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Things to do whilst wearing clothes
I was an hour late for Mary-Ann due to our creaky railway system. Tannoyed hectoring of an exciting promise of luggage being "destroyed by the security services", who "tour this station, twenty-four hours a day"; late running trains. The train was full of an unpleasant culture of football. I asked the girl standing in front of me (nowhere to sit) if I could borrow her phone to tell Mary-Ann I was running late.
Seeing her before she did me, sitting in a cold tile-plated "cafe" on the station, I felt sorry for making her wait. Given the past few days' turbulence courtesy of Little Miss God of Loughborough, I'd practised something to say to her as my first sentence.
As soon as I saw her disappointed and worried face I wish I hadn't said "Mary-Ann. There is one more big problem." I ploughed on. "Yesterday, with terrible timing, I came out in these cold sores. So we'll have to be inventive." She smiled with flirty relief. She took my arm and said "Where are we going? Rutland Arms?"
The Rutland Arms' stained glass was glintingly Christmassy. Many women there, always an indicator of a good pub. Proper cider, the tannic pucker of apples. "No," she said, as I stroked my hand around the small of her back. You don't move your body. You just move that arm."
"Are you more a visual person or a tactile one?" she said, which is like asking a man "which do you prefer, pornography or me?" By deft deployment of my jacket, I snuggled my hand discreetly against her cunt ("I like having your hand there"). Later I took her hand, formed it into a claw, and scraped her nails along my forearm. "You can do that as hard as you want."
Outside Sheffield station she wrapped her coat around us and took my hands and put them onto her. A group of teenagers spat behind us. "There's something about your silent attention to my tits that I find very erotic," which made me feel as though I had started watching my own pleasure.
I had an hour to wait till my train and I went to the pub on the station and chatted to a 73-year-old ex-miner. "How are your lungs?" "Just these last two years. I can't walk more than a hundred yards." A young woman with gleaming perfect teeth did a performance of laughing. "Tactile," I thought.
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