Inanna Wins

Sexual content

9. Inanna Wins

How was that?

1. Golliath

Typical bloke. Always needing praise and reinforcement. And he can’t spell his own name.

I replied.

It was a bit disappointing really. You more worshipped the cloth than the flesh. Try again tomorrow and be a bit more intimate – bolder.

Incidentally, you have only one l in Goliath.

1. Bluestockings

The reply was not long in coming.

Fuck the spelling! Have you any idea, Bluestockings, what it is like living on the edge with you, on the train home?

That was not my problem. I had worked hard enough to get it this far, to overcome my inhibitions, become as bold as Inanna.

Things were improving. I could do some work during the day as well as savour the sexual excitement to be expected on the way home. I’d stopped walking around like a zombie, wondering how my journey south would work out and I went to work wearing yesterday’s skirt, stain still in place. I was so proud of myself. If I’m honest, the evidence of his efforts was invisible, but I felt so elated, because I knew that Goliath was up for our fun.

Six o’clock. I was relaxed and exited in unison, and slipped to the rest room to remove my knickers.

It is the moment one takes one’s eye off the ball, is unperturbed, so to say, when life will spring its surprise. It is a back-to-reality, hard-bump moment. It always happens; is as inevitable as Newton’s First Law when driving on black ice or the second law of thermodynamics when sewing. ‘Connie’s First Law’, I’d like to call it, but it is already enshrined in the proverb, ‘Familiarity breeds contempt.’

If Inanna had been caught having sex on the train, that would have been okay. The ancient inhabitants of Mesopotamia and Babylon would have ignored her sexual excesses. They would have argued that sometimes a girl has to do her make-up, blow her nose, or whatever bodily functions crop up, regardless of the circumstances. (I’ve heard of marathon runners taking a dump over a drain, because their body refused to do all twenty-six without a digestive movement), so hanging your bottom out for her lover, in public if necessary, should be okay.

The argument is, it’s all natural, we all do it, get over it. That was how I felt that day. My hubris made me ignore convention – and the law. And the fact I don’t live in ancient Sumer. In my mad lust, I forgot most things, as did Goliath.

 That evening I was on the 18.33, third carriage, front entrance, southbound on the Northern Line. I felt Goliath behind me, soon after the train left Angel. He was cautious at first, because the carriage was relatively empty. By Old Street, it had filled and Goliath was giving me the rubbing works. When we left Moorgate, the carriage was packed. No one took any notice or could even see the shenanigans going on below the eyeline. Bank, and I had my eyes closed in a delirium. The pressure was increasing, the train rocking nicely and we were enjoying the familiarity between us. We had begun to know each other, to await the next step of our adventure with anticipation.

Were we careless? I think it was just bad luck.

The doors shut at London Bridge. I felt round the back between our two humping bodies, pulled my summer skirt up and thrust backwards. He reached down and pulled my cheeks apart. That first sublime moment when two fleshes meat (another Freudian slip spelling) for the first time, blew our caution away. I felt his shots, rounds from his Kalashnikov. That wasn’t a semi. That was out of control, had the firepower of a submachine gun with the accuracy of a rifle. He scored a direct hit in the centre. How did he do that? Luck or skill?  It felt great, gently running its way down.

I wanted to look, test with my finger there, but it wasn’t realistic.

He relaxed against me, pressing my dress, absorbing our effort, but this time the marks would be from the inside, slightly lower than its twin from yesterday. I wanted to reach inside my bag and donate my knickers – to him, of course. Quid pro quo for the scarf. It should have been my summer skirt, but I couldn’t have got it off in the crush. I was so out of things I’d have stripped off on the spot if it would have enhanced our adventure. Just as well I couldn’t!

Never mind Babylon – cradle of civilisation, or Babylon’s Whore – take it how you will. We were in Exodus 14:21. The waters parted. Worse still, we were about to exit Exodus and be catapulted into Revelations 17:1.

When had the southbound Northern Line, 18.50, emptied at Borough? Why? Travellers were pouring from the train to the platform and heading for the escalators. I was jerked from my reverie. A guard stuck his head round the door of the now nearly empty carriage.

‘You have to get off here. Bomb alert.’

I gasped in horror. He thought I was worried about a bomb.

‘It’s probably nothing – just procedure. Please leave as quickly as possible.’

He noticed my skirt round my waist at the back.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked politely. How nice of him.

Goliath tucked his unruly member away and I pulled my clothing down into place.

‘Couldn’t you wait?’ He was laughing, thank goodness. ‘I’ve seen it all now,’ he told the world.

I watched in bewilderment as he walked away. I heard in horror as he called down the platform to a colleague.

‘Couple having it away in the evening rush hour.’

‘Never!’ his colleague shouted back. ‘Got no shame these days. You’re not reporting them, are you?’

‘Na! Good luck to them and think of the paperwork. I’d be here until nine o’clock. And there’s no overtime for that crap.’

My face must have been crimson with embarrassment. So much for liberating actions. The first hurdle and I’m mortified. 

Another traveller, a woman, screamed after him, ‘Not so fast. Arrest them!’ That brought me back to life!

The Railway Police entered by another door and began searching the carriage. She ran towards them and started telling them something. I couldn’t hear her until she turned to us and pointed.

‘It’s a lewd act on a tube train; that’s what it is!’ she exclaimed.

They looked up at us.

‘Run!’ I hissed. ‘And get a shave.’

He ran. Not heroic, to leave me there to face the music, but I wouldn’t go to jail.

The police shouted for Goliath to stop and ran along the coach towards us. Just as they were upon me, I decided to faint – simply fell to the ground and lay in their path. They fell over me, fortunately without injury, but leaving me with any number of bruises and scratches. I achieved my objective. They had to give up the chase and render first aid. I waited until the stretcher arrived before daring to regain consciousness. Once in the first-aid recovery room and left on my own for a moment, I grabbed my handbag, found my knickers and pulled them on. Then it was back on the bed and my best ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ expression – or should it be ‘between my thighs’ – was across my face.

A nice policeman came to interview me.

‘There was a report you were sexually assaulted by a male.’ He viewed his notepad. ‘Tall, stubble, spectacles, dark blue suit. Thirtyish.’

I now know what he looks like.

‘I think there is a mistake.’

‘Another passenger saw the incident.’

‘I remember nothing. Did I bang my head as I fainted?’

‘If we could do a few tests on the appropriate skin and clothing?’

‘I think not,’ I said sweetly, gazing into his eyes for longer than was necessary. He sighed. His face said, ‘another timewaster’.

‘Here is my card. If you remember anything, contact me.’

‘Of course,’ I promised.

I watched the local news that evening. There was no CCTV of a serious sex-offender scrubbing against my backside or fleeing down the platform.

Phew.

I e-mailed Dee a précis of the events.

That was a long evening, waiting for her response. Had I taken it too far and shocked her? Unlikely.

Dee phoned. Around midnight.

‘Well! What a week! I read your mail, but tell me again.’

I gave her the short version.

‘Have you mailed him?’

‘I thought it unwise to make contact. I may sometime in the future, but that scrape was too close for comfort.’

‘It was great! I wished you’d been properly caught and we could have argued it out in court, as your basic human right.’

She is a cherished PA, intelligent, good ideas, but sometimes, so bereft of common sense, she shouldn’t be let out on her own.

‘Thanks, Dee. We would have lost the argument, then my job, then my flat and then all hope of another man going near me.’

‘You may be right about the first three, but number four? Men would be queuing up to travel with you.’ 

‘Just for a quick screw – nothing permanent. Not my style. Monica Lewinsky’s life never recovered.’

‘Monica Who?’

‘Look her up and let me know if you have a goddess for her. Or maybe Monica counts as a modern-day goddess.’

‘I’ll look into her. In the meantime, I have another goddess for you. Aphrodite. Research her and see if we can keep your sex-life buzzing. Call me when you are ready.’

The line went dead.