Free sex for payment

We hadn’t been brought up to insist on paying our way, or getting home on our own, or taking control of our own evenings and sleeping where and with whom we wished.

To be honest, I mainly remember the 60s as an endless round of miserable promiscuity, a time when often it seemed easier and, believe it or not, more polite, to sleep with a man than to chuck him out of your flat. In my teens, I lived with my father – my mother had left home by then.

To make things worse, there were two added factors that made promiscuity so difficult to avoid.

Firstly, there was very little awareness of sexually transmitted diseases – HIV wasn’t yet an issue – and very few men, now that the pill was on the scene, had any clue about how to put on a condom.

As a result there is now no end of apps with the same aim of helping you fall in love and live happily ever after, or at the least find someone to hang out with next weekend.

If you can imagine emerging from this repressed background into the swinging 60s, equipped with a contraceptive pill that had only recently become the hugely popular and completely reliable form of birth control, you can also imagine how ill-prepared we all were for what was to follow.It’s the people who follow afterwards who have the easier time, sauntering along the trodden path, picking roses along the way. It’s difficult to understand sex in the 60s without understanding what life was like before the 60s. At Woman magazine, where I worked a decade later, the journalists weren’t ever allowed to use the word ‘bottom’ – not even in ‘bottom of the garden’ or ‘bottom of the saucepan’.They couldn’t print the word ‘menstruation’, and if a reader wanted to know anything about sex she had to write in to the agony aunt who might suggest she wrote in again enclosing a stamped addressed plain brown envelope into which, but only if you were married of course, she would insert a leaflet explaining the Facts of Life.I recall a complete stranger once slipping into bed beside me when I was staying in an all-male household in Oxford, and feeling so baffled about what the right thing was to do that I let him have sex with me; I remember being got drunk by a grossly fat tabloid newspaper journalist and taken back to a flat belonging to a friend of his to which he had a key, being subjected to what would now be described as rape, and still thinking it was my fault for accepting so much wine. He did his best to be a good dad, but he, like most parents, had no experience of bringing up a young girl emerging into a social revolution.I remember going out to dinner with a young lawyer who inveigled me back to his flat saying he’d got to pick something up before he could take me home, and then suggested we have sex. A woman friend of his had advised him to suggest that I go to a doctor to get ‘fixed up’ and to always let him know by phone if I wasn’t going to be home for breakfast. But there were no limits set, no mention of sex and love being remotely connected.

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Not every girl behaved quite as I did, but most came under the same kinds of pressures and few can have missed out on the occasional bleak and ghastly ‘one-night stand’, a phrase that simply didn’t exist for my parents’ generation.

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