I work in a quaint little bric-a-brac shop that doesn’t make any money. I like it because the owner’s kind, and it’s a stress free life. I’m told I ought to be doing more, what with having a degree n’all, but I doubt I ever will.

I live in my head, so they say. Not sure exactly what that means, and I’m still looking out for those that don’t. Will I recognise these headless souls?

I like the scent of cut grass in the summer. It reminds me of lazy afternoons smoking pot under a sun drenched sky, and skinny dipping, because it always seemed so rebellious in my youth.

I eat too many sweets, and have sex with men that I oughtn’t. Perhaps I pick the married ones to avoid the risk of intimacy.

My fondest relationships have all been with women, yet those have been too few and far between, which saddens me, because for half the week I feel sure I’m more gay than straight.

I crave being led but am often leading. I want to be dominated, but want never gets.

I am forty seven going on nineteen. Today my hair is red, tomorrow it could be blue. I have brown eyes, always brown eyes.

My breasts are huge. There, I said it. Why? Because only a woman will have read this far into my profile, and it is for you that I share this vital information.

I also have curves, the sort that my mother said would get me places. I doubt that she meant ‘into bed with all the wrong types’ but alas, that seems to have been my path, thus far.

Is that an adequate beginning?