I had just sat down on the top deck of a number 38 London bus when I saw him looking at me. He was black and wore a fake-fur coat and orange leggings. There were glittering rings on his fingers, fake diamonds around his neck and bright red lipstick on his lips. In his large hands, a mauve purse. He looked like the kind of Andy Warhol drag-queen who wiggled on the wild side of life back in the 1970s.
He made strange chirping sounds and he batted his heavy eyelashes my way. I couldn’t tell if he was a touch crazy or just over-the-top camp. Then he smiled at me. Uh-oh, I thought. But I decided to be brave, so I gave him one of my big, anxious chimp smiles back. He then came over and plopped himself next to me.
‘Hi,’ he said, with a soft, low American purr. ‘My name is Melissa.’
Gulp. What do I do now? I could just stare out of the window until my stop arrived. But no, I told myself, I will not take the coward’s way out. As an open-minded liberal who celebrates diversity and pluralism, especially in sexuality and gender, I should take the chance to engage with my fellow traveller. After all, there’s a brave new world of trans-this and bi-that emerging and we uptight straight men must learn to deal with it. So I will stay calm. I will be cool. I will be convivial.
And then he opened his coat and showed me his tits. My first reaction? Oh! My! God! My second reaction? Help!
So much for liberal tolerance.
Look, I must make this clear. These were not man boobs. These were woman boobs. Big woman boobs, jutting out of a man.
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