But once the weekend came around, I left those manuscripts to be a young American gay man in London. I wore cutoffs, a white ribbed tank top, and steel-toe boots to the Tube, got off in Soho and the winding Old Compton Street, the queerest part of that city. I was too self-conscious to try this look back home, but no one knew me in London, so the guys there would have no idea that the blond in the construction worker costume spent his weekdays smelling musty books in the library.

It was too cold to be sleeveless in London, even during the summer, but I was determined to carry off this fantasy version of me. Though as I rounded the corner onto that street, the goosebumps on my arms forced me to ask who in their right mind would wear my shirt when the temperature was in the sixties and falling. Everyone would know how desperate I was for attention and laugh at me. I was about to do an about-face when I spied a smile, and then two, among the passersby, telling me I was all right. I walked into a café to order a cappuccino, and two guys at the next table said hello. The cute one with curly hair and ruddy cheeks asked if I was American, and I said yes, knowing that my looks and accent erased my history for this man, who told me he could tell because I had that American confidence.

After my coffee, I stopped by a pub even though I didn’t drink, my surroundings suddenly moody and pinkish-orange from light that reflected onto a tin ceiling. I ordered a club soda and sipped it slowly, pretending it was a gin and tonic, when a stout man with red hair and a nose that reminded me of a tulip bulb came over and got close enough that I could smell stale beer on his breath.

“Excuse me, but are you Oriental?”

The word “Oriental” took me aback. I hadn’t realized that was what Asians were still called in England. “Yes, I’m part Asian,” I said.

“But you’re blond.”

I nodded.

“You see, I fancy blonds, and I fancy Orientals, but you’re both.”