Hi, I’m Mikki. I am twenty-four and I am a lesbian.
I think.
I say “I think” because there might be a couple of discrepancies in that opening statement. Firstly, I’m really Mikela, but absolutely nobody ever calls me that. The twenty-four claim is accurate enough. I’ve got my birth certificate at home, if you don’t believe me. The second discrepancy . . . the biggie . . . is the lesbian assertion. Am I or aren’t I? I honestly don’t know.
Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. And how to be sure?
Here’s a bit of background before I properly begin. I’m a Yorkshire lass, born in York itself but brought up in the Aire Valley. My family is typical two-point-four and home life wasn’t in the least dysfunctional. My parents both worked and, although money was sometimes tight, we always had two weeks away in summer, usually in Cornwall, often in Penwith or, as they say in those parts, “The Far West”.
Physically I’m tallish for a girl (five foot eight), with long auburn hair and tits that are slightly too large for my slender body. Looks-wise, I suppose my face passes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no classic beauty. Those A-list film stars won’t be losing sleep over me. No, I’m quite comfortably on the pretty side of plain, but by no means beautiful.
Davina is the beautiful one. Well, she is when you look at her the way I look at her now. The way I look at her every time I get eyes-on. Goodness me, she is so, so beautiful.
Back to me and then on with the story.
I left school with umpteen GCSEs, four A-levels and my virginity. Keeping my virginity was, in my case, a lifestyle choice. I did have boyfriends at school but (pardon the pun) none of them ever had me. While others fell right and left, I limited myself to kisses and . . . only the once . . . a hand job.
University was great. I was a conscientious student if not a high-achieving one. On the social side I was “romantically” asked out many times, occasionally by girls (those propositions from girls were as interesting as they were exciting, but I always graciously declined). And, over the three years, I had two short-lived boyfriends.
Then I graduated.
In a perfect world I would have gone travelling. Sadly, student loans intervened. Relieved of my virginity and armed with a decent degree, I found barmaid work in, of all places, Cornwall.
Cornwall!
At this point I’ll briefly digress with a warning: DO NOT TRY THIS ON IMPULSE! It might be the most beautiful place on earth, but jobs are rare in the duchy. Very, very rare. You nearly always need to know someone to get one . . . or know someone who knows someone. Even better, you could be related. Please don’t think I’m being in anyway derogative, because I’m not at all Work is scarce in Cornwall and they look after it as best they can. Consequently positions are seldom advertised and people from east of the Tamar (“they people”) are seldom taken on.
I was lucky. After initially hopping from one delightful location to another, my family have been staying at the same pub/restaurant/B&B for the last eight or nine years. I’d stayed there with them the first few times myself. I knew someone, see? I wasn’t one of “they people”.
Anyway, I went down there with a job guaranteed, intending to see out the end of the season, and ended up staying for thirty months. And I worked through the two winters in-between seasons (jobs in winter, when the bulk of the tourists are gone, are even trickier to come by). I could have stayed longer but, although I loved the leisurely pace of life, the banter and mild flirting with various colleagues and customers, I needed a career. With a huge lump in my throat, I said my goodbyes and came home.
Jobs in West Yorkshire aren’t exactly plentiful, but at least they are advertised, more often than not. I applied for just about everything and, shrugging off the lack of replies and tons of rejection letters, finally got me an interview. And I got the position. Success first time! One out of one!! I was, my interviewer told me, just the sort people person he was looking for: calm, confident and capable of talking to anyone. Yippee! All that barroom interaction had paid off in spades.
Even though I didn’t really know what a “credit controller” actually did, I was taught well and soon worked out the do’s and don’ts. My new employers make gizmos for use in the construction sector, selling them on through a nationwide network of outlets. Basically, I make sure we get paid for our gizmos and keep our valued customers’ accounts in order. Because of the terms of sale, my working life follows a monthly cycle (sorry about that, my fellow girls, it just does), but no two days are ever alike. There are literally thousands of customers and, between them, they do their best to ensure unexpected problems regularly arise.
I started being a credit controller last December. Just about everything has gone smoothly ever since, and my telephonic skillset has grown and grown, as has my knowledge of regional accents. Like massively. I came here quite proficient in West Yorkshire, East Lancashire and Kernowek (that’s “Cornish” in Cornish); now I can have a fair crack at all sorts.
Proper job, as they say, St Austell way.
Anyway, enough about me. Let’s begin.