Monday, 2 November 2015


I wonder if I will talk to this lady sitting next to me on the bus.

I may say something like "hiya," or "are you going all the way to Greenwich?" or even "do I know you?". Because I do know her. I can't place where from, but I know her extremely well. It's got to be her; the features are the same as I remember them, from the long, thin nose to the slightly surprised blue eyes to the blonde hair with an odd cut - fringe, flowing locks, the lot. It's her. I just don't know who she is.

And it's while I'm pondering this that I notice she appears to be staring directly at my crotch.

I glance down and notice the bulge in my trousers that makes it look like I'm hard. I'm not - too tired to be hard even if I tried - but the zip in my trousers has manipulated itself upwards and it looks full of penis. About a centimetre from this lie my hands, my right index finger clenched in my left fist, instantly reminiscent (to my brain, anyway) or a smooth, firm cock enveloped in the tight, warm embrace of a beautiful vagina.

The instant I notice these things I feel wracked with doubt. I've just glanced at a lady and then down at my crotch, where there's a fake erection and hand-related penetration going on. And she's definitely looking. Maybe she thinks I'm being terribly inappropriate at 5:00 on a commuter bus. Or maybe I've sparked her imagination and she's now thinking of ways to make a slightly sexual signal back.

Only she doesn't do this; she just gets off the bus and walks off towards the Tube. I follow her, somewhat relieved that I hadn't actually ended up talking to her.

And now I know the answer to my question. She was going all the way to Greenwich.

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