My voice broke ridiculously early. I was about ten, and still in primary school, when gravity took a quick look at my thorax and certain related items, and decided she wanted a bit of them. There was no squeaky period, no teenage yodelling. I simply went to bed one night with a high, clear child’s voice, and woke up the next morning growling like a hungover badger, and with my bollocks banging around my knees. I can only presume that it is as a reaction against this precocious physical development that I have steadfastly refused to undergo any kind of emotional maturation whatsoever. Consequentially, as well as a love of smut, a total inability to defer pleasure, and the use of manipulative egocentrism as my basic interpersonal operational principle, I have never lost the childhood fascination—nay, celebration—of the various icks and oozes that evolution has bestowed upon our bodies. True…