The Eyes Have It

There is a school of thought that eyes, besides being a window into one's soul, are the key to that unique sex appeal which attracts one person to another. It is not clear whether this is because, through eye contact, one knows what the other is thinking, or whether it is just that one knows what they would like the other to be thinking.

Martin stared impassively out of the compartment window, pondering an engineering solution for keeping railway carriage windows cleaner, as a diversion from the job-related issues just left behind in the city. This was more acceptable than pondering his own failure in life to secure a soul mate, owing to an imbalance between inadequate social skills and an overactive sex drive.

The early evening train home entered the Holbrook tunnel. The interior lights, combined with the exterior gloom and grime, turned the window into a mirror. Unappealing goods yards transmuted into the pair of eyes belonging to the girl sitting opposite, perfectly focussing on his. Martin instinctively followed commuting etiquette by smiling briefly and averting his gaze. A feeling then nagged him that his opposite number had not followed suit, but raising his eyes again to meet hers in order to confirm this theory would simply breach the protocol he had committed to. He therefore gazed more obliquely onto the mirror, at the reflection of her breasts, and remained doing so for the statutory length of time above which one risked being justifiably exposed as a pervert. Then he closed his eyes and pretended to doze, determined to avoid the fatal mistake of falling asleep, exhibiting open mouth with quivering lower lip, a grotesquely twisted body, and snoring like a foghorn. Not to mention the probability of missing his stop -- the curse of the commuter.

His waking dreams were of the girl opposite. Those eyes. Those eyes. Green? Brown? He didn't even know. Were they heavy with shadow? Overdone with mascara? He didn't know that either. Just that if there was such a thing as 'come-to-bed-Martin eyes', they were it. The train slowed for his stop, and he welcomed the excuse to get another look, maybe chat her up if he could think of anything witty or intelligent to say, which was unlikely. He opened his eyes. Fuck shit. She was gone. Must have got off at the Lily Bottom stop. Martin knew he'd blown his chance of getting off at all.

Saturday night arrived and Martin met up as usual with his mates at the Tuns. Josh suggested they cut across to his cousin's house where Jen needed more men for a Vicars and Tarts party. Martin didn't like parties in general -- he was rubbish at small talk. At this one, at least, he would be able to perv at all the women in their fetish costumes, stockings, suspenders, high heels, short leather skirts and low cut bustiers... "Ok," he agreed, "there's no decent football on. I'm up for it."

With a steely resolve, reinforced by two or three strong lagers always guaranteed to induce a feeling of irresistibility to women, he went to the enormous trouble of putting his white shirt on back to front to make a dog collar, and bought a cheap bottle of red at the garage. Jen met them at the door. Martin handed over his bottle, hardly lifting his eyes from her split skirt and fishnet stockings.

Bren was there. God she was big. And loud. Martin listed suffocation in Bren's cleavage as a preferred option of shuffling off one's mortal coil. Girls he didn't know in cheap pvc and lycra were bopping to distorted music he didn't know either. He sat with his drink, assessing the talent. Not bad. Irma la Duce looked ok, except the wig colour clashed horribly with her skin colour. One with a skirt which could have been mistaken for a wide belt was ok-ish, but should one wear a short skirt with thighs that size?... A frumpy girl in an awful yellow flouncy dress with puffed out brown ruffs and cuffs... another in a stunning dominatrix outfit but a mumsy face which didn't match the costume. Another Saturday night, and Martin's non-existent love life looked like remaining that way. Plenty of material for a masturbation fantasy after getting home, he consoled himself.

"Mind if I join you, Vicar?" Martin caught the voice's owner in the corner of his eye. Oh no. It was the frump in the baggy yellow dress. Shit.

"Er, yes.. I mean no.. please do." Martin shifted awkwardly along the sofa and the yellow dress slid in beside him. He welcomed the warmth and fragrance of her body, but it made him nervous, afraid of being saddled with a girl he wasn't likely ever to fancy. He did however now notice the heeled thigh boots which had not been evident to him when she had been on her feet. Reluctantly he looked up at her face. His mouth dropped. His senses seized. His body petrified. Those eyes. Those eyes. I know those eyes. I've seen them before. The girl on the train.

"Paula."

"Er, Martin." He cursed his inability even to announce his name without umming or erring.

"From the train," she said. "I see you every day. You get the 5.15. Same as me except Wednesdays. You never say hello."

"Er, that's right... I mean... you do?" Why did he flounder so pathetically? The eyes of his dreams were trained on him. He was like a rabbit caught in a car's headlights. Mesmerised. Helpless. Craving to be run over.

"Like my outfit?"

Dilemma. Should I lie and say it's very fetching, or is there a chance of me spending the rest of my life with her, in which case I should be honest from the outset and tell her it's hideous. "It doesn't really do you justice." Martin was proud of his diplomacy and lack of hesitation.

"I'm a custard tart," Paula said, without changing facial expression nor easing up the intensity of her gaze. The rabbit was a gonna. Martin cursed himself again for not getting the joke until it was way too late to laugh. She must think I'm a complete charmless dork with a sense of humour by-pass. But I want her so much.

"Wanna eat me?" Paula's risqué innuendo didn't improve Martin's state of composure. All he saw was the erotic paradise promised in her eyes, and took the invitation at face value.

He answered without hesitation this time. "Oh yes. Oh my God, yes." Rabbit meat. Smitten.

Paula edged closer to Martin, her knee pressing up against his thigh. "You were staring at my tits the other evening, weren't you?" she said rather admonishingly, though her wide sparkling hazel eyes remained focussed on his, and exuded fun and excitement.

True to form, Martin managed to blurt out "No, I mean yes, but I er...". His predicament was curtailed by Jen, brandishing a large jug of punch.

"Hey you two, no snogging before ten o'clock, we have a gallon of sangria to get shot of."

Two hours later, a rather inebriated couple stood outside the front door of Paula's apartment. "I don't usually do this on a first date, but would you like to come in for a coffee - you look a little worse for wear," she said.

"No, I'm..... er, f-fine," complained Martin. "I mean, yes, that w...ould be great." He was dying to embrace and kiss her, but knew deep down he had over-imbibed a heady mix of strong drink.

The next thing he remembered was waking up in the morning on Paula's sofa, wearing her fluffy dressing gown though otherwise naked. There, close by, standing wearing a sumptious black satin robe was Paula, with a tray of fruit juice and black coffee. Martin began to wonder if he was still dreaming, not recalling anything after falling over Paula's front door step.

"Paula," he gasped. "You are an angel. How ever did you scrape me off the pavement and deliver me here? I am such a useless idiot. Too much to drink. Can't even string two sentences together. I'm so sorry I've caused you such grief."

"Don't be silly," Paula said smiling. "It was fun. And by the way, you just managed six sentences. Get some juice and coffee down you, get yourself spruced up in the bathroom, and meet me in the bedroom. Hey - it's Sunday. Lie-in day."

He rose from the sofa, took the tray from her, and gazed once more into her beguiling eyes. "Really?" he pleaded. "After all that's happened and the trouble I've caused you, we're still on a date?"

"It's your eyes, sweetie," Paula confessed in a whisper. "They're so full of passionate desire, honesty... and love."