January 23rd 1981

Diary entry:

‘It was really foggy this morning. I went on the train with Diane and Josie, had to get in the smoking carriage as it was packed. In my lunch hour I bought ‘Rapture’ and ‘Vienna’ on 7″. Work was boring and Dennis left early so I typed a letter to D.S. at Vine Street. The lady I spoke to the other day said I ought to go over there and visit. Just like that! Anyway, after mum had made my tea (yum shepherd’s pie) I left to go into Soho, and it was even foggier tonight. I went back in that sex shop and looked through ‘Zipper’ and ‘Him’ magazines. The man on the door was there again so I plucked up the courage to go and talk to him’.

I had been going into Soho quite a lot on weekend evenings, usually on Friday’s and sometimes on a Saturday night as well. I was living the most mundane life in Rainham, going to work bored out of my skull and then most of the time sitting round David’s waiting for him to come back from whatever girlfriend he was seeing at the time. I thought I loved him but of course he was just ‘there’ and had paid me sexual attention – quite why I hung around so much is beyond me – he wanted sexual attention from anyone who wanted to give it to him, male or female, and got it. I wanted to be like him, but better. I wanted more excitement than Rainham could offer. Even though we had dabbled I was most likely the only person who never came onto him, and even at that age I relished the idea of knowing he wanted to do ‘things’ with me, especially when drunk or stoned. This does all sound very basic but let’s not forget I was seventeen years old, and so was he. I needed my own secrets, my own fantasy world, and I made sure I went out and got it. I consciously created quite a life in London town back then. Not that any of it was high living – I knew all the tasty guys on all the doors of the sleaziest places you could imagine, both gay and straight. I hung around them like a groupie, being let in for free, bought drinks and often having to pay back in kind. I sat through the most boring and badly made porn films where many a blonde tart was shagged senseless over a fence by some demented but sexy farmer, as the fumbling hands of the doorman slid up and down my tight Farah trousers. I suppose I was quite a catch . . seventeen years old (then still illegal) yet game for it unlike most girls would have been back then. And these guys were supposed to be straight! One of them really liked me, or at least I thought he did. So distorted was my view of love and attention that I thought being handed a tenner after giving him a blow job for half an hour was a sign of affection. One night I was really ill with a cold and he drove me all the way back to Essex, yet he lived in Stockwell. We pulled into a garage on the A13 and he bought me some Lemsip sachets, which I refused to open as it would spoil them. I thought this was true love. Only momentarily mind you, as I never ever saw him again.

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