March 27, 2007

I have my head down on the train, I’m reading my book, minding my own business. The train stops at the next station. My eyes flit away from the lines of text and quickly back again without thought, in an unconscious need to observe the new passengers.

In that brief moment, I spot a pretty blonde girl carefully planting her perfectly formed rear onto the seat across from me. She’s probably 5 years older than me, occupying the perfect age bracket. She’s slim and very pretty. She’s not hot like somebody you might want to sleep with once and forget. She’s hot like somebody you’d happily sleep with over and over, and wine and dine, buy flowers for, and so forth. Before I know it, I’m reading the text in front of me, but my mind’s wandered off into a little fantasy world. The fantasy world involving two heaving bodies, soft light, and bom chicka wah wah. I found myself in that little fantasy without meaning to be there. I smile at myself, I skip back to the start of the paragraph, and I try to concentrate on my book.

But it’s too late. I notice my jeans are kind of tight. I’ve had these jeans for years, and it’s fair to say they don’t feel as roomy as they once did (though I blame repeat washes). The tightness of the jeans drags my mind back into the murky world it wandered into after first sight of this girl. If only she knew what she was getting up to.

Trains and buses are the worst places to think these thoughts, especially while wearing tight trouser-wear. My jeans were closing in around me. Or, more specifically, I was expanding within my jeans. I felt that magical tingle race across my body as blood took a pit stop around my groin.

So I’m sitting on the train, and my little man is trying to grow into something of a bigger man, with reasonable success. The tightness of the jeans only serves to attract my mind’s attention to my current situation. While flaccid, I tend to find myself occupying my left trouser leg. The tight jeans perhaps wouldn’t be a problem if my wee man had to wander down a trouser leg to grow, but he was already there, in his usual place, clearly just waiting to surprise. So he’s expanding along my leg and becoming a much more obvious lump in my jeans as the moments pass, and as the train rocks back and forth, bumping over its various points and junctions. He wants absolutely nothing more than to spring free from his prison. And that’s what I want too. But this isn’t the place.

Only a few more minutes to the station, I figured. Then I can get out. Walking is a natural remedy in this situation. Thinking about walking, thinking about not bumping into people, thinking about getting out of the station, is enough to take the attention away from my trapped, throbbing penis and the tingling feeling of a body part demanding more attention. I get out and make it to the office. The office is an astounding pleasure kill, so I doubt I’ll have further problems today.

This happens more often than you might think. Trains and buses are perfect environments for guys to find discomfort. Check discretely next time you get the chance. There’s reasonable odds that there’s one guy sitting nearby who has something on his mind, or something in his trousers.

And my leg will be jiggling until I get home.


March 22, 2007

I’m walking along the train platform to my usual spot. You know the way that people have “their” space? Well, I have mine, and I stand there every morning. I get annoyed if somebody is in my space.

This morning, somebody was. But this time, it was somebody I’d seen before, and I wasn’t annoyed. It’s difficult to be annoyed when a pretty face looks back and smiles. I’m not so sure I smiled back; I suspect she got my morning scowl in return. I tend not to be in a mood for communication while I’m in transit … I’ve simply left A, and I’m trying to reach B.

It took me a few moments to realise that I’d seen her here before. It takes a while for the more sociable parts of my mind to kick in sometimes, and so I missed those few moments where starting a conversation would have been socially acceptable. She continues to read her book, and I read mine.

Perhaps I’ll talk to her next time I’ll see her.


March 19, 2007

I stood on the stairs at the front of the building, looking down at her. She stood quietly, arms crossed. “We had to talk.” That’s not quite true. The reality of the situation was that she had to talk, and I was going to listen. So often “We have to talk” means “I have something to say.”

And then those crushing words fell out of her mouth: “I don’t want to see you any more.”

At the time, it was a surprise. A genuine surprise; I thought things were going well. I remember walking, just walking, for hours the following day. It was a nice day, a sort of a bittersweet twist on the night previous. In hindsight, I now realise I didn’t have a clue how to conduct a relationship, and that I was probably in the relationship to be able to say that I was in a relationship. I was a drunk, and a no-hoper. I had two states: drunk, or hungover, and one was generally always cancelling the other out. Anybody putting money on me becoming a success were betting on the wrong horse. I wasn’t sober for about three years, and she happened right in the middle of all that. There’s so much I don’t remember about her.

Fast forward 7 years. I’m standing in the queue at the cinema, and one of the girls handling tickets looks strangely familiar. Is it her? I brush that particular crazy idea aside. It couldn’t be. She looks too different. But then I get up close, and check her name badge. Jeez, it is her. I haven’t seen or heard from her since that evening all those years ago.

We weren’t in a position to talk, I was served by somebody else. No eye-contact was made. But I wonder how long she’s been working there. Have I not noticed her before? Hell, have I spoken to her without realising? Our paths last crossed so long ago that I’m no longer bitter or annoyed about the whole thing. It might even be interesting to catch up.

But I wonder what she would think of the new, sober me? Would she be surprised at the success I have seen? I wonder what her life has dealt her? Perhaps I’ll go see a movie some time.

Female bloggers.

February 21, 2007

Blogging is an unusual game. Some people choose to conceal their identity. Some people choose to wear their real-life identity as some sort of badge of honour. Some toy with each extreme, while never quite seeing the full purpose of either.

The most intriguing blogger, however, is the female blogger. I’ll qualify that. The most intriguing blogger is the intelligent, independent female blogger. She’s the one who tosses out her words in as eloquent a manner on the most tricky of topics as she does on the most inane. She’s generally around 30 years old. She seldom posts a picture of herself, but may have done so once or twice. Her prose is consistent. Her discussion of work lends insight into her intelligence. She’s super-motivated. She’s insanely independent. She’s profoundly interesting. She’s also got the, hmm, she’s got the bollocks to embrace what she likes; if some of what she likes might be considered “girly” (perceived as synonymous with weak?), so be it. Her independence leads her to prefer persecution for being herself rather than a denial of her own tastes. She’s generally single.

That last point is insane. Any woman who fits that description above deserves a man who understands her. We’re not that hard to find. Are we?

I think I have a strange fetish. I enjoy reading the blogs of female academics. Ladies, I’m here for you.