By myself on the crowded platform, I was trying to hold the human mass behind me, prevent it from making me fall on the tracks. I had never seen anybody actually fall on them, but every time I got home, just a bit late, and found myself among the hundreds trying to catch the tube at rush hour, I wondered why so few people died from what seemed to me like an unavoidable stampede. Rush hour on the tube has every characteristic of something I would be bad at: lots of people, lots of noise, bodies shoving each other aside to keep on their way, heat, and the need to rush.
Because not only do you have to be strong enough not to be pushed aside by some middle-aged white collar trying to get out, just as you struggle to stay near the doors and get in as soon as you can, to avoid being crushed by the unforgiving closing doors, but you also have to be fast and clever, choose the perfect spot to jump as soon as possible on a seat, avoiding the ones near the doors, lest you end up travelling seated for an hour looking at the legs of in and outcomers, or worse, standing in everybody's way and terribly close to your fellow travellers, hoping that someone will soon stand and leave, letting you rest your legs. I sucked at all of these things, and most of the times, ended up in either of these two very uncomfortable positions, having to choose between a forty-year old accountant's crotch on my face on my ass, neither of which was anything but disgusting to me.
As the train arrived in the station, I braced at the ready. I just had to keep far enough behind the line not to end up as train ground meat -- if that is a thing -- but close enough from the train to stand firm by the doors when they'd open. My hopes were high, and I already pictured myself cosily seated between two quiet old ladies or near a nice couple, relaxed as I could take out my book from my backpack and read for sixty minutes. As with every time I tried that strategy, I felt ready.
For a second, I could see my reflexion in the train's glass doors: my blue eyes, the soft curls of black hair falling around my thin pale face, my red, pouting mouth the only trace of colour in a slightly sickly face, the deep blue shirt tucked into my cotton pants. I was focused.
As with every time I tried that strategy, I failed miserably. As soon as the doors opened, the stream of passengers walking out formed a wall between me and the door, which for some reason didn't exist on the other side of the latter. I could only miserably watch as people queuing there moved in casually, taking all the available seats with ease.
As the last passenger, a lady wearing a bright red coat, moved out, all the comfortable places were taken. I was carried into the train more than entered it: those queuing behind me shoved me inside just by moving in and, without quite realising how, I found myself seated on a jump seat, facing what clearly was a very sweaty crotch.
I was disgusted, repulsed, and annoyed: not only do I hate the bodily proximity of other people, but this feeling is even greater at the end of a day, when everyone starts smelling of sweat and fatigue. Above my head, the man just looked away, probably not even realising how grossed I was. Maybe annoyed himself by such a forced proximity. I closed my eyes and tried thinking about something else. Thankfully after a few stops my forced neighbour was gone, and I was already feeling relieved: after this specific station, the train generally emptied itself little by little, and by the time I got home, I actually had enough personal space to breathe freely. But not this time.
The space previously occupied by the man's black pants stayed empty but for a few seconds. Before I even could relax, it came to be filled with a pair of thick blue jeans, making me pause. The jeans were pale blue, used, as if worn too often, and carelessly patched on several spots with mismatching thread.
They were clearly too large for the hips carrying them, but not in a fashionable, baggy kind of way: they just were too big, and their wearer had slid a piece of white string, almost as thick as a small rope, tied in a sailor's knot, in lieu of a belt. From one of the belt rings hung a couple of thick metal chains, which disappeared into a pocket. At the bottom of the jeans, I could spot a pair of used leather boots, which must have been brown in a very distant past.
I was both surprised and intrigued: I am used, because of my awkwardness in the train, to seeing many different kinds of pants. From the straight deep blue trousers of businessmen, always perfectly straight, never washed at home, to the sloppy chino of office workers, including various kinds and sizes of skirts, baggies, tailors, and uniforms, I have seen it all. I could write a whole sociology of this city relying solely on bottom clothing, where they come in, when they come out.
But I have never seen anyone dressed like this, especially on this line which cuts right in the middle of the rich parts of town, where tech companies and big corps built huge glass towers in the 90s as displays of power and modernity.
I didn't immediately dare to glance up, barely catching sight of a fine hand which slid quickly into the jeans' pocket before disappearing into what appeared to be an overly-large black hoodie's. The mysterious rugged jeans' owner had surprisingly delicate hands, from what I could gather, and had I not been so shy and socially awkward in public space, I would at that stage have raised my gaze to look at the newcomer.
But it was out of the question. At least, not as long as they looked in my general direction. Which changed quickly: a few instants later, they were turning toward the doors, and I couldn't avoid noticing that whosoever they were, they had been particularly gifted in terms of hips, and butt. Trying to resist a certain arousal, I dared look up. She -- because they were a she -- was just a bit taller than me, and a bit thicker, but not by much. Beyond the large jeans and black hoodie, she also wore large headphones, and her entire attitude showed how much she wished to be left alone.
She was strikingly beautiful, in a very peculiar, almost distant kind of way: every inch of her face, from her broad forehead to her slightly pursed lips and her very pretty round nose was at the same time sensual, and distant, as if she looked at the world with just a little bit of despise, from above.
She had very dark almond-shaped eyes, which gazed into the distance, indifferent to what she saw. Her black hair was finely braided with lighter hair, running along her scalp and bundled together in a loose ponytail which almost crowned her. Beauty and self-assurance, along with just enough scariness, radiated from her and, as I noticed at the end of my very quick glance at her, everybody in the train was looking away from her, as if not to disturb her, or by fear that she would get angry at them. Even dressed shabbily as she was, she transpired power, as only do people who know they are truly indispensable. I looked back very quickly, from fear that she may catch me watching her. Which, of course, she did.
I only saw her hips, turn in my direction, feeling embarrassed to be caught staring at a stranger in public space. A few very long instants later, her hand emerge from her hoodie's pocket, as she waved her finger to order me to look up. Indeed, although she had moved very gently, the gesture was clearly not a request, but a command, which I obeyed. She was looking straight at, or through, me, her face displaying a subtle mix of annoyance, surprise, despise, and something deeper, almost predator-like:
"- Is something bothering you?," she asked, and while her voice was clearly annoyed, her accent felt like someone was pouring warm water, very gently, on my back. - Not at all, miss, I'm very sorry for bothering you," I had begun answering when she cut me mid-sentence
"- Your mom never taught you not to stare, boy?," she asked, now half-amused. As I mumbled an apology she cut me again:
"- What, were you looking for your big catchphrase? Is this how you try to 'pick up' girls?".
I blushed, not knowing what to answer: of course I never would approach anyone, woman or man, in such a way, but she did not know that, and had, after all, caught me staring. As I felt I wanted to bury myself in the ground from shame, she laughed:
"- Relax," she said, "I'm joking. You should see the look on your face!". She grinned: "Looks like I found myself a shy boy, didn't I?".
She didn't actually expect an answer, and I was still struggling to find one when the train stopped:
"- That's my stop. You shouldn't come with me. You're too pure for that. But you may". So I did.
She seemed to have chosen to live in one of the most run-down parts of down, despite being herself incredibly wealthy for her age. She took me through the streets of the neighbourhood, casually nodding to the dealers and hookers who had taken their vigil for the evening. She was striding, more than walking, and I was both intimidated and a attracted by how confident and comfortable she was with people I was personally terrified of.
Being behind her, and trying to keep up to her pace I could look her in greater detail, her slightly bulking stature, the broadness of her shoulder and her legs, which I imagined under her jeans. Eventually, we reached a gated courtyard and, after exchanging a few words with the towering security guard sitting behind a counter, we got in. It was one of these islands of edgy wealth in a neighbourhood not yet fully gentrified. After crossing the courtyard, passing through a door, and her unlocking a metal gate kept locked by a chain and padlock, we were "Home," she proclaimed, "I hope you like it. I got some beer in the fridge, help yourself, definitely open me one, I'm going to change".
It was a huge loft which must have been a warehouse at a certain point of the past. It was mostly lit by fairy lights, and every surface was either cold metal, cold cement, or pieces of fabric turned into makeshift rugs and curtains. The kitchen itself was bigger than my own apartment, and at the back, behind curtains, I could see a huge bedroom where she was changing clothes. After picking up two bottles of beer and while sipping one, I sat on a couch, waiting, not sure at all of what exactly I was doing there.
When she emerged from her bedroom she was not wearing boots and hoodie anymore, instead donning a very large black tshirt under which one could clearly see her impressive chest, but more importantly, in big white letters barring it, the six letters forming the word "PEGGER". As she saw me startled, she grinned:
"- Sorry boy..." and, after grabbing her beer and sipping from it, she added, "But I guess you kinda saw that one coming from a mile away, didn't you?".
-To be honest, I didn't really think of anything... I just followed you," I replied, not knowing what else to add. She sat next to me on her big used couch. She had very deep, brown eyes, mesmerising, and her gaze was at the same time incredibly powerful and incredibly tender.
"- I have peculiar tastes," she sighed, "and I know that may be scary. I saw you a few times on the tube, although you didn't see me. And today, I found your shyness endearing."
