"Splendid. You do realize Alan that my station is not on the main line from the north to London."
"Er, yes, I guess so."
"Well then, where I live in Essex is miles from Kings Cross, you have to come into London then go out again."
"Oh."
"Never mind. I'll meet you off your train, we'll have lunch somewhere then get the tube, the Central Line out to Essex, ok?"
"Yes, see you soon then."
"Yes hopefully at eleven twenty at Kings Cross."
It was a daft thing to do really. All things being equal, I would have been better off, just letting it go, not bothering to contact you. No good could really come from it, could it? But then you never know and my instinct told me to go for it. To check it out, to see where we might go, to run with the buzz. Hence the phone call, hence you travelling down and hence me on the tube to Kings Cross.
Usually with men, I am fairly decisive. I seem to know what I want when I meet one and usually I get that. I am generally able to work out why I like the guy and can then have a relationship making best use of that. It might be friendship, intrigue, his intelligent mind (rarely), the dates he takes me on, his romantic nature, adventure or him being great in bed (also rarely). The common theme is that I usually know why I am seeing him. I had no clear idea as to why I felt that I wanted to see you again. Sure I liked you, but near OAPs are a whole new field to me! Nevertheless, during the few weeks after that quite extraordinary day in Covent Garden I gradually found myself thinking of you and that then developed into that screwy plan that, actually, worked out so well.
I dressed in a rush, no don't tell lies, I dressed young, very young and trendy. I guess I was making a statement, but of what? Who knows?
A blue and white hooped, long sleeved, but low cut tee shirt, very French, like an onion seller. Dark blue, quite thick tights. The tee came down to just beneath my waist and just that and the blue tights looked good in the mirror. Maybe I should go like this I thought, turning, looking over my shoulder and gazing at my bum in the almost sheer tights. Perhaps not? I slipped into the raggedy, denim hot pants I had earmarked, and did the zip and brass button up. I put the denim waistcoat on and slid my feet into the silver, high heeled, strappy, tart's pumps. Did I look daft, tarty or what? I didn't know and frankly my dear I didn't give a damn as I waited by the gate at platform twelve. But I was pretty sure I looked cool and that was the most important thing.
+++
I was out of my seat even before the train pulled into the station. Partly due to my eagerness to catch up with you, but also to escape the couple sitting opposite. For a moment, I thought they were going to offer to accompany the 'invalid' until I reached my destination.
Once off the train, I paused and dropped my overnight bag at my feet. Steady on! Don't get there flustered! You'd be waiting near the exit barrier and I wanted, needed, to look cool and in control.
Pulling my light gray jacket tighter around my shoulders and straightening the open collar of my casual shirt, I double checked the zip of my black jeans and picked up my bag. Time!
The sexy vision that had remained in my mind all these weeks had grown sexier with each passing day. But not quite like what was waiting for me. Those denim hot pants!! And your legs! I'd always had a fantasy of fucking a young bird wearing thigh high, thick stockings, though the lack of any naked skin suggested they were tights.
That did nothing to destroy the fantasy!
The few men who weren't staring at your pert ass in those hot pants had their eyes glued to your tits. The cleavage on show above the low cut tee shirt and denim waistcoat was almost mouth watering. As for silver, high heeled, strappy pumps, simply sex on legs.
When you walk in the bar, And you dressed like a star, Rockin' your fuck me pumps!
Change the words of the song from bar to railway station, and they would have perfectly fitted the situation.
But it wasn't just they way you were dressed. Nor was it the way you threw your arms around me, pulling me into a hug that seemed to last forever. And that perfume - it danced around us like some sort of expensive aphrodisiac. But even that wasn't it.
The drug was your eyes... they way they twinkled mischievously, that undeniable 'Sammi-look' that promised so much. A few weeks ago, that looked had suggested nothing was impossible. Now it implied that everything was probable. Though after the way we'd parted, I still had my reservations.
Sammi the temptress or Sammi the cocktease? The jury was still out.
"Okay," you grinned at me, taking my arm. "First things first, we can catch up over lunch."
I smiled warmly, though couldn't help glancing around. It seemed everybody's eyes were on us. Or was that, every man's eyes were on you. They were thinking one of two things. You were a young daughter meeting her dad. (I refused to contemplate the granddad possibility!) Or we were a rich, older man, with his bit of young stuff.
It made no difference to me. Eat your hearts out, boys.
"Where are we going?" I asked, as we walked outside the station into blazing sunlight.
"You're the man, you decide."
I laughed. It was a typical Sammi response. "There's only one place around here," I responded. The immediate vicinity of Kings Cross was always depressing. "Konstam at the Prince Albert."
Your eyes flashed that cheeky smile. "Fancy you knowing about that. It's an old pub they've tarted up. Very nice."
Thank goodness for Google!
"You hungry?" I asked, heading for a taxi. It wasn't far, but I had no idea in which direction.
"Oh, yes. Starving," you smiled. "I never like to fuck on an empty stomach. What about you, gramps? Need to build up your strength?"
+++
It was a funny old tube journey up to town to meet you. Luckily, the hated Central Line was behaving itself so we whizzed from Loughton to Liverpool Street where I changed onto the Circle Line, having to remember that's the yellow one on the underground map.
It was after the rush hour, which is the time I usually travel, so I had a seat all the way, most unusual. Nice though, but I felt relieved I was wearing the thickish tights, seats on the tube and upper leg and panty decorum are not natural bedfellows, as I have learned over the years. Still it was preferable to standing pressed up against the sweaty hordes with all the crotch and bum squashing that entails. I really do believe that every morning during the rush hour there must be hundreds of minor sexual assaults.
I was struck by the profiles of my fellow travelers and how different they were to the earlier crowd. The main difference being age, for most on the train seemed to be retirees; in my mind, with a little smile, I saw numerous Alan's taking their, grey permed haired wives shopping!
I still wasn't quite sure why I was doing this. I still wasn't sure why I had invited you to 'my' home and I still wasn't sure whether I would fuck you or not. More to the point, for 'your generation, still cling to the clear differentiation between the genders than mine, whether I would let you fuck me. On balance, as I walked from the Central to the Circle at Liverpool Street, I thought I probably would, after all I am not a PT as the boys call it, am I? But why the fuck was I even contemplating sex with an OAP, or nearly? That I couldn't answer now, but I did wonder if I would find that over the next day or so.
At Kings Cross I felt better. There were more young people, more of a buzz and hussle, it always seems to be like that in town, I like it. That's why, when I can afford it I will rent a flat there and not live in the dull, no that's not quite fair, Essex suburbs where I have grown up.
Mum was away. She had gone to visit dad in Spain for a few days. Ostensibly to talk about finance, maybe work out a divorce settlement and see how he was coping with his business falling apart, I suspected that she also wanted to get laid. By dad for sure and by the tennis coach at the nearby country club and the physical trainer at the gym and any other youngish guy she could attract, I suspected. Last time I was there with her, both coaches had been all over both us, putting my nose out of joint a bit by seeming to fancy her more, but then she has got better tits than me.
"Now, now Sammi, no ageist stuff so soon," you said as we looked crestfallen at the massive queue.
"Sod it let's walk," I said unthinkingly grabbing your hand.
"Where? To the restaurant?"
"It's not far, come on I'm sure you can manage it," I laughed thinking about the way I had, without thinking, welcomed you. I had flung my arms round your neck, and that wasn't posed. When a woman opens her arms like that to a man, or another girl come to that, she is exposing the fullness of her breasts to the other party and inviting them to squash their chest against them: I am sure there is some subliminal, Freudian message in that gesture. What may be even more Freudian was that I had made the gesture to you at platform rwelve, with loads of onlookers, and possibly what's more so, was that I liked my breasts being squashed against you.
"I'll get there, I'll make it," you muttered, putting your right arm round my shoulders and adding, "But I may need some help," as we turned down a quiet passageway leading from the station
Laughing, I reached up and grabbed your hand which was dangling down my chest from my shoulder. I looked up at you and said, "What like this?" As I rubbed your fingertips across my breast; just quickly and lightly more as a joke than anything else.
"Oh yes," you said pushing me back against a wall, wrapping one arm round my shoulders and cupping my breast with the other as you kissed me.
'"Fuck, it's supposed to me who's daring and up for anything not you,' I thought as your tongue probed nicely into my mouth. We kissed for a moment or two almost, but not quite oblivious to our surroundings.
Three things happened during that kiss: I enjoyed it; I realised how hard you were and you discovered, if you hadn't worked it out already, that I was not wearing a bra. Actually I lie, four things happened and my response to the fourth was to whisper in your ear.
