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Diary of a Masseuse
New English Library, London, 1976
The blurb on the back: Angie Heath’s memoirs tell the rags to riches story of a once-innocent country girl who puts her hands to good use. A chance brush with a suave svengali lures Angie into the steamy world of saunas and massage parlours … and soon lords and lawyers, bishops and bankers experience the laying on of hands from the fastest fingers in Frith Street.
From the people who brought you Diary of a Female Wrestler, though not I suspect from the same author, here’s … er, another one. And it’s not anywhere near as bad as you might be expecting. Not that it’s good, you understand, but its simple tale of naïve provincial girl being lured by the bright lights of the city and sucked into the Soho sex machine is told competently enough. The sex scenes aren’t too unbearably coy and there’s a welcome absence of the standard attempts at humour that you get in this kind of book. I don’t know whose identity was concealed by the name Angie Heath, but my guess is that it was a bloke.
ENTERTAINMENT VALUE: 2/5 HIPNESS QUOTIENT: 2/5 sex home |
