuck! Could there be anything worse?

Well, actually, yes. You know that timeless and classic image of Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster rolling around in the surf in “From here to eternity”? Well, let me tell you how completely wrong and misleading that is (and I am sure anyone who has ever attempted sex on a beach will agree with me). There is no shot of Deborah picking her sand-riddled bathers out of her butt, or Burt choking on a mouthful of seawater as the waves roll over them, and neither of them can be seen wincing as sand rubs where sand never should, or limping off at the end with a terrible chaffing rash.

What about that foggy, backseat of the car scene with Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet in Titanic? Sure it's all “put your hands on me, Jack,” and sweaty hand trails down the window, but in reality, well, have you ever tried to have sex in a car that wasn't a fully decked out Sandman panel van? Apart from the lack of room to stretch out and the very real possibility of bashing your head on the roof, the gear knob is sticking up and into your most sensitive bits and it's most distracting when you accidentally hit the radio button with your foot and suddenly get blasted with the football commentary.

Having sex in a swimming pool is depicted in many movies (in fact the pool sex scene in Showgirls has been voted the all time worst sex scene ever) but the reality of it can actually be quite dangerous. I'm not just talking about the whole looking as if you're drowning thing (and if you've actually seen Showgirls, and I promise not to hold it against you if you have, you'll know what I mean) but the actual act of getting water thrust up inside your vagina, which is bound to happen when you're doing it in liquid, can be very bad for your health. In the same vein, sex in a sauna is not comfortable, and shouldn’t be attempted if you have a heart condition, and there is no such thing as surreptitious sex on the dance floor or in a public place. You might think no one knows what you’re doing, but trust me, we do.

Of course, don’t get me wrong. I’m not some “sex must be in a bed” kind of girl, and I’m not saying that doing it in the back of an Oldsmobile is always going be a bad experience, but if you’re looking for sex tips in movies, and would rather spend the time enjoying yourself and not figuring out the logistics of comfort and where limbs are going to go, then you might be better off going the Jenna Jameson way, rather than the James Cameron. You never know, you might even learn some new, and do-able, tricks!

But I really should make it clear. Although you might get some ideas of positions and costumes and different places to put things and the like, porn is definitely not something you should look at for realism in terms of things like penis size, endurance, the number of orgasms someone can have in the space of five minutes, or the ease in which a pool cleaner or girl serving at the milkbar will have sex with you.

In fact, in all reality, you shouldn't compare yourself, or your partner, or the sex you have to anything. It should be fun, enjoyable and mutually satisfying. On your own terms, in your own way and for your own reasons. Because, let's face it, sex is funny, it's a bit ugly looking and it can be a bit awkward. But if, at the end of it, your toes are tingling, your tummy is buzzing and you're ready to fall into an orgasm coma, who cares about the rest of it!

Happy Sex Lives To You All!
- Deliciously Bad. Writer of Stuff

Star Struck

With the fun of my #CelebritiesIHaventRooted Tweets the other day I got quite a few emails etc asking about the ones I had. Now, as a professional I really cannot (and will not ever) reveal that... But I did write a column about it a while ago!
This "celebrity" is a blend of about three people and written in a way that no-one will ever know... Except me. 
Enjoy!

 

When they were giving out self-confidence, I think I must have accidentally stepped into the line twice. I have a lot of it. I don’t get nervous often and I rarely have those I-hate-myself days. To me the expression “lost for words” usually means I’ve been dealt only vowels in Scrabble. I can slot myself into any situation and get along with almost anyone. It definitely helps me at work. The conversation flows and my client’s feel relaxed and at ease. Well, usually...

It was a regular night like any other. I had started work around 9pm and within a couple of minutes I'd been given my first job. It was in the penthouse of an inner city apartment block. I'd visited a client at that building a few months ago so I knew what the place was like and could only imagine how spectacular and ritzy the penthouse would be, considering how nice a second floor place had been.
I travelled up in a beautiful elevator, got to the entrance lobby of the penthouse and rang the bell. The heavy oak doors slid open and the man who had booked me for the next few hours stood silhouetted in the doorway.

He stepped into the light where I could see his face.

“Holy shit!” I said, before realising I’d said it out loud.

Now, as embarrassing and pathetic as I know it is, there really is only one thing in this world that makes me so nervous that either my feet leap into my mouth at every opportunity or I just can’t speak at all, and that is when I meet someone famous. And, worst of all, it doesn’t even have to be someone super-famous like Brad Pitt or Madonna, it has been known to happen when I’m at the pub and the person sitting at the table next to me is the chick from a K-Mart ad.

Yes, I know it is pathetic, I know it is “so high school”, but knowing that doesn’t stop the dribble that seems to flow out of my mouth when I try to speak.

The guy smiled at me. “Hello.”

“Holy shit,” I said again. “You’re the guy from that show!”

He laughed. “Yeah, I am.”

I couldn’t stop myself. “Wow! I was so in love with you when I was younger, I had posters of you all over my bedroom!”

Ignoring the slightly bemused look on his face and the screaming in my brain, ‘Filter! Filter!’ I ploughed on“I even named my pet fish after you!”

I wandered around his living room in a kind of ecstatic haze studying photographs of him with various singers and movie stars. “Oh my god, that's you and Kylie? Holy shit, you know Tom Cruise?”

After a little more “fuckwit” from me, we finally made it into the bedroom and, as he lay me down on the bed and began to kiss and touch me, I thought I was going to faint. It was completely surreal, a fantasy coming to life and, oh wow, it was good! He knew how to touch, how to move, what to say. His hands were soft, yet firm and his body felt amazing next to mine. I have to admit I closed my eyes for a moment and pretended we were in one of his movie scenes. It was even more fantastic than those late night masturbation fantasies I'd had of him as a teenager, because it was real! He was there! I was actually fucking him! Oh my god.

Afterwards, as we lay there entwined in the sheets, I was still unable to stop myself; “If you give me your autograph I absolutely promise never to tell anyone how I got it.”

He turned to me, his eyes twinkling. “Only if you also promise me that the next time I see you, you don’t act like a star-struck groupie, and you don’t name any more pets after me.”

I did see him quite regularly after that and, true to my word, I learnt to treat him (and other celebrities I meet) mostly like normal people. It can be tricky, especially if I am a fan of theirs, but I'm definitely not as ridiculous with it now as I was in the past which is good, for them and for me, and one knows the real story behind the hand signed poster that sits over my dresser.

Well, no one but me and the teddy bear that shares his name. Teddies aren’t pets are they?

What Turns a Sex Worker Off?

Another column from my People magazine days... (still in its original form)
Wanna know what turns a sex worker off?

 

I got a letter recently asking me what it would take for me not to go through with a job. Although I am a fairly easy going person I do have limits, and, from asking other working girls what their limits are too, I've come up with a list of things that are almost certainly going to guarantee a dud booking, and most likely a non-refundable cancellation on her part. So take note, guys, and don't do any of these!

1. Personal Hygiene

I'm not talking about a little BO (although that really is a turn off), but that obvious not-had-a-shower-or-changed-clothes-in-a-week stench. It's not like you don't own a shower or know that some girl is coming over to get naked with you. Use your common sense. Wash.

2. Domestic Hygiene

Again, I don't mean dirty dishes in the sink or crap on your coffee table. I'm talking about mouldy towels in the bath, dog shit in your hall, stained and damp bed sheets. Seriously, guys, any girl who would fuck in a bed like that would probably not be someone I'd want to fuck... If you know what I mean.

3. Unexpected Guests

Saying you're home alone and the girl arriving to find three blokes sitting on the couch hoping for an orgy is a sure-fire way of not getting anything at all. We don't mind flat-mates and understand that not everyone lives alone, but just let us know so we don't freak out when your house-mate comes walking through the lounge to get a drink.

4. If It's Not On

I come across this so often it's not funny (not that it ever was). Don't bother asking if you can do it without a condom. One girl I know will literally climb off you, put on her clothes and walk out the door if you ask more than once. I'm not that extreme, but don't push it.

5. No Means No

If she says no to a request, such as kissing you on the mouth, or having anal sex, then take it. She's under no obligation to do it. The best way to avoid that situation is to pre-establish everything you want her to do with her before she even gets to your house.

6. Health Issues

Escorts are pretty good at looking for things like scabs, warts, herpes etc. It's usually done so discreetly you don't even notice it, but on those occasions that we do find something, although we might not leave, we won't have sex or oral sex with you. No matter what.

7. Smashed

Sometimes a little Dutch courage is needed to call a girl and go through with a booking, but if you are too drunk to stand or are so off your head on drugs, or are acting erratic or volatile in any way, most girls will leave. It just doesn't feel safe.

8. Privacy Matters

I once left a job halfway through because I discovered the guy filming me. I made him delete it and then left. It's completely wrong and disrespectful to do that, not to mention illegal. You want porn, go buy it. That's not what escorts are for.

9. Arseholes

Being a total fuckwit will have lots of girls not bothering to stay. Yes, we know we are prostitutes, but treating us like dogs is never a good idea. Not only will we leave, we also have big bulldog drivers waiting for us in the car who like to make sure we're happy and treated right.

10. The Vibe

It's a pretty rare occurrence but sometimes, like with the guy who wanted me to fuck him on the pink frilly princess bed, it just feels wrong. Us hookers have very finely tuned radars and if it starts to buzz most of us will get out. And it's always better to be safe than sorry. Especially in this job.

Write and Wrong

This is an extended version of the original that went into People Magazine... You'll see a difference from the others I've posted, as this is going from a 500 word article like the others are, to a 900 word story.
I like the extended versions better. They're more detailed, and are more like this in my book.

Franco lived on the 10^th floor of an old apartment block in the city. Although I'd not been to see him before it was the home of many a single man and a place I knew well. It was one of those old fashioned looking buildings with gargoyles on the corners and musty old carpet in the lobby and one of those rickety old elevators that shake and creak and threaten to plummet to the bottom if you so much as sneeze when you're inside. Not that I had to worry about that on the night I went to visit Franco.

That night, which of course happened to be one of those horribly muggy summer nights, the lifts were broken and I had to walk up ten flights of stairs. No shit.

Now, I’m not the fittest person. I despise exercise even more than I hate coriander - and let me tell you that's saying something - but I am lucky and manage to keep in shape by the grace of good genes and of course lots of fucking. So, after walking up ten flights of stairs in ridiculous shoes, not to mention thick, unbreathable air, by the time I got to his floor, my lungs were ready to explode, my legs felt like jelly and I wanted to pass out.

I spent a good five minutes or so leaning up against the wall in the stairwell trying to stop my nose from running, and gasping and wheezing and cursing the cigarettes I'd smoked on the drive over. As soon as I could manage to breathe without pain and noise I rummaged around in my over-filled bag and pulled out my little mirror for a quick check.

Okay, so my face was bright red and I had little beads of sweat on my forehead and nose, but my eyeliner was intact, my lipstick was still on and I had good hair. Small mercies! Trying to rid myself of the rosy-cheeked glow, I fanned myself with my hands as I walked down the fluorescent lit hallway, counting off doors until I found his and knocked.

The door opened a crack and Franco peered out. “Ah yes,” he said in a thick accent. “You girl, yes?”

“Yes, hi,” I replied. “I'm Sophie.”

He was a tall, fat guy with messy Einstein-style hair, wearing nothing but a loosely tied, faded dressing gown from which tufts of grey hair poked through, and a pair of torn socks.

“Elevator is bitch, yes?” he asked me when we were inside. “You right?”

He brought me some water and sat at the kitchen table looking at me while I called the agency and signed in. Once that was all done I went and sat at the table with him. It was a cluttered mess of papers and magazines and I moved a pile aside so I could put my glass down.

“You right?” he asked me again, leaning forward and looking at me closely.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.” I thought about my marathon stair climb and wondered if I’d missed something in the mirror. An ugly sweat stain perhaps, or maybe a booger (Oh God, please don’t let it be a booger!)

“No, no.” He motioned with his hand. “Write. You write?”

“Oh!” I laughed, relieved. “Yes, I can write.”

“Good,” he said. “You write for me.”

He motioned to the stack of papers I'd pushed aside and on closer inspection I saw they were those contact magazines. You know, for mail-order-brides, partner swapping and that kind of thing.

He opened one of them to a photograph of a naked woman, her boobs thrust out, thighs spread wide, and a painful expression on her face that I think was supposed to be orgasmic. It said she was called Nora, lived in Germany, loved fucking and sucking, and wanted a big cocked, warrior-type lover to take care of her.

“Her,” he said, pointing at the picture. “I want you to write to her.” He pushed a pen and notepad towards me. “I want you to tell her this: ‘I want to fuck you. You come here, live in house and we will fuck. You look after me like good woman should and I will fuck you good. I am much better than warrior. I have big cock for you so come here.’”

“Seriously?” I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

He nodded. “Yes. You write that.”

I have to tell you it was one of the easiest, not to mention funniest, jobs I'd ever had. I spent the next 2 hours (at $300 a pop) writing out these ridiculous letters to mail-order-brides and international call girls, the irony of it completely lost on Franco.

To all of them he demanded they must come and live in his house and do all the things that a woman should do, crapping on and on about his big dick and how privileged they should feel because he was going to fuck them with it.

I think the funniest thing about the whole situation was that I’d caught a glimpse through his open dressing gown earlier and I knew the truth; there was really only one big dick in the room, and I have to admit I laughed about it... All ten flights down.

Art Appreciation

I wrote this piece originally for Australian People magazine when I had my column "Sophie Loves Sex." This is it in its original form...  For the longer, more descriptive and even sexier version... Well, you'll just have to wait for my book to be published!

Enjoy! 

Simon was an artist who lived in a little upstairs studio in the city. Nearly the whole flat was covered in brightly coloured canvases, and easels containing half finished works.

“Do you like them?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’re very talented.”

“I’m getting a bit tired of the old canvas,” he said. “I really want to try painting on other mediums.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He paused for a minute, thinking. “Could I paint you?” Before I had a chance to respond he added, “I mean paint on you. Make you my canvas, I’ll use body paint.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

He led me to a table covered in a white sheet. I slipped off my clothes and lay on my tummy, my chin resting on my hands.

He dipped his hand into the paint. It was cold at first, making my body tense up and little goose-bumps appear, but after a few strokes I got used to it and began to enjoy it.

His hands smoothed the paint across my back, over my bottom and down my thighs, warm and strong.

After about twenty minutes he stopped and stood back to admire his work, pulling over a large mirror so I could see as well.

It was amazing. My back, all the way down to my knees, was covered in these bold shades of blue and purple and silver, all blending into each other to resemble a kind of magical stormy sky - the curves of my body complementing the swirling paint and adding depth and shadow to his work.

He walked around the table, inspecting it from all angles. “You are one sexy piece of art,” he said.

He pulled me back slowly til my feet were on the ground, my elbows still resting on the table, and I turned my head so I could see in the mirror.

He stepped out of his jeans, exposing his hard cock, and came up behind me. His hands slid up my body as he pushed into me, leaving a trail of slivery-purple up my belly, and over my breasts, his slippery fingers pinching at my nipples, making me push back harder onto him.

The paint from my back streaked over his chest and stomach as our bodies slid against each other and by the time we both came, in a slippery, paint-smeared heap, the magical storm had gone, replaced with a greyish mess.

After sponging each other off in a warm soapy shower we shared smoke and a glass of wine.

“I wish you’d taken a photo of it,” I said. “I would have loved a copy.”

“You were so sexy, I couldn’t help myself.” He reached over to a pile of small canvases and pulled one out.

It was a beautiful whirl of spirals and curls all blended together in different shades of green, and just looking at it turned me on again.

“As a reminder,” he said, handing it to me.

I still have it. I’m looking at it now. And considering the tingles I get when I do, it’s definitely still doing its job.

Why I Should Be On The Circle - Channel Ten

So by now a lot of you know I am pretty keen to get myself on The Circle as their resident sexpert. I think I would be a great asset to the show and think that I would fit right in with the gang too.

Why The Circle, you ask? Well there are a few reasons.

1. I think The Circle is great morning TV. It's fun, friendly, light-hearted and funny.

2. I think they could do with a bit more sex talk on the show. Not smut. Not porn. But sex talk.

3. Women love to chat about sex with their girlfriends, they really do, and I think The Circle would be a great forum for this.

The next, and probably most important part of this is, Why Me?
Well again, there are a few reasons.

1. I know my stuff.
I have been writing and talking about sex for over ten years. I am a published and popular writer on the subject and have a lot of contacts and networks within the world of sex.

2. I am articulate and educated.
I can speak well and intelligently and have a friendly and non-confronting nature. I am approachable and friendly and do not alienate people.

3. I am normal.
This may sound silly, but what I mean is, I am an average Australian woman. I am married with a child. I look like your everyday person. I have no fake anything and can relate to mums and women (proven with the many sex-based articles I write for Mother and Baby magazine). But most importantly I am real. I even have wobbles... But by goodness I am sexy!

4. I have an extensive sexpert resume that covers everything from running a brothel to writing for The Australian Sex Party. I have been a guest sex-presenter on radio and have written everything from erotic short stories to advice on talking to your kids about sex...

5. I have good interview, research and presenting skills and, to be honest, I think I'd look good on telly.
:-)

Of all my goals for 2012 this one and getting my book published are number 1.
Let's DO this funky thang!

Why Jackie O is Worse than Vile Kyle

A lot has been written about Vile Kyle and his revolting attitude to women, but from what I've found (and believe me, I've looked) not much has been said on this topic about the other person who sits behind that microphone, Jackie O. So I'm going to do that right here and now.

Over the course of the last few months I have found Jackie O to be even more disgusting than Kyle. Yes, you read that right. I really do.
Why, you ask?

Because at least Kyle is consistent in his mysoginy and rudeness. At least he is open and upfront in his vitriol. As disgusting, rude and cruel as I think he is, there's no surprises when he says what he says, just surprise he's still given the air-time in which to say it. But Jackie O is, in my opinion, even worse than that. Kyle is a bully, sure, but she is something worse than that. She is the silent and dangerous companion to all bullies. Jackie O is an enabler.

Think of the school playground where a bully is picking on a kid. Now think of the Crabbe and Goyle type people that stand around sniggering and egging them on. That's how and why the bully is effective at intimidation and how they get away with it.

If those people were to stand up and say, "No, this is wrong." the bully would have no-one to "perform" to. No-one to "impress". And we all need to remember that bullying is NOT impressive. It is cowardly and cruel and thrives on complacency and ignorance.

And here we come to Jackie O.
When Kyle went on his "fat slag" rant she just sat there. She "tut tutted" and then she laughed a bit and that was it.
When I read the transcripts and listened to the podcast I was angry! So fucking angry. But at her more than him!
Like I've said, I'm pretty aware of what a pig he is. He doesn't "shock" me when he opens his mouth, he just confirms what I've always known about him. But Jackie O is another story.

How dare she just sit there and let him say those degrading, debasing and demoralising things about another woman. Especially after millions of Australian women jumped to her defence during both the "returning to work" scandal in which Annette Sharp from The Daily Telegraph wrote an open letter questioning Jackie O's choice to return to work so soon after the birth of her baby, and the "feeding while crossing" controversy where she was called a bad mother by Prue Goward for feeding her baby a bottle as she crossed a zebra crossing. (Have just spent over an hour searching for the original articles to link here to no avail! Just a million other articles referencing the two. have they been deleted??)

When these articles came out I defended her without question. I defended her right to work or not work as she chose fit, knowing that women are capable of making their own decisions about how they feel and when they are ready to return to work after having a baby. I felt for her when she broke down in tears on her show and tried to explain why she had returned to work and again when she felt forced to answer why she'd fed her baby that way.

I actually don't think she needed to do that (justify herself), because I don't think it's any of my business how long she has off after her baby was born and because I don't believe her child was endangered in any way at all.
And because I am sick to death of women being women's worst critics! I defended her because no mother should ever be made to feel guilty about being a mother, especially by another mother!

But I'm through defending her any more. She handed in her "woman" card the minute she sat passively by and let him say the things he said, and therefore deserves none of my respect.

I have to wonder, though, why does she let him get away with it? Aren't they supposed to be equals on that show? Why can Kyle turn around and say something as vicious and revolting as threatening to "hunt down" the "fat slag" that happened to write an article about the ratings (or lack thereof) on his new TV show, and she think it's okay to just sit there and laugh?
Is she frightened of him perhaps?  Frightened to stand up to him and put forward her own opinion?
Maybe she agrees. But then, considering Kyle has reduced her to tears on more than one occasion by calling her fat, I really doubt that is the case. 

I wonder if Jackie O knows just how many people (not just women) would stand up and applaud her if she was to once stand up and say No, Kyle. It is unacceptable. Does she not realise the power she holds in her hands?
Right now she is giving him permission to be a chauvanist pig. By not standing up and saying enough is enough she is basically saying it's perfectly okay for him to make comment on the size of her thighs, or baby belly or anything that he thinks is physically wrong with her. She is giving all the young boys who listen to the show permission to judge women by the size of their bottoms. She is saying it's okay for women to be valued by what they look like and how much they weigh. And she is basically saying to all the girls that listen to her that their weight and what they look like is all they are worth and that it's perfectly okay for men to treat them that way. This is the lesson she is teaching to her daughter. 

But imagine what she could do for women and girls around the country who listen to her and look up to her by saying (as we all did when she was judged so harshly and cruelly) This Is Not Acceptable. I Refuse To Enable You Any More, Kyle.
Seriously! 

So yes, I think Jackie O is a silent, dangerous and toxic woman, giving the wrong message to males and females everywhere. 
I doubt she will read my little rant, and even if she does I doubt it will change anything, but I hope she does, and I hope she listens.
And I hope hope hope that the next Kyle and Jackie O story we hear is the one where Jackie O finally steps up to the plate, stops enabling his vileness and says enough!

Court in the Bigoted Act

I am deeply disturbed by the Herald Sun opinion piece written by Margaret Court in today’s paper (If you haven’t yet read it here’s a link)  http://www.heraldsun.com.au/opinion/priority-is-to-protect-marriage/story-e6frfhqf-1226252853390 

It disturbs me for a number of reasons. Firstly there’s the overwhelming undercurrent of hate and intolerance towards gay and lesbian people. She completely ignores all research, facts and proof that being gay is not a choice and even has the hide to suggest it is somehow a contagious affliction brought on by hearing about gay relationships, being told you are gay or being near someone who is gay. 

 The next thing that disturbs me is her idea that Australia is a Christian nation. We are not. We are a multicultural nation filled with people from all walks of life. All cultures, religions, philosophies and lifestyles. Our constitution is not based on religion, and the idea that God is going to turn his back on us and let us all suffer because we are a nation of diversity and tolerance is not only ridiculous, but highly insulting to everyone who doesn’t believe in that particular god or who does not believe that the Christian god is one of hate and bigotry. (Because let me just say as an aside here, I know many many Christians and Catholics and people of all faiths who are not small minded bigots, and who believe in equality and human rights) Of course, that being said, being insulting is par for the course when vitriol like this is spewed by people who have no real idea of the “love” they claim to be full of. 

Which brings me to my next and possibly most important point.
Who the fuck is Margaret Court?
Oh, she played tennis? She won some titles? She’s an amazingly talented athlete who changed the world for women in sport?
Good on her. That’s fucking awesome! 
However… Why the hell is she being asked to give her opinion on gay marriage in a national newspaper (and I use the term “news” loosely)?
No, really! It’s a valid question.

Sure, I know the Australian Open is on at the moment and some people have gone a little Tennis crazy, but seriously, why does her opinion even matter or count on this topic?

If we were talking about drunks at the tennis, or about getting kids off their butts and out into the summer sun playing sport, or about influential women in sport then fine. I can absolutely understand her being asked (and paid) to write about it but this just makes no sense!

What’s next? Pat Cash writing about dangerous dog laws? Leyton Hewitt giving his opinion on refugees? And hey, I’m sure Sam Stosur has something to say on climate change! So why aren’t we asking them to write about these things? Oh, that’s right because as much as everyone has an opinion on everything, it is not their area of expertise and people usually prefer to hear from experts.

I’m sorry, Margaret, but getting caned by a nun and asking god to help you win a game of tennis hardly qualifies you to talk about equal marriage rights for gay and lesbian people.

 It just has nothing whatsoever to do with her and for her to use her (very mild) celebrity status and religious leanings to somehow justify her hate of a group of people is wrong. 
It is an abuse of the voice she has and, worse than that, it’s a dagger in the heart of every gay and lesbian up and coming tennis player who looked up to her as a role model and mentor.

There have been too many youth suicides over this type of ignorance and intolerance. Too much hate. Too much violence and bigotry. And now, Margaret Court, you may indeed find their blood on your hands. 
Will your God forgive you for that?

Confusion, Hypocrisy and a F*cking Good Read

Originally Posted on: Friday, 15 July 2011 
For The Australian Sex Party 
 
This is my response to the viral video of Noni Hazlehurst Reading the book : Go The Fuck To Sleep: 

http://www.youtube.co/watch?v=3xtcB457jqQ&feature=player_%20embedded 

I am confused. As you get to know me you'll find this is not a rare thing, lots of things confuse me. City parking signs and why people still continue to wear leggings as pants are good examples of these, but the confusion I am feeling today is different. It's a bit tummy twisting and odd and I can't quite pinpoint what it is that's making me feel it.

I guess the place to start is around 30 years ago. I was four and the best part of my day was when mum and I would have our “milk and a biscuit” and sit in the living room to watch Play School.

Ah, Play School. It was, and still is in my opinion, the best TV show for kids ever. Forget your weird, slightly nightmarish Night Gardens and your odd, orange-legginged Djs, Play School is where it's at. With their cardboard toilet tube people and their spotty kinds of days they educate, entertain and delight children and parents alike.

When I was little I had two heroes on Play School. One was the hilariously funny John Hamlin whose little asides to the parents and tendency to dress as Miss Polly had both my mother and I in stitches, and the other was Noni Hazlehurst. With her wonderful crinkly-eyed smile and her little head shrugs and winks she was like a second mum. The kind of mum who'd blow on a cut after putting Dettol on it and who would tuck you up warm and safe in bed with a story every night.

When I was a teenager I would watch it with my niece and love the fact that my childhood hero was still entertaining kids, and as a new mum in my late 20s I would watch Noni on the show with my mum and my daughter and marvel at how three generations of my family could come together and find wonder and delight in this same woman, over two decades on.

At this stage I was writing weekly for one of my favourite magazines, Australian People. With its tongue-in-cheek bogan-ness and its scantily clad models it really was one of the most fun and amusing publications to write for. It has no pretensions. It's all about boobs, bums and beer and hey, there's nothing wrong with that! We're adults, we're allowed to like boobs, bums, and beer. That's one of the perks of growing up! So imagine my dismay, my hurt and my disbelief when I picked up the paper one morning to read that Noni Hazlehurst, my childhood icon, the woman who taught me the words to Bananas in Pyjamas, was tut-tutting and wagging her finger at me and my colleagues accusing us of the most heinous crime of sexualising children.

According to her the fact that these magazines can often be seen in the eyesight of children is inappropriate and they should be moved to the back corner of the shop with the restricted R rated magazines like Hustler and Playboy.

But hang on a moment I thought as I looked at the cover of the latest People magazine, 

how is THIS (People) 

any worse than THIS (Cosmo)?