Security measures were tight in London, even five years after September 11th. Every national monument or museum or cafe affiliated with the government had some sort of security guard or metal detector waiting for its guests. There was a lot of frisking. Supposed to be random selections, but it was never random with me. I had black hair. I had dark, tanned skin. I had almond-shaped eyes. Not exactly native-looking to the UK, even though I had at least a quarter English blood within me. I was always chosen to be frisked - at Parliament, at the Eurostar, leaving Paris. I got used to the idea, even anticpated the fact by extending my arms up at my sides in preparation for the “random” stoppage.
What no one knew however, is that being frisked secretly turns me on.
