Let me bring it out in the open before we start, and ‘out’ myself as a confirmed and lifelong sex pest. Judging by the flood of celebrities and politicians who have been nominated as members over the past year, it’s not a small club but the quality of members is astounding. Not one is poor, homeless or unemployed. Yes, sex pests are almost invariably rich or successful white males. And yet, perhaps thanks to genetics, I’m one of them.
But putting my hand up probably isn’t enough. Being related to someone who still believes in religion, I feel an urge to confess my sins. So here goes.
When I was aged 16 to 20, I made sexual suggestions to a multitude of women, offering to take them to the cinema, my flat and even my bedroom, depending on how lucky I felt. I repeatedly put my hand on so many legs, knees, arms, hips, shoulders and occasionally (but oh so subtly) breasts that I am ashamed to say I lost count. Then, when I was about 28 I met a woman who was still in a relationship with an ex-friend and engaged in a little causal flirting with her. Then, having known her for a few months and with my birthday fast approaching, I joked that I would stay in bed on my birthday so that she could give me my present somewhere comfortable. Our relationship wasn’t physical at this point, so it was plainly inappropriate and sexual harassment. Undoubtedly oppressed by my blatant sexual bullying, she complied, arriving with champagne, strawberries and silk underwear. I later married her, to further reinforce my male sexual dominance over this vulnerable female.
Having finally gotten over the trauma of this initial sexual victimisation, which took quite a few years, she eventually divorced me in revenge.
As a single (or should I say divorced?) man, returning to my previous habits came naturally. Whilst living in Spain I made indecent proposals to total strangers I met on the beach (all vulnerable women, of course) and doubtless left countless women feeling shocked, horrified and maybe even violated.
Although I say I am a lifelong sex pest, I’m perhaps exaggerating. I’m now a more or less retired sex pest, given that one of my victims finally succumbed to regular harassment and agreed to sexually pleasure me on a regular basis, provided she doesn’t have to go out with the girls or wax her legs. I still look, of course, and keep in practice by assessing every attractive figure or pair of legs that stray into eyesight but apart from the odd throwaway line, I’ve more or less quit pesting.
Thankfully, when I was living the role of a sex pest, it wasn’t actually a crime. According to today’s newspapers, it’s apparently an unpardonable offence, so I’m lucky to have gotten away without a criminal record, and my reputation intact. I’m not rich or successful, so the red-tops won’t demand that I be sacked, imprisoned or executed, which means I got away with it scot-free, apart from the occasional slap or put-down.
But there’s always the guilt. I know from watching American TV films, most of which seem to involve Catholic priests, that confession is good for the soul, so today I admit my sins and ask for absolution.