Molly Parkin: Lovers, loves, cocks and spirituality

Part One of an interview with Molly Parkin - editor, poet, journalist, writer and artist: fashion editor of Nova magazine in the 1960s, she moved onto the Sunday Times in the 1970s and became a trend-setting celebrity; her autobiography, Moll was published in 1993.

Hello Moll! Your libido was once a thing of wonder and you’ve said that its abatement is "Like being unchained from a lunatic". Is this still true, or has there been a resurgence? I only ask because a friend recently attended your poetry reading and marvelled at one of your celebrations of sex with a man of 23 at the age of 73.

Last month, March 23, 2007, I celebrated my 21st birthday in sobriety. Over two decades without a drink, drug, or cigarette, of which I smoked 100 a day by the end.

My life altered radically when I gave up all these pastimes. I actually became addicted to celibacy, to relationships without any sexual connotations. This brought astounding and profound platonic friendships into my life, which continue to this day.

I no longer regarded myself merely as a sexual object, which adjusted my judgement of others, meaning men. I felt that I was being loved for myself and treated them with a new respect, in the same way.

It allowed my spirituality to develop and on the extremely rare occasions when sex occurred it was either spontaneous, such as the literally sublime non-stop Karma Sutra marathon with an Indian masseur, over a 12 hour period. Or it was friendly and relaxed, like the sweet, sweet, sex and succulent room service with a grey-eyed Greek god, a six-footer at the ritzy Inn On The Park Hotel, whenever he was in London.

I would have been in my 50s then, and both these men were 30 years younger. Both proposed marriage which I gently declined.

The recent sexual encounter in Las Vegas between me and the bronzed surfer boy-beauty was a sexual explosion of such spontaneity that I still haven't fully recovered. Nor shall I, ever! But I choose to regard that as the closure of a passionate love affair which had taken place in the previous lives of us both. It was suffused with such mutual warmth and humorous bonding, despite the gap of fifty years between us. I view it a a blessing from one being to another.

The quote "like being unchained from a lunatic" was not originally mine. Though the press claim it to be so. It was actually my former lover, Georgie Melly, who introduced me to it, as a phrase coined by one of the French Surrealists. But I actually did think that my libido had withered on the bough, when I gave up the booze. The two so seemed to be inextricably linked. Obviously, and rather excitingly, this is far from the truth.

I trudged around to the Sexual Health Clinic in Chelsea on my return from Las Vegas, having indulged in UNPROTECTED sex with that stranger, the young surfer. I was the only female, certainly in their 70s, in the waiting room, the rest were beautiful teenage youths, terrified of AIDS. Bless!

Anyway, the doctor was charming to me. He said, "To what do we owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit from Molly Parkin?"(recognising me from those far off telly days). After I'd explained the circumstances, I asked if the behaviour was too utterly depraved for a woman of my advanced years. I hasten to add that I actually didn't think so, myself. But it was the old puritanical, chapel thing from my youth raising its kill-joy head.

He laughed, so did the nurse. "We encourage our senior citizens to enjoy sex until the very end of their days," he said. "It not only lengthens their lives, but it makes them a bloody-sight more cheerful."

On my way out he presented me with a carrier-bagful of condoms, "In support of my spontaneity!"

I understand you spanked Sir John Mortimer’s bottom for up to two hours during a liaison with that naughty masochistic QC. Tell me it’s not true … I mean he’s no oil painting … didn’t you get you arm ache?

It most certainly is true, and I would gladly perform the same service again, if asked. I adored and still do adore John Mortimer. It is a pleasure to respond to men with brilliant minds, with a saucy side to them. The humour was in the right place between us from the start. And though you may say he is no oil painting, along with the most beautiful females in London, I could never refuse him. He talks you into bed, with a twinkle in the eyes. He was certainly one of my most charismatic and sexually attractive lovers. We had a lot of fun together.

Conventional good looks and a great body alone, isn't everything, when it comes to pulling partners. The prettiest boys and girls, too often rest on their laurels and don't bother with developing conversational skills and humorous response, because they have from childhood been so admired and congratulated on their looks. It can make for a boring passivity. They can't interact, in the way that less obvious beauties do, who have been forced by nature to project personality.

There is some truth in the saying, "The Curse Of Beauty." I witnessed it again and again when working as Fashion Editor, through the entire 60s, with the most sublimely beautiful models from the entire planet. They were almost inevitably nursing broken hearts.

After our fashon photography sessions they would be picked up from the locations or studios, by short men in the sleekest sports cars who would whisk them off to the swishest night clubs. The very top models of the season being the most vulnerable, because the next season the men would drop them and move onto the next "new face". These lovely girls were all merely reduced by their beauty to being these bastards' latest trophy girls, there to match their latest car models.

I come from a family of beauties, brains and wits, and have been generously awarded all the genes, including the history of rampant alcoholism.. So I was always able to accept illustrious men as lovers. They were all on offer, men of every type. I had my pick, all I had to do was choose.

When I met John Mortimer I had just opened my own restaurant round the corner from Sloane Square, it was between magazine jobs, and I was doing a lot of TV appearences. I was as slim as a pencil but still with a famously great pair of tits and a pert arse, asking to be smacked. I was black and blue on my return from Rome as a very young art student, so keen are they on the practice of bum-pinching. So I was already familiar with posterior pain and refused to allow John to spank me.

That's how I assumed the role of sadist. And it suited me much better. More my style, I found it hilarious, hugely enjoyable as he yelped and wriggled in pleasure. But I did eventually get knackered, and was due to present myself on Breakfast TV in the morning.

"'Nuff's enough, my darling," I whispered. He wasn't best pleased because he hadn't even orgasmed then. So I yanked him over and fucked him from the front. That got the job done in seconds.

Best lover ever (and why)? Best love? Best friend?

Both husbands were amongst my very best lovers, for the size of their cocks, the smoothness of their skins, the loucheness of their lower lips, and the fact that both could enjoy a bloody good laugh in bed with me. And I did love the cosiness of post-coitals, when sardines on toast and hot cocoa came up on a tray, whatever time of day or night. And screwing halfway up the stairs, or in the bath, when the kids were in bed. And the husbands not minding me getting their cocks out on top of the bus, or in the cinema, as if their bits were my bits. Or shagging in the lavvy on the train, after the ticket inspector had punched our tickets.

Extra-marital, I would have to say the legendary Bo Diddley, following his sell-out concert at The Brixton Academy, for the strength of that musician's tongue, stiff and strong in my twatty, as a super-erect penis. Then the penis itself, like being rodgered by a horse. And the heady fragrance and taste of a black man's sweat, which is like no other, or the depth of the singer's lungs lending laughter a new meaning. And just the gargantuan appetite, matching my own. And the sheer physical endurence, hours and hours and hours without sleep. If we could have eaten each other we would have, and we did of course. But I have never before or since had such a sensation of actually being so deliciously DEVOURED.

The love of my life remains, the famed actor, James Robertson Justice. I gave him my virginity on a plate, like a bowl of cherries, when I was 22 and he was 52. I was thrilled to do so, I really thought that I'd landed in heaven. So in love were we.
There was 30 years between us, but he had mischief oozing from every pore.

It was a combination, with his erudite knowlege and inner wisdom, that I'd always been drawn to, but with him it came in concentrated form. His massive popularity then as an actor remains to this day, long after his death. And I miss him still, always will.

When he entered a room, a pub, a club, a restaurant, a theatre, people would turn around to search for the source of this unexpected burst of energy. He brought the sunshine with him, wherever he went. I learned how to live my life, from then on. He taught me everything about what it is to become utterly yourself, and be true to your own heart.

Part Two of my interview with Molly will follow in the next week or so.