I met my first prostitute when I was 17. After the sex, I wandered into a small church and thanked God
Published 24 May 1999
"Mr Marks, you have to admit that drugs make people irrational, don't you?"
"Yes, but only those who don't take them."
"Last question, please," said the presenter, obviously relieved. "The school hall has to close at eight o'clock."
Two paradigms of teenage nubilia shyly cried in unison, "Mr Marks, if you had to choose your first love, would you choose sex or drugs or rock'n'roll?"
I was tempted to quickly fire back a smooth retort such as, "Drugs, of course, darlings; pass the Viagra," but decided that was unnecessarily evasive and resolved to give a true answer. I had, after all, just been giving a talk on how important it was for parents and kids to stop lying to each other, particularly about drug use. (This was before poor old Tom Parker Bowles was exposed as cocaine-friendly by the News of the World: I wish I could have warned him that honesty is always the best policy - before you're caught. It's not quite as good to go running to Mummy with an apology after the event . . .) I looked down at the girls' expectant faces: yes, honesty would be appropriate, right here, right now. I thought long and hard. It was a refreshingly new question.
There was a time I'd have definitely chosen sex. Now I wasn't so sure: God! Was sexual disinterest yet another sign of my age? I was finding life puzzling enough as it was, trying to cope with false teeth and sudden short sight. (Surely the latter is enough to cast shadows of doubt on the very existence of selfish genes? What could possibly be the evolutionary advantage of beginning to go blind in one's early fifties, a few decades before death? Why have we preserved that gene? What use would it have been in the jungle?)
But chronologically speaking, rock'n'roll was my first love. Rock'n'roll in white communities such as the Welsh Valleys and Boise, Idaho, at first seemed very divorced from sex. Look at Bill Haley or Pat Boone, with whom no self-respecting sexy boiler would ever be seen dead in bed. There were thousands of ditties without even a vestige of a suggestive lyric: "Battle of New Orleans", "Charlie Brown" and "Elevator Rock". Even "Little White Bull" didn't get you horny. But then came Elvis. These days anyone can present his naked erect penis as an illegal offensive weapon, but 40 years ago, Elvis did the same fully clothed and flaccid. But Elvis was nigger music and raunchy and in your face. He was taboo. The warning was raised: if we let our kids give in to that taboo, they'll fuck in the streets and become animals. But they don't have claws or fur: they won't survive.
It took Elvis to get a whole generation of females to admit they wanted to make love, and would do it to music, without promises of fidelity or family. It took Elvis to trigger off my second love, sex. The concept of a prostitute was quite definitely my first abstraction of sex, and a puritanical Welsh village upbringing had more than ensured that my dealings with prostitutes remained on this abstract level. As a result, the loss of my virginity and other initial real sex encounters were enshrined in a miasma of embarrassment, incompetence and guilt. The peak of my fertility had seemingly coincided with the trough of my sexual inadequacy.
I met my first prostitute on my first visit to London. I was 17, and the sound of the name of Soho never failed to excite me, and my heart was thumping with anticipation as I walked down Dean Street and turned into St Anne's Court. The name on the flat was Lulu. Ten minutes later, I had parted with two pounds eight shillings and had been blessed with the experience of conscience-free, sweet and powerful sex.
I wandered into a small church and thanked God. Later that night, very skint, I strolled again past Lulu's quarters. A sad-looking older guy in his early fifties walked anxiously into them. Minutes later, he emerged full of the joys of life. I didn't feel jealous. Then Lulu walked out, stared straight into my eyes without the merest hint or glint of recognition, and strolled away. I didn't feel hurt.
So, a beautiful lady (who forgot me before my pants were dry) taught me jealousy was no more than a controllable attitude, it was insane to get offended by anyone not trying to cause offence, and sex should be an intensely joyous Big Bang.
But this kind of sex is taboo. Again, the warning is that if we let the kids give in to that taboo, they'll fuck in the streets and become animals . . .
When my sex started rocking and rolling, Nature said, "High! Take a mushroom before you die. Smoke this, suck that and swallow the lot." And the drugs still work. No change there. Thanks, God.
So, "Drugs," I replied.
"I told you," yelled one of the girls, as they both ran off giggling.
"Mr Marks, drugs are illegal. Taking them is wrong," protested the agitated presenter.
"So you reckon on the seventh day, God looked at His creation, admired most of it, and then cried, 'Shit! I've left all these plants growing everywhere, which are going to turn people on. What am I going to do? I know. I'll send in Jack Straw'?" I was thinking of following the two gigglers.
"Taking drugs is just a temptation, surely. And if you yield to temptation, you're no better than an animal," the man persisted.
"I know. And I don't have claws; I don't have fur; I won't survive."
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