‘How Sex Works – Playing the Field’ (that was the week that was…)
Sex, sex and more bloody sex; it’s all and only what you get on BBC3 right now. That stuff sells, right? So naturally, the sickly, angst-ridden pubescent bastard of the world’s greatest broadcaster has grabbed desperately onto the buoy (or, more accurately ‘boys’) of what’s best in life and allegedly – sometimes – free. ‘Let’s get down and dirty,’ fantasises Beeb3 ‘with our rival tarts on Channel Five say, or perhaps Channel Four. They may charge a bit more for their own televisualerotic versions of the King’s Cross/Marylebone Road type of charm, but if we can get something cheap and cheerful out there at least it’s a foot in the door, however ravaged and raddled our offering might be.
To be straight so to speak, I’m in no way describing anyone as being whoreish per se incidentally, but I do wonder who exactly kerb-crawls this sort of thing.
Nor do I write as some wannabe TV critic but as a person conned (well, ok, then willingly agreeing to) taking part in one programme in BBC3’s ‘Sex Season’ currently boring us half to death (and not in a good way), night after night with show upon show (imagine that – TV progs actually shagging each other) about…well…in truth, how incredibly boring sex really is. That is unless you’re actually doing it.
And regardless of the initial ‘shock-horror’ stories wrapping up the tabloid Sundays, the aforementioned season is most certainly not that; this sheep in wolf’s clothing has been as much of a penile let down-as damp squib and desiccated girl bits. Turn on, tune in, turn off would be my mantra if a bit of titillation’s what you’re after; what we’ve got here is just the opposite.
At this point though I must come clean – if ‘clean’ and ‘come’ are the right words – and say how bitterly disappointed I was in my by far all-too-brief appearance in what was initially pitched to me as featuring a vignette of the girl who’d had a hundred dicks (at least) only to emerge, shaken if not stirred the other end, finding true love at the denouement.
And the programme, to my absolute horror, did exactly that, concentrating not, as I’d been given to believe, on my merry dance of sexual adventures (mis- and otherwise) but on a sad slag having fucked behind dustbins, in toilets and so on to discover my ‘Prince’ at the close of my ‘journey’ down a street of kebab takeaways and seedy underground clubs. The metaphor of having sex with strangers and buying a pasty is now stuck with me for life. One sentence out of possibly thousands and you just had to squeeze it in. Cheers for that guys, I can never eat such a thing in public again – and that lovely new Reggae Reggae Hot Chilli Beed Pasty tastes so good after a night out!
So, not entirely the truth exactly, more accurately ‘The Truth’ – a short and saccharine-sweetened version of it anyway, in Programme Two of a trilogy titled ‘How Sex Works: Playing the Field’ screened no fewer than five times at varying times of the night over the last week, its final showing early this morning. In it my comparator was, among others, an interminably boring and distinctly un-erotic CGI hermaphrodite illustrating, in sub-GCSE Biology terms, hard-ons, hormones, glands and vaginal lubrication. Next to him/her, I might have been interesting but then add to this a shoe-obsessed, body-building bi-sexual Titan of apparently little brain happy to poke anything in trousers, skirt, dog-collar or you name it, a sex-crazed orgy-loving goth with the libido of Silvio Berlusconi on steroids (and I’m talking about a girl here) plus an admittedly gorgeous black ego-maniac with a two year old daughter, kept strictly ‘separate’ from his amatory existence, you’ll imagine how easily I could have been (and indeed was) contrasted as some sort of sore Thumbelina.
Next to these over-sexed, intellectually bottom-feeding specimens were posited a young gay man recently diagnosed with HIV and, strangest of all an ‘asexual’ Oxbridge undergraduate with a multi-coloured crop who’d clearly just fallen in love. Her adamant disavowal of genital association was clearly soon to be self-challenged, she having found some sort of weird soul-mate who’d just moved into her flat in full knowledge of these (non-)predilections and by all accounts happy with that but with sexual tension apparent. He, geeky and posh, her intelligently weird, they made a very sweet couple, coo-ing like lovebirds while making dinner a deux together and in doing so creating at least one story worth following up.
Then, as I say, there was me.
Emerging, somehow, like Mother Teresa of Calcutta, I seemed to provide the perfect foil for the ‘excesses’ of all others involved, including that fucking digital monstrosity sharing its secondary school brain chemistry. Moral purity so intact it might as well have been my hymen I wondered ‘how did I manage this after all I’ve been through and after all that’s been through me?’
Where, I asked myself were the stories I told to the camera during numerous interview hours involving my having sex in a car park against a white van while a pub was emptying out? Giving a blow job in a church yard? Fucking in a theatre – on stage, in the dressing room, on a piano, in a bar, on a desk and one time giving a 15 year-old head ‘til I found out his age and then the scarpered?
Where were my current, and it has to be said most perverted, sexual practices?
After the first showing last week I got a shed-load of texts and a number of emails from friends and (somehow) people I barely know or remember, most expressing shock at the manner in which I’d been depicted. I also had one from the show’s producer/director (who I’d still like to call a friend) telling me how well he thought I’d been portrayed and how gorgeous I looked.
I include a selection of such messages at the end of the following clip which is the sum total of my fifteen seconds of fame. For those wishing to see the entire show, click the link at the end of this piece.
Meanwhile I shall naturally continue to chronicle, with the best that memory allows, how I worked my way through those one hundred dicks only to end up sainted on a TV show I’d genuinely hoped would provide at least a glimpse of what most who know me already know: I am very far from the paragon of virtue you’re about to see in front of you now.
With thanks to Pioneer Productions .
What the people that know me thought…..
SD: Bless. You came across well. I was chuckling at the images of you and Ian – again, you could have included something much fruitier. Glad you didn’t tell the funnel story. I like how you compared having sex to playing tennis to buying a pasty – I didn’t know you played tennis!
NM: Mate u look great. U said that casual sex was like going to the shop and buying a pastie. Si and I cracked up as we were remembering how much a pastie and a turnover meant to you. Lol…it was such a S thing to say!!! U were defo authentic. U didn’t shame urself, that’s the main thing. I felt there should have been more info on your promiscuity. I’ve heard much racier stuff but that was good enough for TV!!! If they want more they should read the blog. I was most shocked by the engagement.
LD: Brookie! You looked gorgeous and didn’t come across like a dick like a lot of these people can. The thing is, you came off so well, but I know you to be SO sordid, even more that these others, but media fuckers seem to just do what they like! I bet a few people will be googling ‘brooke sex’. LB: Haha! A threesome that never happened. You came across really well Brooke! You have some guts to go on TV talking about it sweetheart! And really good that you were honest about how it made you feel in the end! And actually, you made the point that it was becoming so mundane, which let’s face it buying a pasty is! 😉 I think they were obviously interested in being sensationalitic but it needed a story that ended differently after going through what they spent most of the hour showing!
KH: Did you say pastie for me? We were just saying you looked great. I think the soho bits looked staged, and the normal chatty bits were you…I thought you came across well, the whole programme was a little sensationalist.