Lascivious daydreams

Sexual content

7. Alarm Bells

By the time I was strap-hanging my way north on Monday morning, I was on fire with enthusiasm for this woman – Inanna – my soul sister. She had stirred dissent wherever she went and was closely connected to war and to Venus, the Northern and Southern star, the same entity but discontinuous when observed – a bit like the rush hour on the Northern Line, whichever direction you take.

That was her character. She was the wickedness of the big city, without shame or apology.

Pulling out of Clapham Common, it came to me – the cause of my disquiet. No man would have told Inanna to wear blue stockings and turn to the glass, facing the rear, and await a man’s pleasure, at her rear. Inanna called the shots. Men worshipped at her body, once she had chosen them.

 As difficult as it would be to deny him, I knew I would not undertake my return journey on Goliath’s orders. He would have to reconsider the terms of engagement. I wasn’t sure how I would achieve this. I thought I would have a peaceful and lascivious journey, but now I would have to fight my corner.

The day was difficult. I discovered the reality of trying to run a confusion of emotions and do a decent day’s work. An important meeting fell into chaos because I lost the thread of the discussion.

‘How shall we handle this, Connie?’ the CEO asked, as soon as the preening also-ran cocks had finished trying to profile themselves in his presence. It was a slap in the face for them. He turned to the only woman in the meeting and laid the decision at her behest. And what did I do? I jolted from an erotic reverie, mumbled, cleared my throat, and said, ‘I need more information. Give me until tomorrow.’

Did it fool anyone? Who knows? If not, I had used up one of my nine. I didn’t care. More important was, I had worked out my Goliath strategy.

Six o’clock came. I had shaken off PA with a deft move, by sending her home for the afternoon on passionate leave. Oops. Freudian slip. Shouldn’t that read ‘compassionate leave’? She should look after her little boy, who was poorly. It may not have been my best idea. That’s twice running. Any reasoning woman would know something is afoot. Not her. She is convinced I am nice and she will try harder to walk to the train with me, once her son is better. I hope he doesn’t recover too quickly, but chide myself. How awful can I be?

A train arrived at 18.29. The next one had to be the right one. I used the 18.29 to locate where the front of the third carriage would stop. 18.33 – I can hear the rumble of the approaching train and resist the temptation to look behind me for Goliath. The train rushes out the tunnel and into the platform space. No one can deny its phallic association. Doors open. Plenty of room. No struggle to get to the glass partition. I stand with my nose against the glass sheet, facing the back of the train, looking across the heads of the row of seated passengers. How can they ignore me? I’m so up for this adventure, they must be able to sense my excitement. I feel myself sticking my backside out further than my stance requires. The doors close and I wait ... It seems an eternity, but the train hasn’t moved yet so it can only be seconds. I feel a brush against my cheeks and then firm pressure. I’m sure it is Goliath, but how can I know? I can feel his breath in my hair. It pulls a memory from my subconscious and I recognise his faint aroma from the previous encounter. No point in hesitating. I hold my pad in the air, slightly above my shoulder, for him to read my haiku.

Stop! You need to think.

You may worship at my cracks.

But give no orders.

He doesn’t react. I think his answer was ‘wtf!’ but he is too polite to enunciate. Perhaps he hasn’t understood, so I tear the sheet from my pad and hand it backwards over my shoulder. He increases the pressure on my bottom, but takes the piece of paper. I hand the pen after it.

By now the train is moving and he is allowing its rocking motion to increase the excitement. I need this to stop, to exert my right to call the shots, but my plan hadn’t allowed for the closeness and my inability to move. I’m trapped in the act. I can hold the pad high against the glass screen, and write a message, but having angled the pad and pen into place, I can’t think what to write. The train rocks, the world rocks, for him at least. Bank comes and goes and so does Goliath. I received some warning when he reached round my throat and gently removed his scarf. I felt it thrust between our bodies and him twitching in an effort to restrain his orgasmic movements.

He calmed his travels. Has he defiled my power suit? Will I once more walk from South Wimbledon to my apartment wondering what the neighbours will see? No! He wants to be a gentleman –  whatever that is – and my power suit is some holy grail, not to be defiled.

I’m calm, too. My pulse is beginning to slow. Will he get out at Borough or follow me home?

I write on the pad, high in the air, against the glass. It comes out as another haiku. What am I on?

Give me your spend as

Evidence of your worship

For me to take home.

I tear the sheet from the pad and hand it back over my shoulder. I hear him whisper something in my ear, but can’t understand him in the din of the tunnel, so I hand the pad and pencil back. I accidently brush his face and feel a stubble beard. Now I can recognise him on a crowded platform, should I wish. His message comes back, but it is not on paper. Instead he ties the scarf gently round my neck. I can feel dampness on my skin. Around my neck is a pleasant coolness. I begin to shake. He pulls the scarf to my lips and I nibble at the damp patch and at his finger, which he uses to poke the cloth into my mouth. I can just taste it.

With the other hand he returns my notepad.

‘[e-mail],’is all that he has written.

I feel for him, a squeezed hand to tell him I understand. I realise I can smell better than I can taste. I pull the damp part under my nose and inhale – deeply. He turns me round, not easy in the enclosed space, and I stare at his chest. He thrusts a knee at my pubic bone. It’s not quite enough for a woman, even in my state, with my power skirt ruining any chance of further pleasure. I fight to get my legs apart. Impossible. I rub vigorously and kinda manage a climax.

I looked up to see two things. One, it is Stockwell already and two, he is gone. How did he exit without me noticing? I was a bit distracted, that’s true.

I sucked the scarf as solace.

He has thrown down the gauntlet. He wants us to discuss what should happen next and prepare things. That’s okay. Emails preserve the anonymity, although why that’s important, when he knows where I live and has shoved his rag in my mouth, I’m not sure.

I know my suit showed no signs of our encounter and walk home with the swagger of the righteous. How would I walk once visibly defiled? An interesting question.

And there! I’d finally said it – what I want him to do. Do it on my skirt. I repeated the words over and again, until I ran out of breath. Psychologists say it is a way of altering our subconscious desires.

Everyone has erotic dreams. Few people live them. I supressed all mine, because I believed that is what nice girls do. Now I am living them without first having them. How does that work?

8. E-mails

This was a seismic shift. Whatever we write to each other is not ephemeral, not like a whispered naughtiness, or a subtle billet-doux. I needed to preserve my dignity. It’s one thing to behave like Inanna, but nowadays that’s called being a slut – not how I want to end up on F******k. But if I remain scared of what the neighbours will think, of my colleagues finding out I’m dry humping a man on the tube home, then I shall never be free of my fears. That’s what it is. Ten long years I repressed my desires, telling myself they didn’t matter, or even that they didn’t exist, as though I were trying to placate my mother.

Full of these thoughts, I sat at my computer. I had no idea how I should start. My rule is, when out of one’s depth, say as little as possible. I created a new personal email address, to which only he would have access.

[e-mail] didn’t find much competition.

Hallo Goliath,

What is it you want to know?

Before you answer, remember, Inanna is my mentor.

1. Bluestocking

was all I wrote.

What a turn-on his idea had been! I spent the next day in a state of full on sexual tension. I couldn’t settle to anything and for the first time in my working life, phoned in sick. Perhaps I was ill. It certainly felt like a sickness I had never known before. My bedside best friend needed battery changes.

Towards evening his reply came through.

Inanna is your mentor! Wow. She was quite a woman.

You want evidence that I have worshipped at your beautiful backside. How should that work, in public and on the Northern Line? Wasn’t the scarf enough?

I prefer Golliath to Cheeky Boy, so that’s good, but why?

xoxo

Golliath

My reply was instant.

The scarf was good. I was so thrilled when your wetness touched my neck and my tongue. Now we need to progress our intimacy. How it works without getting you arrested is your problem.

And Goliath?

Find a beast called Goliath, which stridulates.

x. Bluestocking

I had corrected his spelling. I hoped he wouldn’t see it as a put-down.

I checked my diary for the next day. Nothing that required a power suit, so I went to work the next morning wearing a light, loose, cotton summer skirt, with a feel-through blouse to match. I ditched the high heels and rejected the suspender belt. All things that could cause complications. The blue stockings I hoisted up with garters.

PA looked shocked, but recovered her demeanour. Her face said, ‘If the boss can do it, then so can I.’

‘Nice outfit for summer,’ was all she said.

‘Thanks,’ was all I said. Would she guess the reason why I’d ditched the office uniform? Not impossible! Another woman should be able to work out why I’d removed the obstacles from the course.

But I knew I’d chickened out. My summer skirt was light in colour with a pattern. No one would see the results of an encounter.

I was calm through the day, considering what I expected for the homeward journey and, needless to say, I positioned myself using the 18.29, and was promptly up against the right sheet of glass on the next train at 18.33, with the stained scarf, slightly crisp, round my neck.

The doors shut and we began moving. I shut my eyes and waited – not long. Arms encircled me and held me tight. That’s better! As much as I wanted him to move his hands up to my breasts, I told myself that the glass partition was, after all, transparent and getting arrested wouldn’t serve our plan.

We rolled to a halt at Bank. The carriage was jammed. He could do what he liked without detection. The doors shut. A hand went between us, pressed itself into my cheeks and fumbled. I assumed he was undoing his zip. Good man. More fumbling. If he was already at attention, it can’t have been easy.

He was! I felt him through the summer skirt. As the train rocked, he began firm movements. I can’t call them stridulations. We made no sound that could be heard. I kept my eyes shut. And waited. Not long. My skirt was pushed firmly into my crack, followed my bigger quicker movements and the feel of a slight dampness. I wasn’t sure I had felt anything, but then the warmth began to spread and there could be no doubt. He had worshipped at my altar.

He removed my scarf, cleaned us both – not easy – and replaced it, tying it gently round my neck, but rubbing the dampness on my lips as he did it. His hands were soft and sensual as he brushed my cheek.

I shut my eyes and waited for him to turn me round again.

He was gone! That was okay. Tomorrow would be another day.

I began singing to myself.

My vulva, the horn,

The Boat of Heaven,

Is full of eagerness like the young moon.

My untilled land lies fallow.

As for me, Inanna,

Who will plow my vulva?

Who will plow my high field?

Who will plow my wet ground?

As for me, the young woman,

Who will plow my vulva?

Who will station the ox there?

Who will plow my vulva?

I used Beethoven’s Ode to Joy melody – or at least tried to.