I wanted to give you a short recap of my life leading up to where I am now. I can’t say that I’m proud of most of my journey, but it was mostly out of my control.

Childhood

Growing up, my life was normal—well, normal for Bradford. My mother was a single parent, and I’ve no idea who my father is; she insists she doesn’t know either. She was, and I imagine still is, a prostitute. As far as I know, I’ve no brothers, no sisters, and to be honest, that’s probably for the best.

Our home was on a housing estate called Thorpe Edge, in Eccleshill, a Bradford suburb. A real dump, run by drug dealers and criminals. Our building was called York House, which sounds grand but is, in reality, a concrete hellhole.

There really isn’t much more to say about that period of my life other than it was crap.

Teenager

From age 11, I attended Eccleshill School—though there was no excitement or dream of a bright future there. The “school” was little more than a training ground for the drug trade. One thing I did learn there, and on the streets, was violence. Not because I enjoyed it, but because I intended to survive and, eventually, escape.

By the age of 14, I had been raped twice. During school hours and within the school grounds. It’s not much fun being a petite teenage girl in Bradford.

Needless to say, I escaped by not turning up for school. Nobody said or did anything.

Taking a leaf out of Mum’s book, I decided to earn some money on Westgate, in the centre. Just hands and oral, but through this “work” I managed to save enough money for my planned escape to London and a few weeks’ rent in a boarding house.

Sex Education

When in the centre, skipping school, I spent a lot of time in the main library keeping out of the rain and waiting for Westgate to get busy enough for a teenager to mix in with the drug addicts who worked the area.

The library was a calm place and the only place I felt welcome and safe.

There I read books, of course, but not the usual fiction. I read about subjects that I felt I had a connection with: rape victims, sex and sexual wellness from the reference section. It helped me a lot, but one book I came across in particular helped shape my current life. I think it was old and I know it was American. It was called Our Bodies, Ourselves.

It was an unusual book because it didn’t have an author’s name. It simply told me that it was written by “The Boston Women’s Health Book Collective,” which I naturally thought was from Boston, Lincolnshire. I soon learned that it was Boston, Massachusetts – how exotic that seemed to me!

The whole book is amazing, but one suggestion from it that, at the time, excited me was discovering my own body – specifically using a mirror to study my private parts.

Needless to say, using my newfound wealth, I bought a small mirror. I didn’t feel safe using it at home – Mum always had men at the flat, and they weren’t nice people: Constantly pestering me.

But I had my ‘secret place!’ An abandoned house on my way to and from the centre of town. There I used the mirror and was amazed! It inevitably led to pleasure, but not the kind I’d been experiencing since the age of 12. Now I was able to really take control of my desires and orgasms.

Leaving Bradford

On the morning of my 16th birthday, I was woken by a hideous man playing with himself by the side of my bed.

I hadn’t expected a celebration or anything but I didn’t much appreciate being woken by one of Mum’s ‘friends’ in that way.

I smiled at him, beckoned him closer and bit him as hard as I could, drawing blood and causing an immediate deflation – and a very loud scream.

After jumping out of bed and kicking him repeatedly in the balls, I left him to bleed and cry, threw my few belongings in a bag, went to kiss Mum goodbye, leaving the prepared note and left.

I walked to the train station letting the chilled air clear my head and bought a ticket to London.

The train left at some time after 10am and the journey lasted around 3 hours.

I sat quietly with my book – it wasn’t really mine, I’d sneaked it out of the library, but I would later post it back.

I was drawn to the passages where the author(s) write about lesbian relationships. It seemed extremely interesting and exciting and I was hoping I might get a chance to try it out in London. I didn’t realise how much that section would shape my life.

By the time I arrived at Kings Cross I was very excited – London, my new life! I was also very nervous – despite the money I’d saved, I probably didn’t have enough to live here very long without work.

But I was optimistic. Just being here made me wonder where my life would take me. I understand that a lot of youngsters like me end up on the streets, their dreams in shatters, but I had a strong feeling that things would go well. I never dreamed they’d go as well, so soon.

I took a bus to Oxford Circus, eager to finally see it, though, to be honest, it wasn’t much to write home about. Just shops, buses, taxis, people, and noise—not a lot else. It didn’t feel especially friendly, either. I wandered down Oxford Street, quickly growing bored.

On a whim, I turned down a side street and soon found myself on Berwick Street, stopping in front of the Soho Hotel, an old inn with little charm but, I felt, enough promise.

“Why not?” I thought, stepping inside and perching on a barstool. There, I had my first taste of Soho Dry Gin and decided to book a room for the week. Things were looking up—I had a bed!

A New Home

I spent much of the remaining afternoon in my room, reading my book and playing with my mirror.

I had an overwhelming feeling of excitement and adventure and took some time to relieve the tension. I’d started getting more adventurous, trying to stretch out the pleasure as long as I could. I still had work to do, but I was enjoying myself.

In the evening, I went for a stroll around the area, which I learned was called Soho. Small streets and secret alleys—Soho was a different world from King’s Cross and Oxford Street and a world away from Bradford. Somehow, it felt magical.

I ended up on Broadwick Street and stepped into The Duck, an old traditional pub on the corner with Duck Lane.

Sitting at the bar, I was very quickly joined by a bubbly, crazy little blonde who introduced herself as Mikki, hugging me and kissing my cheek as if we were best friends. The landlady, behind the bar, chuckled and told me not to worry, this was Mikki.

I remember thinking that I hadn’t had this much love in all my 16 years, and how long have I been here?

The evening carried on in the same fashion, and while Mikki was asking me questions—who I am, what I’m doing in Soho, what I intend to do here—Beth, the landlady, seemed to know the answers, almost as if she knew me.

Somehow, though, it didn’t seem strange. At some point, I remember Mikki saying she was glad I’d arrived at The Duck, that they’d been waiting for me. Again, no idea why, but it didn’t seem strange—it just gave me a warm feeling.

I’ll tell you the rest of my story later, but before I end, I’ll let you in on the best part of the whole week—Mikki gave me a flat in Duck Lane, rent-free!

And here I am! Little Krystina in her own private heaven!