30 degrees. Day after day. Relentless. Men with sweat-soaked backs, women with rivulets of sweat running between their swaying breasts. Slow trains, uncomfortable closeness, and the slow languid appreciation of people wearing not much at all.
I know nothing about pheromones, but I swear the air was heavy with them. It's like, without anyone actually being aware of it, they are constantly ready to fuck. Swollen with bloodlust.
I sat on the train from Basingstoke at eleven on a Sunday morning, and thankfully the aircon made life bearable. England is not set up for heavy snow or relentless heat. People wear the looks of confusion, staring with suspicion at the skies as if the pale, faded blue would somehow provide an answer.
The girl across from me was dressed for the heat. Strappy top, low cut, the tops of her breasts on display to anyone who cared to notice. Her hair was pulled back to allow the cool air to get to her skin. The goosebumps on her arms suggested that she may not have factored the air conditioning into her plans.
Her very prominent nipples told a similar story.
Of course I was caught. I'm hopeless when I see something that grabs my attention in such a visceral way. I hate that I was staring. I hate more that I was caught. But here's the thing. This girl was in no way being overtly sexual. It's hot, it's her right to wear whatever she wants. She was not asking me to look at her breasts - and yet I did. I looked up as she was leaning over to write in her work book, and I saw a lot of her breasts. And I cannot help it - I liked what I saw.
I looked away that first time, but by the 30th time, I was getting sloppy. I noticed the nipples, and I felt bad for the fact that I was being sneaky. I decided I would get up and move, because clearly I was the one with the problem, not her.
She was a student. Young, attractive, carefree. Me? 40, careworn, but still young enough to be able to play my part in the game of life. As I began gathering my things I bumped her foot with mine.
"Sorry." I said.
She looked up at me with engaging, warm eyes.
"Pardon?" she enquired, easily.
"I just apologised for touching your foot." I explained.
She smiled, and used her hand in a dismissive expression.
"God, don't worry, it's not as if anyone can keep themselves to themselves in these trains, is it?"
"No, not easy" I agreed.
"But that doesn't quite explain why you've spent the past half hour staring at my tits, does it?" She asked, again - so easily, like she had commented on the weather. There was no rebuke in her voice, just as there was no invitation or suggestion. Just a very fair statement.
I opened my mouth to speak, but said nothing. Then I realised I was 40, not a child, and that it was time I did the right thing. I was relieved to be able to admit to my admiring glances.
"You're right. I have been. I apologise if it made you feel uncomfortable."
She smiled, then looked down at her breasts.
"In this heat, I need to keep cool, and the fact is that people like boobs, so you've not offended me, I just think you could do with working on subtlety." She put me immediately at ease.
We watched the countryside ripping past us at break-neck speed, and the silence didn't feel like it needed to be broken, such was our comfort.
"I'm guessing that you're married." She stated, suddenly. I nodded. "And that you gather up all the glances of boobs and bums and knickers and take them home and make splendid love with your wife".
Another statement. Another direct hit.
She smiled when I nodded again.
"I think girls like me should be paid for what we do for relationships. We offer up a glimpse of cleavage here and there, and somewhere shortly thereafter, a beautiful thing occurs." She giggled at the thought.
The train began to slow, even though we were miles from the next station. We both paid attention to the unexpected turn of events for a while, conversation on pause, prominent breasts forgotten. The train came to a halt, and shortly after the engines died.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry for the delay, there's a signalling fault ahead and we could be here for some time. Further to this, the air conditioning will have to be turned off whilst stationary. We hope to be on the move shortly, and I will keep you informed".
And with the air-con turned off, it immediately became uncomfortable. Air conditioned trains don't have windows to open, so we were facing an uncertain period of stuffy, sweltering frustration.
I looked over at my new friend, and realised I didn't know her name. I knew the shape of her breasts and the way her nipples responded to the cold, but I didn't know her name. And that was fine with me. She began fanning herself with the writing pad, and I could see her begin to flush in the heat.
I could feel the blood thrumming in my veins, part heat, part desire, part adrenaline. I decided to go for broke.
"How would you feel about building the foundations of an amazing moment with my wife?" I asked a little nervously.
She fixed her gaze on me. I couldn't read her thoughts.
"Go on" She said. "What would you have me do?"
I want to see you. I want, quite desperately, to see a lot more of you. To memorise you and tell my wife about you.
She looked out the window at the parched countryside, blinking slowly.
"Ok." She simply said.
"Right." I said, trying to sound like I had a clue, like I could play the role of the authoritarian. "I've been imagining your nipples. I've been wondering if they are dark, or rosey pink, and how they look standing to attention."
She looked around, ensuring that we were alone in our space in the carriage. She then stared me straight in the eye and slowly pulled down the front of her top, exposing her milky white breasts, topped with nipples of the softest pink. She was pert, they looked firm, and she pulled firmly at the nipples, eliciting a slight gasp from her as she did so.
