Girls' weekend in Amsterdam!
It was for work, but me, Mel and Nicola weren't going to let that hold us back. The forecast was for glorious weather, and we had all the time in the world from Friday lunchtime until Monday morning.
The conference was in a hotel on the outskirts of the city, but with a direct tram connection to the centre. So after an early flight and four hours of an overweight man in a suit talking about the company's new marketing drive, we headed to our rooms to freshen up and prepare for a weekend of fun.
I was sharing a room with Nicola, and she let me shower first. After a quick rinse, I spritzed myself with deo and a light perfume, and pulled on a cotton top and loose skirt. A handbag and pair of flat sandals completed my outfit. Nicola was already in the bathroom by the time I was ready, so I headed down to the lobby to wait for them there.
Mel was the first to appear. The self-proclaimed slut of our little group, she'd flirted shamelessly with the instructor that morning, just to see his face get redder and redder. She had a room to herself, but as soon as she stepped out of the lift I knew she wouldn't be sleeping alone that night. Her dress ended just below her arse, and the neckline was cut so low I could probably have seen her bush if I'd wanted -- and if she didn't keep herself smooth and hairless, as she'd told us often enough.
Nicola arrived a few moments later. She was the quiet beauty. Very tall, very elegant, very softspoken. A redhead with a serene smile and skin as pale as a porcelain doll. Unlike Mel, she made men blush just by being around them. She never flirted, but somehow she never lacked for attention. She was dressed in loose-fitting linen trousers and a sleeveless blouse. She was bunking with me, but I had no doubt she could make other arrangements if she wanted company.
If I wanted attention with these two around, I'd have to bend over to spill my boobs and show off my thong. But I was quite happy letting them attract all the drooling men.
The truth was I was bored. Bored with the relationships I'd had, bored with the men I'd had. It was all becoming a drag. So for this weekend I was looking forward to enjoying the sunshine, having a few drinks and letting the company pick up the dinner bill. Maybe even visit a museum -- wasn't that what people came to Amsterdam for?
The tram was a big blue-and-white affair. The stop where we boarded was near the beginning of its long journey to Centraal Station, and there was plenty of room for us to sit. So of course we stood, holding on to the steel uprights to keep from falling over as we made a sharp left turn, then another to the right and one more to the left.
I preferred to stand. I'd been sitting all day, it seemed. First in the plane, then in those uncomfortable chairs during the presentation. Besides, I wanted to see as much as I could of the city.
Mel wanted to stand because she could keep an eye on the men, and bend forward to expose her cleavage when she caught them staring. Nicola just smiled and said she was happy either way.
The early part of the ride was dull. Of course it was. The outskirts of a city like Amsterdam are never very pretty. Shabby post-War apartment blocks and shabby turn-of-the-millennium office blocks. Cars, bikes and pedestrians. Lots of traffic noise, loud music and shouting teenagers. The mood was cheerful, though, like the whole city had been waiting for the sun to show its face and now everyone was determined to make the most of it.
People were certainly heading into the centre. At every stop more passengers boarded, and soon we were squashed together. A student who couldn't be arsed to take his pack off his back bashed it into an elderly gentleman's face, and stared blankly when the other passengers berated him before returning his gaze to his phone. A mother was yelling at her children to stop yelling. A man in a dark suit was talking loudly into his phone in the stilted version of English that so many Dutch speak.
And still more people crammed inside. It was getting stifling, the atmosphere thick. Occasionally a hint of fresh air would slip in through the narrow window and tease us. I swear, I saw one man biting at the air like a dog. The temperature outside was rising, but inside it was soaring, with dozens of people packed together while the sun blasted down on our self-inflicted metal prison.
So when I first noticed the sensation, I thought it was a drop of sweat trickling down my thigh. Unpleasant, but inevitable, I supposed. No room to reach down and wipe it away, even if I'd wanted to in public.
Then the sensation travelled upwards. Not sweat then. A fly, crawling up my thigh towards my arse? I take pride in my personal hygiene, so the thought was mortifying.
What if someone sees it? They must think I'm disgusting!
Trying not to give anything away to the girls as we talked awkwardly over our shoulders with each other in the press, I shook my leg to remove my unwanted visitor. It didn't budge, just kept crawling up further towards my arse. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly. The idea was horrid, but the actual sensation was quite pleasant. It had been a long time since anyone had taken so much time to explore my body so deliberately.
It reached the curve of my cheek and stopped, then it moved from side to side.
That's not a fly!
I realised.
