Not Saying Sorry

I'm very attracted to the back of his neck... it looks strong and his hair is just the right length for me to run my fingers over and feel it bristling. He's reading; that's a good sign. I can't see what he's reading because he's sitting in the seats in front of me - hence me having to have made the decision that it's the back of his neck that's attractive.

He also has a nice jumper on. I would quite enjoy peeling that jumper off his torso... letting it fall on the floor, then I could kick it away with my toes and start on the white shirt he's wearing underneath it. I wonder if he has a hairy chest? I like a little bit of hair on a man. Too smooth skinned and they start to look too young. I'm sure this guy has hair.

I could just go and slip into the seat next to him now. Strike up a conversation and let my hand casually fall into his lap... I wonder what he would do? People do this kind of thing all the time... in films, why can't I just try it now and see what happens?

Would anyone else in the carriage notice if he just got me off silently while we passed through Reading? Would anybody care if they did know? Who doesn't want their commute livened up by an angry, horny woman making a fool of herself.

Then I'd really have something to apologise to you for. When I meet you at the ticket barrier in Paddington and you look at me with those eyes that are half pitying me for being so stupid and half congratulating yourself for being so clever in sticking by me through my idiocy. It would wipe the smug smile off your patronising face if you knew I could still feel another man's fingers playing me beneath my skirt.

I don't want to apologise to you. I know I'm going to have to, but it's not the point. I don't feel sorry for what I've done - I don't think I've done anything. You'll make me feel very small if I try and tell you this though... you'll say I'm behaving like a child and that I should learn to see things from other people's perspectives. You'll tell me I'm demanding, that I need too much from you and that if I wanted to make you happy I'd learn to be more independent.

Well, maybe my independence will start with fucking a stranger in the cubicle of the 09:17 to London Paddington. Maybe I should learn to satisfy myself. Or at least find somebody more accommodating to do it for me.

I'm not sure why I'm so attracted to him. Maybe I'm not, maybe it's just pent up frustration at how angry I am with you and how I won't do anything about it. I'll let you put your arm around me and then we'll go and have perfunctory sex at your house. Because we never go to mine. You don't like it there. I don't want to lie beneath you at your house. I want to be pushed up against the window here on the train - not caring. And then I want to never tell you. I want to not tell you how he pulled my hair a little and didn't question me when I asked for it. How he didn't make me feel wrong.

I'd like to have a secret form you... something you'd never guess, you'd never suspect. In all your patronising talks with me about how our relationship is going, you've never once suspected I could look at another man. How would you react if you found out what I'm thinking now? If you could read my thoughts. If those hazy blue eyes could see behind mine and tell how much I want to change this. How much I want to hurt the image of me you have in your mind... how much I need to get out.

I'll never do it. I won't touch him... I want to. I want to feel his mouth hard on mine and have him all over with me without a hint of emotion. Uncomplicated. Not like it is with you. But I won't do it. I'll push my way through ticket gate at Paddington and let you kiss me on the forehead before I tell you how embarassed I am at having upset you and you take me back to your house and we cook the dinner you enjoy.

I'm a fool.