I tried to imagine the inside of the intercity coach was one of the small regional aircraft I was more accustomed to traveling in. Maybe a Fokker Friendship or something. Normally, that was my definition of slumming it, preferring proper airliners with a fist class section, warmed blankets and champagne. But now, here I was on a Greyhound bus, among the kind of people I usually manage to avoid. I never thought I would have to travel coach, let alone travel actually by coach!
I hadn't dressed up, accurately predicting I would have stood out like a beacon in a brand-name dress with color-coordinated luggage, but admittedly, my white sweats were a matching set. I had my hair uncharacteristically up in a neat ponytail, and only the minimum of makeup (a girl can't completely forego the basics).
My attempted fantasy of an air travel analog faltered quickly, the illusion collapsing as we all got seated. I had boarded quickly enough to get a window seat, albeit in the second last row, but only when I had stowed my bag and settled in did I realize how vulnerable that made me. I would have no choice of traveling companion. I decided to hop up and sit next to the middle-aged lady across the isle, preferring the assurance of a nice companion to the little luxury of a window seat, but before I could move, a heavy-set man in hi-vis flopped into the seat beside me with a loud grunt. He winked at me in a disturbing way, and his smoker's breath assaulted me with, "Hey, darlin'."
Now, I am nobody's 'darlin'. But whereas normally, when I'm on, for example, a proper airplane, I surely would have snapped back with a sharp retort at such patronizing language, instead in this situation I felt exposed, out of place, and very small and alone. I said nothing, but harbored substantial resentment at the remark.
The combined odor of cigarettes and stale sweat swirled from the unclean man, invading my nostrils and seeming to hem me in further in my limited space. As if to emphasize the effect, his legs then fell apart, and he adopted the classic man-spread as he adjusted himself. He loosened his belt, surely to the relief of his apparently pregnant abdomen, and let his head fall back, his unshaven, sun-damaged face slightly inclined by the travel pillow behind his neck. His face was unattractive. His arms were burly and strong, and yet, under their thick scraggle of hair the failed to be a symbol of strength, instead seeming grotesque. His trousers were grimy, presumably from some sort of physical labor. His hands were calloused, and his nails dirty.
Such an incongruous pair we made, me with my gleaming white sweats, lip gloss, high ponytail, and modest, but meticulously maintained nails, and he with his grubby, filthy clothes, bad breath, body odor, and all-round unattractiveness.
I found myself squeezed, partly by this man's physical bulk, and partly by my desire to shrink from the smell and the thought of his uncleanness, into the corner against the window. Before the bus pulled out, he was snoring.
Thus trapped, and pervaded by his putrid stench, redolent of dank standing water and decaying carrion, I found it difficult to have nice thoughts. On an aircraft, I felt nurtured and respected. Here, I was in a dungeon, held captive by this ogre. As the bus groaned out into the heavy evening rush hour traffic, I pulled my paperback from the seat pocket and tried to lose myself in the sweeping romance, set in rural Victorian England, a complex feud between landed gentry involving a broken line of inheritance, a scandalous secret from generations past, and a star-crossed love unrequited.
My eyes followed the words, and one part of my brain processed each sentence, but no sooner had I read it, the text dissolved and failed to enter my conscious mind. I had to scan back up the page and read it again, because I had not retained any of it. And it happened again. And again.
Meanwhile, the reason I was not able to absorb the (admittedly fairly predictable) story was that my imagination was prompting me with fantasy distractions that were dark and titillating. The phantoms of my mind were tempting me down a path towards unwholesome obsessions, usually reserved for my alone time, in a five-star hotel, for example, attended by champagne, pornography, chocolates, and a vibrator. But here, in a darkened bus, trapped against the glass by the cumbersome presence of a positively repulsive man, my darker thoughts were awake and running interference on my reading efforts.
Presently, I had to close the book, and my eyes, and just go down the rabbit hole of my naughtiest impulses, a slave to their vicissitudes, in surrender.
In my imagination, he awoke, now even more ugly than in real life, his nose and ears were magnified, his lips had scabs and cracks, and his skin was pocked. He leered at me possessively, an ulcerated tongue sliding across his scabby lips as Jabba The Hutt famously demonstrated.
I was paralyzed, a helpless damsel in his clutches. My chest heaved in anticipation and fear.
His gnarled hand reached out uninhibited, grabbing at the pure whiteness of my top, and pulled it outward to allow his other, equally calloused and dirty hand to reach up inside and find my little tank top. Pushing under it, he further discovered my delicate red bra.
In my fantasy I didn't merely sit and suffer this intrusion, but arched my back, assisting his exploration of my softness.
His hideous hand groped at the bra, yanking it so hard the shoulder strap snapped painfully, but I did not object, instead merely gasping in mock dismay. A reaction that would surely encourage, not dissuade further assaults.
