I introduced myself to the man, and he said, ‘Oh, yes. Miriam Margolyes. Well, Miriam, I’ve written the script. Here it is, and the microphone is over there.’
I said, ‘You want me to do it here? In the warehouse?’
‘That’s fine. I just need to know that you can handle it. We’ll do the real thing in the studio.’
I gulped slightly and started to read out his appalling script, which was full of heavy breathing, squeals, vocal intercourse and more. I realise for all my dirty talk, I’m quite prudish, and I found it rather unpleasant having to pretend to achieve orgasm in front of this creepy bloke. However, it was a job, I gave it my all, and my moans and squeaks echoed back convincingly from the walls of this urban dungeon.
‘Yeah, that was good,’ the warehouse fellow said. ‘When are you free?’
When I said I was quite free for the next week or so, he gave me a date, and told me to report to Molinare studios in Foubert’s Place, just off Carnaby Street (which still exists, but it doesn’t do that kind of thing any more).
I turned up at the appointed hour to find that the engineer, David Hodge, was someone I’d worked with before. He was one of the very top sound engineers and I would go on to choose him later to record my show reel. (The sex tape wasn’t on it.)
He seemed a bit taken aback to find that I was the voice on this job, so I was all brisk and businesslike: ‘Yes, I’m not sure how we’re going to do it, but I’ll just do the best I can.’
The script had no redeeming features: no characterisation, and it didn’t even have a story. It was the account of schoolgirl called Sonia meeting a man and then engaging in a prolonged fucking session, all described in graphic detail. Not many words, but so much panting and gasping and squelching. Simulating orgasms (and there were a lot of orgasms) involved a significant amount of heavy breathing, and I had a bad headache by the end. Truly, one climax is much like another, but I was having to delve into my subconscious to achieve the variety I felt was expected. And at least if you have real sex, you have some fulfilment at the end — my only fulfilment was the three hundred quid. But I wasn’t complaining: that was a big pay cheque for those days.
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.
I haven’t spent much time thinking about men, really. My world has been largely female-centred, and I’m perfectly happy with that; I don’t feel I’ve missed out. Women’s souls are fascinating and compelling, not so with men. Of course, I retain some life-long male friends and they are precious; but there is no groin excitement when I’m with most men (nor they with me!), and as I’m not sexually interested either in their bodies or in their souls, for me they become peripheral beings. I am not hostile, but if they attempt to bully or scorn me, I will instantly retaliate, usually verbally. I realise I’m generalising but from my experience I find that the range of thought and conversation in most men is limited. They’re not interested in feelings. Many men react with horror and fear when a woman starts crying. From this harsh judgement I exempt actors and homosexuals. Perhaps because gay people have been oppressed and scorned themselves, and still are in many places, they have an awareness of the dark side of life and a corresponding capacity to laugh, spread joy and express love. The gay world can be silly and trivial and excluding, but I’m glad I’m gay; I relish and appreciate my camp friends, I admire their style and panache, their energy and bravery,
I wouldn’t want to be straight for the world. In the dreadful AIDS time in the eighties, I lost thirty-four friends; beautiful, talented, funny, warm gay boys — I mourn them, it was a terrible loss. What the boys do in bed I’ve never understood. I can hardly bear the thought of anal sex. I’ve never been fucked up the bum and I’m happy to die wondering (as Mummy might say). But I won’t castigate anyone for their sexual practices, unless they’re cruel or violent.