She is almost asleep, eyes closed, breath hot on my shoulder. “And that,” I tell her, “my beautiful, sexy, girl, is your first time.” She smiles, her eyes still closed, and lifts her head for one last kiss.
Then she is asleep. I’m right behind her, but not before I drop a few of my own tears. Yep, flukes rule our lives: she wasn’t the only one who wanted that story to have been what really happened back then. As a lonely, shy, geeky art student with a passion for fat girls, she didn’t have a monopoly on crappy first times.
Thames Link
Justine Elyot
I sing the praise of the sleazy man.
The man with the shifty eyes, the man with the floppy fringe, the man with the sensual lips, the man who drinks a little too much red wine and eats a little too much cake. You might see him on the train; his eyes follow you over the top of his paper and you try not to recross your legs too often. He might be standing at the bar so you have to feign enormous levels of animation with your companions. Perhaps he works with you and there is a rota in place among your colleagues so nobody has to go into the photocopier cupboard at the same time as him.
He’s a creep, he’s a sleaze, he’s a perv. He’s my kind of guy.
I know, I sound insane. Who on earth likes men like this? I suppose it’s his honesty that appeals to me. No “I really like you as a person”. No discussion of mutually admired bands and comedians. No number swaps or long waits for the phone to beep. Better than the man who moves in with you before revealing his wardrobe of skintight latex. Better than the man that waits until you have his ring on your finger before asking you if you fancy a pint down the swingers’ club. This is a man who wears his cock on his sleeve, and quite rightly so.
He’ll speak fluent innuendo. He’ll sit too close to you on the bus. He’ll walk behind you in the park, watching the sway of your backside. In the ultraviolet light of the disco, he’ll try to get a hand up your skirt.
No, he isn’t a rapist, it’s not about power. It is about sex. He wants it. Not you. It.
And there’s something about that I find refreshing.
I have a sleazy man of my own, tucked away in my address book for days when I don’t feel pristine or perfumed. On days – and they come all too often now – when I feel rumpled and seedy, when my tights are clinging damply to the crack of my arse and my skin is grimy with the London summer, I call him.
I’m going to call him now, actually.
“Morning, foxy. What can I do for you today?”
“When are you free?”
“Hmm . . . it’s looking like a late one. Could take a two-hour lunch break, though.”
“Lunch sounds perfect. Midday?”
“Blackfriars Tube. Wear the green dress. Hold-ups. No knickers. Got that?”
“No knickers,” I repeat, my clit puffing up, my silky scanties already wet. Who cares? I will have to take them off before I leave.
“Don’t forget your perfume, Jane,” he says softly before hanging up.
How could I forget that? The application of scent is the precious first step in the ritual, setting the tone for all that is to follow.
These are his rules: I must draw back the bedroom curtains and open the window, so that the block across the green is visible to me, and I to it. I must strip naked and lie down on my unmade bed. I must take my vibrator and masturbate to orgasm, plunging it deep inside, juicing it up until it gleams. While I am doing this, I must think of some of the filthy, slutty things I have done for him in the past – easy enough, for there are plenty to choose from. Once I am red-faced and spent, I must take the vibrator and rub it across my pulse points, making sure I am generously anointed before smearing any remainder on to my nipples, breasts, belly, thighs. I must dip the vibrator back in and repeat the process until there is nothing left to apply. Only when my skin is stiff and heavy with the smell of my sex am I allowed to dress.
Today, a sheer white peephole bra, some nude lace-topped holdups and the green dress. The dress I was wearing when we met – though that sounds grandiose, as if we have a story or a future. The day we picked each other up, perhaps.
The dress is made of very light cotton in eau-de-nil. It buttons all the way up and has a short, flippy skirt whose hem is only just beneath the lacy bit of my hold-up. The merest breath of breeze is enough to give my thighs a tickle, and on some of the windier Tube platforms I have to clamp it down with my palms flat on my legs, shuffling bent double like an ancient babushka.
Then it is time to slap industrial quantities of gloss on my lips and mascara on my lashes before slipping into strappy sandals and running for my train.
Once again, it is a hot day, humid and dirty, the way it was the first time we met. The station platform is crowded – several previous trains have been delayed – so I know I will stand no chance of being able to hide my sex-drenched self in a corner seat away from the masses. I will have to force it on my carriage-mates, mingling it in with their smells of onions and cigarettes and engine oil and boiled aftershave, all with a sweaty topnote.
When the train arrives and its doors slide open, I look for the least respectable grouping I can find. I light on a bearded bikerish type and his heavily pierced moll, wondering idly who on earth would wear leather trousers in this weather as I push myself towards them. The smell is heady, though, and powerful, almost cancelling out my pussy perfume. Almost, but not quite. I catch them looking at each other, half-winking, guessing at what I might have been up to. If Shaun were here, he might nod at me, indicating that I was to try and get myself felt up by one or both of them. We’ve done that before. But he is not here, so I hold myself away from them, straphanging and concentrating on the trickle of sweat travelling downwards from the nape of my neck, breathing myself in, not daring to catch any eyes.
The train was less busy when we met. We both had seats, opposite each other. About halfway through the journey, I looked up from my book for the eighth time to find him staring at me. He made no attempt to be furtive about it. He simply watched me with a face like stone and narrowed eyes, from Herne Hill to Blackfriars.
What does one say? “Do you mind?” “Can I help you?” “Is there a smudge on my nose?” I could not decide, so I returned to my book, though I did not read another word. I squirmed inside all the way to Blackfriars, where he alighted.
I watched him walking down the platform. Despite the July heat, he was wearing a coat – a light grey ankle-length raincoat. Every few paces he would stop and turn to look at me and my eyes would dive guiltily back to the page. It was strange, that such a simple gesture could be so very sinister. He wanted me to know that he was watching me, and I had no idea why.
For the rest of that week and a few days beyond, the same thing happened every day. The seating opposite, the staring, the turning and looking. I tried to stand as far away from him on the platform as I could, yet he always hunted me down to my carriage. I had no idea how I should deal with it. Should it be dealt with? I could not even work out how I felt. I thought I should probably be intimidated or something. It was a bit like having a stalker, although he never stayed on the train to my station, or followed me home. I wasn’t intimidated, though – I was rather excited by the whole thing. It was like a mysterious game of hunter and prey and I was intrigued, speculating on how the situation might develop. Besides, I could handle myself. You had to, when you were a woman living alone in London. Despite the fact that he was not my type at all – too short, too fleshy, not enough cheekbones – I began to think about him while masturbating. He pushed me into a darkened railway arch and ripped my skirt in his haste to fuck me. He tied me to a bed and told me that from now on I belonged to him. He plunged his hand into my knickers and fingered me on the train, right in front of all the other passengers, telling me that he had known this was what I needed all along. When I imagined his voice, it was not deep and manly, but a little bit nasal and whiny. For some reason, this made him seem all the hotter – the idea that I could be taken like that by so
mebody so ordinary. Only a slut would fantasize about an ugly man who stares at her on the train. Only a slut, whore, bitch . . . yes, yes, yes.
On the tenth day he was reading a newspaper. Except he wasn’t reading it – he was staring at me from over the masthead. And the newspaper was the one I worked for.
Even though it was popular enough with the commuters, I began to feel a little freaked out. Did he know I worked there? Had he followed me to the office? Had he followed me home? Was he ever going to talk to me? Was he waiting for me to crack and talk first? Did he fancy me and this was his bizarre courtship ritual? Or what?
On the eleventh day, after an evening of peering through my curtains to check for dark shapes in the bushes, I determined to say something.
He was reading that paper again. I looked briefly around the carriage to make sure nobody was listening in and said, as quietly as I could, “You’re making me feel uncomfortable.”
He said nothing, just continued staring. Was he hard of hearing? I tried again.
“You’re making me feel uncomfortable. Could you stop staring?”
He put the paper down on his lap. “I could,” he said, and the sound of his voice made me gush between my thighs – not nasal or whiny, but creepily soft. “But I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“I think you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off you.”
“Oh.” I was stymied. “Right. You could have just asked me out instead of—”
“Come out with me then.”
“I . . . OK.” Somehow my sex brain had overtaken my rational one. Surely this was a bad idea.
“When do you finish work?”
“Six.”
“Half six, then. Three Kings on Clerkenwell Green.”
“That’s . . .” I was about to say very handy for work, but something told me he already knew. “Right,” I substituted lamely.
We engaged in a mutual stare while the sun-dazzling brown Thames glided by in my peripheral vision. Next stop Blackfriars.
“Don’t be late,” he said, standing and gathering up his belongings. There was more than a hint of “or else” in his tone.
“What if I . . . can’t make it?”
“You can. I’ll see you there.” He smiled, though it was more like a smirk. “I know you’ll come,” he said.
He knew more than I did, then. All day at work, I contemplated the foolishness of my actions, deciding to stand him up, then wondering what I would say on the train the next day if I did. Maybe I would have to start getting the bus to work. Or rather, buses. No, that was going too far. It was just a drink after work. No obligations on either side. The pub was popular and would be busy. He would not be able to abduct or rape me. What about going home though? We would be travelling in the same direction . . . I decided to tell a friend what I was doing.
“Hi, Mags,” I said cheerily. “Just wanted to let you know, I’m meeting someone for a drink after work at the Three Kings. So if he turns out to be an axe murderer . . .”
“Aha. Got it. What’s his name?”
What was his name?
“I . . . oh God. I’m not sure. I’ve forgotten.” Somehow this seemed more acceptable than telling her I didn’t know.
“He’s made a big impression then. So if you aren’t at work tomorrow, I’ll tell the police to look for a nameless man.”
Crestfallen, I mumbled, “Yeah. Oh look, maybe I won’t go after all . . .”
“Oh, stop it, woman! Go! You only live once. It’s been two months since Paul did the disappearing act – I bet he isn’t waiting around for Ms Person with a Name.”
“No. You’re right. You’re bloody right. Thanks, Mags.”
He chose his venue well.
The Three Kings is situated exactly where the lane curves round towards the Green, so there is no question of having a quick spy before you approach – as soon as you can see the building, you are visible from it.
The steps of St James’s church opposite were thronged with post-work drinkers and foreign students and their pint glasses. I squinted at the bare chests and acres of sunglasses, but saw nobody who looked like my mysterious date. They all looked healthy and sunkissed and wholesome, not pale and full-lipped and surging with perverse lust.
My throat was dry and tight; I hadn’t eaten all day and I needed a shower. Perhaps, I thought, I should go home. I turned back, looking unseeingly into the window of the junk shop over the road from the pub. A reflection loomed behind me, quicker than I could respond to, and then there were hands over my bare elbows, clammy hands, and hot breath in my ear.
“Where do you think you’re going? I hope you weren’t thinking of standing me up.”
His voice, thick and greedy, pretending to be jokey but with a deadly serious undertow.
“I’m . . . not sure,” I confessed weakly. Now I was in his clutches. In his clutches. I liked the phrase. I liked the idea. But would I like the reality?
“I am,” he said, dripping his poisoned honey into my ear. “I’m sure. I knew you’d come.”
“You couldn’t know that.”
“I could. Come on, I’ve bought you a drink.”
There was nowhere to sit, so we leaned against the wall. He picked up a glass for me from the pavement – white wine, though I’d have preferred mineral water under the circumstances. All the same, I took a gulp, grateful for anything wet. He watched me over the rim of his pint glass, just as he had done that morning over the newspaper.
“I like your dress,” he said, and he leered. A true and unmistakable leer. Behind his eyes, his mind was stripping it off me and pushing me down on the church steps before pounding into me, right here, right now, in front of everyone.
It seemed wrong, somehow, to say “Thanks,” in response, but I did it anyway.
“Thank you for wearing it,” he said, with a catch of something in the back of his throat. For a split second, he sounded self-conscious and it was such a relief. Oh, was he human after all? But then I realized it was laughter. He turned quickly to face me, his eyes vivid, skittering from side to side. “And thanks for coming.”
“You knew I would come,” I pointed out, somewhat sulkily.
“Oh yes. But thanks anyway.”
“So come on. How did you know? You worked it out by the power of your stare? Are you some kind of Sherlock Holmes character, and you’re going to tell me what I had for breakfast and the name of my childhood pet?”
He snuffled a bit and moved the toe of his boot closer to my strappy sandal, so that they touched. “No, nothing like that. Just applied a bit of psychology.”
“What? Explain?”
“Very curious, aren’t you?” He smiled slyly.
“What . . . do you mean?”
“I’ve given you your answer. And that’s all I’m saying.”
“You . . .” I was beginning to feel seriously outmanoeuvred. Even more so when he took the glass from my hand and put it on the wall next to him.
“But I’m very glad you came.” He took my hand and grazed my knuckles with his lips and whiskery chin. “Like I said, you’re gorgeous. My favourite kind of gorgeous. Filthy gorgeous.” He flicked out his tongue and licked a knuckle. I tried to draw my hand back, but he was too quick, pulling me closer to him and whipping an arm around my waist. His hand patted my hip while he continued to say weird and creepy things to me. I could have disengaged, I could have looked around for help from the crowds of evening drinkers, I could have told him to fuck off.
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