Marching in March
- Thanks, again, to KenjiSato for editorial services.
- In this story, a lesbian is given a foot massage on a train, unlocking a new erogenous zone for her.
~ ~ ~ Sydney, 5th March, 2023 ~ ~ ~
Third time lucky. The train doors part and, thankfully, nobody is attempting to get off. The crowd on the platform shuffles forward, and this time, I'm close enough to the front to make it onboard. It's standing room only, but Sydney Central is only two stops away. And I'm amongst friends, perhaps more than I've ever been, even though I don't know any of them.
As the doors close, I find I can hold a stainless grab-rail with my left hand, by reaching between two older women - one butch, with piercings; the other quite mainstream. To my right is the hairy back of an even-older gay man. I notice the large metal ring centred there, joining the multiple leather straps of his harness. I smile, as I think of using that ring as my secondary support grip.
The women share a kiss over the top of my arm, just as the train begins to move - not passionate, just loving; they're obviously in a long-term relationship. In the swaying of the crowd,
Butch's
large breast presses against my forearm, but it's of no concern. After a day of dancing, hugging, and kissing strangers, we're all a bit desensitised to societal norms.
What a great day, I think to myself. Sydney Pride March 2023 - my first, as an out-and-proud lesbian. With sadness, I realise it's basically over now. When I transfer in Central, this LGBT community,
my community
, will disperse and dilute amongst the masses. I've never felt particularly welcomed by the masses, especially back home in rural New South Wales. I'd better be out of my rainbow T-shirt and face paint by the time I get back there, tonight.
About half the passengers disembark at Central, to head for other platforms. I watch the colourful rainbow of clothes, hats, headbands, wigs, and even feathery wings break into smaller groups. I'm in the smallest group, heading for the regional service; the diesel 'XPT' trains that go beyond the electrified lines of Sydney.
I walk past an empty bench seat on the platform.
Fuck I need to sit down
. I've been on my feet all day, but it's almost 4:00pm, and my train departs at 4:24pm, so I press on.
In the old part of Central Station, I check the departure board to see my train will be on platform six, and the service is 'on time'. I head straight there, then walk a further fifty metres to the first-class 'sleeper' carriage, up at the front. I doubt I'll get any sleep on the four-hour trip to Bathurst, but I splurged on a first-class ticket for some extra privacy and comfort. I knew I'd be tired after a day on my feet, and introverts like me need to withdraw for a bit, after a day of such intense socialising.
I board the carriage and find my cabin. For inter-state trips, each 'sleeper cabin' has a pair of bunk beds, but for this shorter service, they hold a row of three seats instead. I double-check my seat number before entering the cabin; seat seventeen, window. Opening the door, I find a grey-haired couple seated in eighteen and nineteen.
"Hi," I say, with a smile.
A "G'day," from him and "Hello," from her, in unison. He gives a smile, but she doesn't. Maybe it's my LGBT outfit? No, it's probably because I'm braless, I realise.
I drop my backpack and collapse into the seat, finally giving my aching legs and feet a rest.
Our three seats face towards the back of the train, window on my left. The adjacent cabins will be oriented the other way. Between every pair of cabins there's a combined toilet and shower. I'd love a shower, but that would require more standing, and I know the conductor will be coming to check tickets soon. Plus, as soon as I get wet, someone would start knocking on the door to use the toilet, so I stay put with my eyes closed, thinking about the sea of people today.
"You look like you've had a big day, dear," says
Mrs Eighteen
. "Were you part of that gay march, across the Harbour Bridge?"
Damn. She wants to talk. I muster up a smile for her, as I don't want to make a bad impression for my community. "Yes. Pride March. For the last day of World Pride Week. There will be more marches in June in the Northern Hemisphere summer. It's not just gays, but lesbians, bisexuals, transgender, queer, intersex, and more, all being represented"
"Oh, I find it so hard to keep up," she responds.
"Me, too," I say, just to humour her - it's really not that hard to grasp the ninety-nine-percent of us. The remaining fringe cases are mostly being highlighted just to stir up division.
The conductor comes by to check tickets, halting our exchange. As he's leaving, a passenger from the adjacent cabin enters the bathroom. Bugger, they were waiting for the ticket-check, too.
They'd better not be using the shower.
There's some clacking sounds from the couplings, as the slack is taken up, and the carriage starts accelerating westward.
Mrs Couple
is getting out a sudoku book, and
Mr Smiley
has his eyes closed. Excellent, she doesn't really want to talk, it was just her civic duty to be polite and say something. Or, maybe, she was confirming her suspicion of me, so she could report back to her church group later?
I stare out the window for a while, at the back yards of inner-Sydney. Then we enter a cutting, where there's only a blur of limestone rock to see, so I look down at my shirt, instead. It's mostly white, except for the two rainbow stripes emulating a seat belt strap, and "qlife.org.au" printed across the back. In the bright sunlight and sweaty heat today, my areolas were visible through the thin material - so thin, I had cover myself in sunscreen under my shirt, as well. It was the most appropriate shirt I own for the march, but not so suitable now, especially since my nipples are reacting to the air conditioning.
How long will that guy take in the toilet?
I see a green smudge on my right breast and remember
The Amazon
on the bridge. She must have been over six feet tall, half-a-head above me. Probably around five years older than me, so mid- to late-twenties. Busty and bubbly, she came through the crowd in the opposite direction, acquiring her targets. Luckily, I was one of them. She was entirely covered in green body paint, wearing only a bum-bag and some gold-coloured short-shorts. Her tits were spectacular.
She danced up to me and said, "Hi, I'm Lizzie," then grabbed my head with both hands and kissed me hard, her tongue making a quick dive between my lips. And then, she was gone. I watched her dance off into the crowd. Her bum-bag had 'CTMB' printed on it.
'Come Touch My Bum' perhaps?
I wish I had grabbed her and extended that kiss. I wish I'd gotten her number. I wish I could be that brave.
I hear the toilet flush, so I reach for my bag, ready to pounce when the door opens.
I'm on my feet as soon as I hear the latch on the door move. An awkward smile as I grab the opening door, holding it open for the departing woman (another grey-haired sudoku-solver), then the bathroom is mine; 'engaged' with a twist of the lock.
I do a quick scan for cleanliness. A few splatters of water from the basin, but nothing disgusting, so I hang my backpack on the hook and strip off my shirt. I go through a few paper towels, wetting them in the basin, then wiping the sunscreen, sweat, dirt, face paint, and even a few specs of glitter, from my face and body. I remember hugging
Glitter-Girl
today. Actually, more than one.
My nipples are hard and tingling, my breasts and arms covered in goosebumps. The tap water is chilled, the air conditioning colder here, and the metal surfaces wick away my body heat. What a contrast to the heat of the march. With a smile, I recall the heavily built woman with tattooed breasts, hitching them up with her forearm to wipe the sweat out from under them with her other hand, then flicking the wetness from her fingers to the ground.
I turn to admire my own breasts in the mirror - small, and pert enough, not to have any crease under them. I press and push them with my hands, just to see where the skin will fold when age catches up.
The Amazon
, Lizzy, had creases under her large tits, a good half-circle where the underwire of a bra would sit.
What would they look like if she was lying down?
I imagine her on a bed. My vagina is thinking about her, too.
I could pleasure myself right here in this bathroom, I consider, rub one off in this metal box. It's the most privacy I've had recently, after spending last night on the couch in my aunt's flat. Then it was all busses, trains, and crowds. All that flesh. All those smiling women. What's a girl to do? I press down on my crotch.
There's a sharp tap-tap-tap on the door.
Fuck
.
"Won't be long!" I call out, then start digging in my backpack for my travelling clothes; a denim skirt, a thicker pure-cotton tee, and a knitted shawl. I dress quickly, and then vacate the bathroom. Whoever it was that knocked must have gone off to find another bathroom.
Fuck-fuck
.
I return to my seat.
"Oh, that looks better," smiles
Mrs Sudoku
.
"Thanks," I say, as her smile evaporates into something less comfortable. Maybe she realised her compliment wasn't entirely complimentary...
Oh, you looked worse before, dear
.
The speaker overhead announces we're about to stop at Penrith. We're not even out of greater Sydney yet. I close my eyes, and return to thinking about
