I wonder if you remember the 1980s. Before mobile phones and the internet. People had to interact in real life, can you imagine? I was 18 in 1983. A young looking 18, a small, slim youth. A boy, but quite feminine. I dressed slightly goth, with a hint of New Romantic. Black nail varnish and eye liner, purple and green eye shadow, frilly white shirts, long black overcoat, tight black torn jeans, long straight dark brown hair. I fancied myself as Ian Astbury and/or Siouxsie Sioux.
I was just starting at university, which was exciting and bewildering. First time away from home just by myself. Living in a city, having grown up in a small town. One of my first discoveries was a seedy newsagent near the train station. Back then the only porn was in printed magazine form, mostly softcore heterosexual. But this shop had some intriguing top shelf material. Only the titles were visible, the magazines wrapped in plastic and coloured paper which obscured most of the cover. £10 was a lot to me back then, but I spent it on WILD SHEBOYS. My heart pounded as I approached the counter. The man behind it seemed old to me, balding, slightly fat, bespectacled. Enjoy! he said. And Come again! as I left.
Well I did enjoy, as soon as I could. Hurried back to the halls of residence (paid for back then by the taxpayer, thank you). The photos in the magazine were grainy shots of young men dressed as women, in stereotypical black stockings and suspenders fashion. Silly short dresses. But the cocks were excitiing, the first time I'd seen photos of male genitalia. I masturbated for hours, perhaps the £10 was a worthwhile investment.
Except a fellow student found my magazine. I'd thought him a friend, but he showed it to anyone who'd look and declared it's provenance. Me, the nancy boy masturbator.
I was mortified. Considered suicide, or just running away, to anywhere. Ended up doing nothing, walking around feeling like a martyr, solitary, isolated, shunned, yet still standing. Everyone knows I'm a queer perverted wanker. I became resigned to this fact, then gradually began to enjoy it. I put on more make up, winked at the straight boys, and went back to the newsagent.
I've come again, I announced, dramatically, and told him my magazine had been stolen, and I'd been outed as a masturbating queer. And it's all your fault, I concluded, over emoting perhaps. I was only 18. The newsagent declared his sorrow, and invited me to his kitchen for a cup of tea. We were both quite terrible actors, me overdoing the wronged ashamed destitute, him the concerned conciliating uncle.
