This Much Is True

I did a great deal of sucking off because I seemed to be good at it, and it was all I could do. I remember a lusty Hungarian student who once achieved orgasm seven times in a session — so good for him, so tiring for me. I wasn’t going to fuck, you see. I knew I wasn’t going to do that, because I had promised my parents I wouldn’t. They were highly conventional and deeply moralistic. They couldn’t imagine a relationship outside marriage, and had impressed on me that I mustn’t have sex: pregnancy would result, and their hopes and dreams for my future happiness would be destroyed.

The subject of sex was difficult for my parents, especially where I was concerned; and, indeed, possibly where they were concerned, too. In those days, a respectable female could not give vent to sexual longings; intercourse resulted in unwanted children, and masturbation was ‘dirty’. That’s how it was in the fifties and sixties. Jewish girls were known for sucking off: the man is satisfied and we don’t get pregnant. Oral skill enhances your popularity and, if I’m honest, I think I enjoyed the power it lent me.

Growing up, I had no fear of people. I would go up to strangers and talk to them; I still do. I like taking the initiative and striking up relationships with people who seem interesting. On my walk from school one time, I noticed a beautiful woman: I think she worked in Webbers, or Elliston & Cavell’s, one of the two old Oxford department stores. I went up to her and I said, ‘I think you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’ I was in my school uniform wearing my school hat; she looked at me with great pleasure: no doubt it was a nice thing to be told. But I meant it: she was beautiful, with perfect make-up. On other occasions, I used to meet a local tramp who was often to be found on Banbury Road. I remember noticing his pungent smell and dirty feet, but he smiled amiably and was entirely unthreatening. Other people’s lives are always gripping. I didn’t know I would one day make a living from being inquisitive, but it stems from a genuine and powerful curiosity about the world.

Another time, again coming home from school along the Banbury Road, I noticed a handsome man walking in front of me. I accosted him just beyond South Parade, and started talking to him. We talked for a long time. He was a beautiful young Anglo-Russian called Anton Vinogradov and I fell very much in love with him, almost immediately.

He lived somewhere in North Oxford, and so, after that first encounter, every day after school as I walked home, I would wait to see if he was around; he was quite often. He didn’t approach me; I picked him up. He was a passive volunteer in my pursuit.

Anton was a postgraduate student at Oxford — educated, Jewish, English and, more importantly, he was actually a decent man. He was the apotheosis of what my parents wanted for me and I was very much my parents’ child so I longed to please them. And there must have been some sexual feeling, though I doubt there was on his part. However, I felt that I loved this man. His soul interested me, and I have not been interested in very many men’s souls (but more on that topic later). I thought about him obsessively, all the time.

I threw myself at him in a way that must have been quite alarming. Looking back, I’m not sure how much happened between us, because it wasn’t real. It was merely a projection of my romantic soul, and absurdly one-sided. To be precise, I’m sure that nothing below the waist actually happened. He was in no way a groper; I knew gropers, of course. Who doesn’t? (Groping is worth a whole other chapter.)

As I said, I sucked off lots of people, but I didn’t suck off Anton. All the bike-shed encounters with prick and mouth — as opposed to foot and mouth — were totally sexual. They were not about emotional connection, they were about sexual gratification, about lust. With Anton it was emotional; it was romantic, and intensely so. I had never experienced that before with a man and I never have since. (There was a Chinese professor of journalism in Shanghai for whom I felt a twang, but that’s it.) And I was in love with him because, when he ended it, I can remember the feeling of being annihilated — a pure, wrenching grief and loss.

I think he liked me and thought I was engaging and intelligent but, obviously, I was a schoolgirl, not a particularly pretty schoolgirl, and he was married. That clinched it; he felt at a certain point that he had to put the kibosh on it, and he did. He took me to tea somewhere in North Oxford and he told me that he thought it was not right for me to feel so passionately for him.

When he said it, I knew it was sensible and final, and the fact that he had a wife and a child confirmed the finality. I’ve always felt slightly moral about that sort of thing; it’s pretty shitty to interfere in a marriage. He was right to put an end to it, but that didn’t stop it from hurting.