I've always been fascinated by human sexuality and the psychology behind it. And, of course, the act itself - which probably won’t surprise anyone who knows me. I've been a natural-born slapper my whole life.
What I love most about sexuality is how it strips away even the toughest exterior, making people vulnerable, open, and free to explore. Plus, I just love talking about sex. Ultimately, sexuality is something we all own - unless, of course, you can only get off with the help of certain products… which is where I come in. But we’ll get to that.
Let me give you some backstory - who I am and where I came from.
I walked out of college at seventeen after being threatened with a knife and told I’d be killed. It took me straight back to those old, child-like feelings of being bullied. I am not doing this again, I thought. I was sick of fighting.
We tried to fix it. I worked with the college (Christ the King Sixth Form in Lewisham, South-East London), and to their credit, the professors genuinely tried to help - even putting me into on-site therapy.
But after a few months, things were only getting worse. I wasn’t safe, and I wasn’t focusing on my work. Fuck this, I told myself, and decided I’d work my way up in the real world instead. I was a good blagger - I’d figure it out.
Do I recommend that route? Absolutely not. Big mistake. Very stressful.
But I didn’t have much of a choice.
I landed a job as a bellboy at St Martins Lane Hotel in Covent Garden after posting my photos on Gumtree, advertising myself as hardworking and ambitious (99% of replies assumed I was an escort). Then came an email from a guy called Nigel, who’d seen my advert, inviting me to meet the team.
This five-star boutique hotspot was the perfect place to mix with names and figure something out for myself. I was offered the job on the spot, jumped in headfirst, and -surprisingly - actually enjoyed it. The staff came from all walks of life, which was a treat. I’d grown up in white, white British-Irish-Scottish Eltham, so this was a whole new world. The wage was OK, but the tips? A small fortune. I met plenty of people I’d seen on TV and made some lifelong friends among my colleagues.
My job was simple - greet guests, carry their bags, and occasionally help out with concierge since I knew all the underground London spots for the cooler guests. Celebrities, business elites, and the fashion crowd were regulars. It could get awkward when I found myself opening the doors for people I’d partied with at the weekend, but that embarrassment quickly vanished when I counted my tips. One night, I walked away with £1,400 in cash. I went straight to Selfridges, into Dior Homme, and spent every last penny.
The stark contrast between my working-class upbringing and suddenly having tonnes of cash to throw around was… wild. I enjoyed every last penny and made some unforgettable memories along the way - including a punch-up inside Selfridges, but we’ll save that story for another time.
After a year of alternating shifts, covering for no-shows, and running on little sleep, I knew it was time to go. I was 18, the bags under my eyes were forming permanently, and I needed out. I had cash saved from the tips, so I’d be alright for now.
My friend Leanne and I printed out some CVs (resumes, for American readers) in an internet café near Tottenham Court Road station - I’d decided I wanted to work in a sex shop. I loved the subject, figured I’d be great at sales, and knew I’d meet some interesting people. Plus, it was Soho. Which was the ONLY place that I wanted to be.
This was before the Soho Estates scumbags gutted and gentrified the area - back when it still had an edge. You’d walk down the street and bump into cross-dressing escorts, celebrities, and young lads trying to sell you cocaine (which would, inevitably, turn out to be an empty and tightly folded lottery ticket).
I went into every single sex shop in Soho, asked for the manager, and handed over my CV. Back then (2007), there were about 15 adult shops in the area, so I made sure to visit each one. As I made my way through them, I realised just how much the products fascinated me - and that I wasn’t remotely embarrassed to browse them.
That weekend, I was in Brighton with my friends, sitting on the rooftop of a shopping centre when my mobile phone rang. It was my mum, letting me know that Simply Pleasure had called asking for me and that I should ring the manager, ‘Jessica’, back. My heart skipped a beat - this was the shop I’d been most excited about on CV day.
Mum, however, didn’t sound too impressed. Her blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Irish, Roman Catholic child was getting phone calls to the landline (remember those?) - from a sex shop.
I called Jessica that same day and arranged an interview for Monday.
I remember my interview like it was yesterday. I turned up in an Alexander McQueen graffiti hoodie (paid for with hotel tips - who did I think I was?), skinny jeans, and patent black shoes. I was aiming for confident and edgy. In retrospect, I ended up looking like a Spice Girls backing dancer.
Jessica took me downstairs, underneath the shop, into a dingy little basement - the exact kind you’d expect beneath a Soho sex shop in those days. I loved it.
I sat on the stairs while she perched on a table. We talked about my skills, my experience, and - most importantly - whether I could handle the “fucking nutters” that came into the store. It stayed open until 1 AM on Fridays and Saturdays, and I’d be expected to work late. That was fine
Jessica and I hit it off immediately.
"Abso-fucking-lutely," I said.
And just like that, I started working the coming Friday.
Jessica was loud, strong, covered in tattoos, and overtly sexual. She didn’t have a single apology for herself, and I loved it.
On my first day, I was informed that I was in charge of the Lingerie and Bondage department - including buying and merchandising. I had no experience with this but I knew I’d be good at it.
"Wow. OK."
I jumped in headfirst, ordering a huge range of latex and PVC for the shop - which sold out almost immediately. I also ordered loads of lingerie from brands like Leg Avenue - which became customer favourites.
To boost sales, I started printing out photos of celebrities wearing similar (and sometimes the exact same) outfits and sticking them next to the racks.
When Victoria Beckham wore latex leggings, we instantly sold out, so I set up a pre-order service for latex fashion. Rihanna wore one of our Honour Black & Red PVC bustiers on tour, Kylie Minogue rocked a HUSTLER tearaway mini dress, and I even sourced the exact outfit Geri Halliwell wore in the Say You’ll Be There video.
Without realising it, I was analysing how people shopped, how they identified with erotic products, and what I could do to make them more accessible.
I loved my job. And I was good at it.
There was a real sense of pride in watching couples - sometimes threesomes, occasionally foursomes - walk out of the shop with a bag full of goodies that I’d selected, eager to get home and put them to use.
I also built up a rapport with the ‘working girls’ on Great Windmill Street, giving them deals on lingerie - on the condition that they sent their customers to us for any accessories they needed for their sessions, like lube, herbal viagra, BDSM gear, or poppers. We had a little system: they’d mention the keyword ‘vanilla’ at checkout for their special price.
The old bounce house, as we called it, sat right next to a primary school (as you do), but it’s long gone now. If only those walls could talk. I still think about those girls and wonder what they’re up to today. I hope they are safe.
Soho had its rough edges, and one night, I got threatened and followed down Brewer Street. I knocked on the brothel’s door for help, and without hesitation, the girls sent their two security guys out to chase the bloke off.
That was Soho - mess with one of us, you mess with all of us. Sounds corny, but at the time, it couldn’t have been more true.
After work, I’d grab drinks with sex shop owners, escorts, pimps, and adult performers. The kitschiness of it all gave me a buzz. There’s something really special about talking to people that society writes off as less than - hearing their stories, learning how they ended up in that world.
To this day, I have deep empathy and understanding for sex workers - because I got to truly see them as people at such a formative age.
The ‘underworld’ of Soho had scooped me up, and in a strange way, I felt protected. I felt cool. I’d walk through the alleyways, and instead of feeling nervous, I’d be stopping to chat with people I knew. If I finished work at 1 AM, I’d get a free minicab from Rupert Street back to Eltham.
It was an exciting time to be an 18-year-old boy.
The store was in a prime Soho spot - just far enough from the bars for people to discreetly nip in and out without drawing too much attention.
I worked with a crew, to say the least. Two massive guys in their 40s, Jonas and Steve, who’d come to the UK from Ghana together. Junior. Dwayne. Rodger - a Dutch, South African, heavily tattooed porn star. Another guy whose name I can’t remember, but he called himself The Love Doctor. And, of course, Jessica.
This was alongside a rotating door of part-timers - Central London retail has always been that way.
When they didn’t show up for their shifts on my day off, I’d regularly find myself dashing into Soho to cover, just so my colleagues weren’t stuck single-manning the store. That could make life incredibly difficult - especially if you needed to pee.
Our customers were just as varied - everything from wide-eyed tourists who’d wandered up from Leicester Square to full-fledged dominatrix goddesses. It was a crash course in the many facets of human sexuality and fetish, and I learned very quickly that a man carrying a leather satchel through Soho probably doesn’t have gym clothes in it… Ahem.
Then there were the real characters.
There was a local homeless lady called Maggie, a Scottish whirlwind of chaos who had been completely abandoned by the system. She struggled with addiction, but she was so much more than that. Every time I saw her, something wild was happening.
In her own way, she mothered me a little - and I truly loved her to pieces. Her son had died in Iraq, fighting, and her life had spiralled out of control since this fact. She came to London, from Glasgow, to be in the midst of everything.
Allegedly, we had little arrangements where she’d acquire things for us and bring them to the store. And, every time you saw Maggie, she had a different wig on.
One time, I heard these bizarre, siren-like noises echoing down Brewer Street - screaming. I stepped out of the shop to see what was going on, just in time to witness Maggie launch an entire birthday cake at a businessman’s back. I would pay good money to see that again.
Another store regular was a charming yet utterly fascinating older man called Snakey Joe - a notorious London-based snake charmer with a wild past. And, probably the loudest person I have ever met in my life. Lungs like fog horns, some might say.
In his youth, he’d been arrested for charging toward Nelson Mandela - during a visit to London - with a python in his hands.
I’ll never forget the day that I came to work even though I was violently ill - constantly running to the toilet to vomit. Snakey would look after the tillpoints for me and keep customers entertained. They must have thought they’d walked into a madhouse - this vomiting twink dashing to the toilet while a screaming snake charmer held down the fort at the till. Just another day in Soho.
He was kind, reliable, and would call me “TOBAAYYYY!” because, according to him, he couldn’t pronounce Topher. I can still hear it now.
Every time I see a tin of Nurishment milkshake in a corner shop - his favourite drink - I think of him. He’d be in his 80s now, and I hope he is still around.
We kept a record of big sales by printing out receipts and sticking them on a cork-board. Mine were always the biggest, and I took pride in that. I had a knack for figuring out what people really wanted, and I genuinely enjoyed talking to them about their innermost desires. People just seemed to trust me. It never felt like work.
The store had this infectious energy - our mix of staff created something customers wanted to be part of. We had an incredible sound-system, and after 9 PM, we’d crank the music up so loud that people would walk in thinking we were a nightclub.
And honestly? Some nights, it kind of felt like we were.
It was within the first few weeks that I encountered my first “nutter”.
A guy with very dilated pupils came stumbling into the shop, ranting that the masturbator he’d bought was “shit.” I explained that we couldn’t offer refunds but that I’d happily exchange it for something else - honestly, I just wanted him out of the store. This man was not smelling good.
But he wasn’t having it. He kept going on and on about a refund until we were at the point of throwing him out.
That’s when he reached into his pocket, pulled out the used masturbator, and launched it in my direction. It bounced off the till, and - as if in slow motion - his sperm came flying out, splattering all over the counter.
Luckily, it missed me by inches.
A security guard from a nightclub around the corner happened to be in the shop at the time. Without hesitation, he dragged the guy outside and roughed him up.
Then there were the less dramatic - though equally ridiculous - complaints.
One time, a man stormed in, claiming that a lube I’d personally recommended had given him a rash - and that it was my fault. I asked him what had happened.
“Well,” he said, “I didn’t like the consistency of the silicone, so I wiped it off with a wipe.”
I asked what type of wipe. “A Dettol wipe.”
You know that moment when your brain short-circuits, trying to process whether this is actually happening?
"Do you think the rash is from the fucking bleach, sir?"
He blinked at me, turned around, and walked straight out.
For a second, I genuinely thought I was on a prank TV show.
The Gordon Ramsay affair situation still pisses me off.
It came out in the press that Gordon Ramsay had been having an affair with a woman called Sarah, who had been "seen buying poppers" (Amyl Nitrate, at the time) from our shop and taking them to a hotel for a session with him.
Now, let me make one thing very clear… NO-ONE saw that her buy poppers except me. I served her alone while my colleague was on his break. I packed them discreetly, she slipped them into her handbag, and that was that.
I didn’t tell a soul about it. Why would I? I had no idea who she was, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have given a shit. People bought poppers every single day - it wasn’t exactly front-page news.
So how did the press find out? In hindsight, she must have leaked the story herself, chasing fame and attention at the expense of a family.
Gross.
That’s always bugged me, so I just wanted to put it out there.
Work was always a lot of fun, but at the end of the day, it was still work. I put in the hours, sometimes getting home at 3 or 4 AM after shifts, cleaning up the debris of a Friday or Saturday night.
I’ve always struggled with numbers - I have dyscalculia - so stock replenishment for the departments I managed required serious focus.
Gradually, I took on buying for the sex toys and lube departments as well. I kept a calculator permanently in my pocket and typed out product lists into my BlackBerry like my life depended on it.
I also made a point of scoping out other sex shops in the area to make sure we weren’t being undercut. Gay customers, especially, would price-check every Soho sex shop before buying - so I worked hard to keep our pricing competitive while still hitting profit margins.
Jessica was incredibly mothering toward me - always making sure I’d eaten, introducing me to important customers, and regularly taking me out for drinks and dinner after (and sometimes during) work.
We became really close. She was like a big sister. She’d often take me back to hers in Watford, where we’d flick through sex toy catalogues on the train, planning the store’s next big buys - much to the shock and awe of the people sitting around us.
I used to get a kick out of wearing my Simply Pleasure lanyard on the commute to work - just to watch people's eyebrows shoot up when they clocked what it said.
I loved being associated with the industry, even in my own little way.
Without even realising it, I was becoming an expert in adult products. I was fascinated by the unique selling points, the functionality, and nothing excited me more than new toys arriving in stock - I’d study them like they were rare artifacts.
My skill became prescribing the right toy for customers, and as a result, I built a loyal base of repeat shoppers who’d ask for me by name.
I also started to sex educate people. When you’re behind a till for 40+ hours a week, listening to people’s woes, curiosities, pleasures, and dysfunctions, you naturally learn how to guide them. You start noticing patterns, recognising stereotypes, and understanding the psychology behind what people want… and why they want it.
I was particularly drawn to dysfunctions, mostly because of the satisfaction that came from helping someone learn to function again - or finding them a workaround that gave them confidence.
To this day, my customer-facing experience in sex shops has provided me with far more useful sex education knowledge than anything else ever could.
I got to know the brands, the sales representatives, and the head office staff - to the best of my ability. I wanted to be in-the-mix and be noticed… and that would eventually happen in quite a spectacular way. But I didn’t know that yet.
Much like I had with Myspace, I felt like I’d finally found something that fit - only this time, it wasn’t just a hobby.
It was an industry.
Everything clicked into place.
And what came next? Stay tuned.