It had to be my dad. He didn’t often stay up this late, but realising he was up made me remember a comment he’d made to mom over breakfast about the West Indies (where they came from) playing cricket against Australia. Mom didn’t much care, but if it involved men playing with balls my dad would watch it. Well, like, sports balls anyway, not the kind of balls I liked. His enthusiasm for sports could be pretty entertaining and super cute, but now it was just an enormous problem.See, my dad is strict. Really, really fucking strict. Even now, at 18, I wasn’t allowed out late, I wasn’t allowed to be friends with guys, almost everything I wore had to be modest - although that wasn’t a big issue for me because I’d gone to a fancy school with modest uniforms, and outside of that I was pretty self-conscious - I was 5’4”, but my limbs and proportions and lack of tits or ass made me look all gangley and awkward, like a baby giraffe or something. I asked mom if she’d help me get ass implants. Back then, I didn't pick up the overt camp signals, such as the pink silk pocket handerchiefs or his idolization of the American crooner Johnnie Ray. Bachelor Guy ran a weird bric-a-brac shop in the London district of Soho, which was then full of Bohemian jazz clubs, casinos, strip joints (the forerunners of sex shops) and over-made-up street walkers, whose trademark salutation was: "Would you like a nice time, dearie?" I loved wandering the area, especially at dusk, when it began to get 'edgy'.One day my father gave me an envelope which he said had to be urgently delivered by hand to his brother-in-law. I was given the fare to travel up to London from the suburbs by bus. It was nearly five o'clock when I eventually reached Uncle Guy's shop in Soho, called Bijou Ephemera. Its garishly-illuminated shop window featured all manner of bric-a-brac: antique jewellery, old china, leather-bound railway almanacs, split-crotch panties, mildly erotic Edwardian postcards and some very naughty.
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