(This is something that happened to me about five years ago, while I was still working loads and was also writing the Sophie Loves Sex column for People magazine. Unlike most of my Sophie tales where certain details have been changed to protect the (not-so) innocent, this one is practically word for word what happened, and I haven't really changed a thing. You'll see why. Read on...)
Something happened the other night that has left me feeling quite uneasy and, I should also say, a little pissed off. It takes quite a lot to upset me and piss me off so, when it happens, it's usually because something really fucked up has occurred. This is one of those times and the only real outlet I have to set the record straight are the pages of this magazine so that is what I am doing. I can only hope it gets to the right people.
Let me set the scene for you.
A warm summer night. Two bodies tangled together in the sheets. Skin sweaty, breath uneven. His hands running over my back, my body still feeling the buzz of orgasm running through it. He reaches for a smoke and a drink, lights one for me, sits up in the bed and smiles.
“That was fantastic,” he says with a grin “You’re the second girl I’ve been with since I’ve arrived in town and I can’t get over the calibre of you city chicks.” He drags on his cigarette and trails a lazy hand down the curves of my body. “And not just that,” he continues. “But you all seem to really enjoy your work.”
I return his smile and take a drink. “Yeah,” I say. “Work’s pretty fun.”
Then he says something I’m really not expecting.
“Hey, do you ever read People magazine?”
I look at him. Not too sure where it’s going, not too sure what to say, so I shrug and say, “Yeah, sometimes… Why?”
“Oh,” he says, his eyes shining bright. “Cos there’s this chick who writes a column all about the sex trade, and how much she likes it and stuff. Sophie is the name she writes under. Have you ever read it?”
Again I am kinda speechless. “Yeah, a couple of times… Why?”
And then he says the thing that knocks my socks off and completely throws me.
“I met her,” he says with a star-struck look on his face. “That other chick I told you about. The one from the other night. She told me when she was here that she actually writes it!”
“What?” I nearly drop my smoke on the bed
“Yep,” he says, almost proudly. “She doesn’t use Sophie as her working name of course, but she was telling me all about it and it just sounds brilliant. I mean, she gets to work in a job she loves, and then gets to tell the world about it! Lucky girl hey?”
“Extremely,” I say through gritted teeth.
The rest of the booking was spent listening to him go on and on about how it was like some sort of dream come true, like meeting his favourite TV star or hero. And I just had to sit there, smiling and nodding, and wondering if I should actually say something.
I decided against it. I think I would have looked silly protesting that no, Sophie is really me, and not some bitch who has no imagination of her own. I mean, would he have even believed me? Or would I have just come off like some sort of tosser? And not only that, would it make him think that probably neither of us were in fact Sophie after all and ruin his warm-fuzzy feelings about working girls and a character he quite admired?
I decided, yes. It probably would. So I didn't say anything.
He did say a couple of things that made me smile though. The first was that he got the impression she enjoyed the talking about writing it more than the actual doing it. And that, even though she was hot and sexy and fun, he had always expected her to be a little more “into” the client and not so much “into” herself... And the other thing he said that made me feel a little better was that he’d always pictured Sophie a little slimmer, more like how I looked.
But all that aside, as I said before, it’s left me quite unsettled. Firstly because of the obvious reason of having someone pretend to be me and take credit for my work, and secondly because I don't want people to think the things I write in here are lies or exaggerations or that I don't love my work as much as I say I do in these pages. So, to set things straight, I’ll just say this.
I don’t go on about this column when I am at work. I just don't. You might be lucky to find out if the conversation heads that way, but I don’t make it a habit to boast to every guy I see. It's tacky and unprofessional and just is not something I do.
So I'm really sorry, guys, but if you do happen to make a booking with “Sophie”, I'm going to tell you now, you really most probably aren't. A good test is to ask her the title of next week's unpublished column, or the week after that. She won't know. The real Sophie will know, and will tell you. I promise you that.
So, Nadia (Oh yes, I'm calling you out by name), if you’re out there reading this getting some new ideas for crap to spin, just know this: I’m on to you. I know your game. And not only are you making a bit of a fool of yourself, you should really be aware that there's only one of me. Only one Sophie. And nothing and no one but me will ever live up to the real thing.
