Charley was pissed, not really pissed in a completely pissed way but the sort of pissed when you make mistakes like saying "Good Afternoon" to the taxi company on the mobile rather than "Good Evening." He had been dozing for half an hour or so after getting onto the train late that evening. To say he had slipped into a drunken stupor would be quite unfair: he had merely been tired after spending too long at the office party. He'd only planned to spend a little while there, but one glass of quite pleasant Merlot had led to another and he had walked around chatting happily, nibbling on bits and pieces - but never the strange wrinkled cocktail sausages and mini pork pies. Why did anyone buy those now? Bits of cold chicken tikka, hummus dip, samosas, tortilla chips (surely they were crisps?) and funny bits of pretty sushi in a plastic tray were much more the thing - much more appetising.
Time had passed at the party, a lot of time had passed and he had spent much more time there than he had intended. The room had cleared leaving only the diehards and him. Charley reflected that there were some people who seemed to stay at office parties exactly to the earliest time they were allowed to go home - people he had contempt for. Not really interested in their colleagues, happy not to be working but not prepared to stay a moment longer with their 'colleagues' than they absolutely had to - and then there were those who were not quite like that but just seemed to disappear. Nobody saw them go but they were just no longer there. At least, Charley reflected, they were certainly not there when he had left, they had just disappeared and vanished like smoke. He could imagine them on Monday saying what a good party it had been Friday, how they had enjoyed it, would talk about what people had said - but they had not stayed as long as he had - right to the end; though he was not sure he should have stayed so long.
He started. The conductor looked down at him, "Tickets please."
He pulled his season ticket and photo rail card from his coat pocket and the man moved on with a cheery "Thank you, Sir."
"Sir?" - Who but ticket collectors, waiters and shop assistants said that nowadays? Certainly, his staff and people at the office didn't call him that. He'd called his boss, "Sir" when he had started years ago and had, in turn, rather expected to be called that as he had risen a little up the ladder: he had been disappointed because things were all so different now. He rubbed his eyes trying to focus. He wasn't really pissed. Bloody American mock familiarity. Everyone pretending to be on jolly first name terms with everyone else. A joke really. There were three Waynes, two Megans, four Kirsties: but not one surname the same in the whole office. First names just caused confusion. Why all this mock familiarity? Far better to use surnames. He scowled and received a startled look from the little pinched looking girl opposite. He checked himself - he was being quite unfair to her.
By 'pinched' he'd meant in the sense, really, of not being fat. Actually, she was fine to look at, dark brown hair dropping down her forehead, half covering her eyes - a visit to the hairdressers called for - pleasant face with rather pointed nose and not particularly full lips - but Charley liked the way she sucked in those lips as she thought. He glanced again. Really her hair could have been longer; it was worn as a very small pony tail; yes, longer would have been better but the fringe still needed to be cut. How much had he actually drunk? She was listening to music on her I-Pod and looking wistful as she listened - quite attractive really. 'Pinched' was definitely unfair.
Charley sighed and closed his eyes. Should have left the party earlier; got home and sorted himself out for the weekend.
Charley rubbed his face. At least he wouldn't have to bother to shave tomorrow. He didn't usually weekends and let the stubble grow. He did not much like shaving and would prefer to have let his beard grow but his mother and sister got at him. He hated that term 'facial hair'; it sounded so like a blasted women's term. It was a beard wasn't it and growing it was what men did - well one thing they did anyway. A friend of his had joined an American company and was told to shave his beard off. What sort of problem did those Yanks have with beards? Were they controlled by women too? Charley scowled again.
He opened his eyes. The pinched faced girl, well woman really, she wasn't that young - there were the start of lines on her face. She wasn't middle aged or anything, but the baby-fresh skin was starting to thicken. No, he thought, that is an unkind term to use on a thirty something old. The skin was starting to mature, develop character. She was a woman not a girl and there was nothing wrong with that - nothing at all. She was gazing at the I-Pod, changing tracks or something. Eyes looking down, concentrating on the machine. He watched her for a few moments.
The movement of the train was soporific, and Charley fell into a doze. Long habit caused him to wake as the train slowed outside his station. With a start, he moved to stand just as the woman opposite did the same, their foreheads met with a bang, pushing them both back into their seats momentarily dazed - the bump painful for both. It was a real 'klonk.' Muttered apologies, a scrabbling for bags and coats and they were both off the train.
Charley stood blinking, still dazed from the bash with the pinched woman's head, no, he must stop calling her that, and trying to recollect where he had left the car and what he should do next. He remembered the taxi. He hadn't been too pissed to order that, not too pissed to realise he really should not attempt to drive. Not really pissed at all actually. He set off towards the taxi office.
It was good to get home. Charley sat in the kitchen drinking down a pint of water. Long experience had taught him what to do after he had drunk quite a lot of wine. His head hurt - he must really have bumped it. Charley finished the glass and went to the tap to refill it. He hoped the pinched face woman's head was not hurting as much as his did. It had not been his fault but he was sorry it had happened to her. He sat down to watch the match, the half-finished glass of water by his side. Before he had got the hang of who was winning his head lolled forward and he was asleep. He awoke two hours letter not feeling too brilliant but with the odd feeling he was not alone, he could hear deep regular breathing but it was not the cat. There was, of course, no one there and he drank the remains of the glass, refilled it and climbed the stairs to his bed where he should have been two hours ago.
The dawn chorus had impressively performed, done a curtain call to the backdrop of a red sun with diffused mist effect before moving on to a different theatre by the time Charley awoke. He awoke late.
He awoke confused. He had a raging erection between his thighs, a desperate desire to pee but at the same time he felt wet, positively soaked around his cock and between his thighs. He wondered if he had wet himself. Surely not, he hadn't been that pissed - not pissed at all - and had watched the match after getting back, he thought. At the same time as feeling so wet, he had the most vivid erotic image in his mind of a girl masturbating. He could see her body so clearly, almost feel the tingle in her breasts as she pulled her nipples, her other hand finger deep inside herself, thumb working her sopping clit. His own hand grabbed his cock and despite the urgency of the call to the bathroom did not want to waste the dream. He wanked as the girl in his mind wanked. Charley could feel her, see her at work, all so wonderfully clearly. She was close to coming, he knew that, and instead of his usual care to prolong his wank he pulled at himself as the vivid image of the girl thrashing around held his mind and he came splashing onto his stomach.
Charley opened his eyes. It had been so vivid - he had seemed to smell not just see her excitement. It was rarely that good, and in such detail - if ever. Best wanking daydream he had even had. If only he could have had his pee first! That was quite an image he had conjured up in his mind. He felt between his legs, yes he was sweaty but not wet. Strange, it had felt really, really wet, yet, clearly, he had not wet himself despite how he had felt but he would if he didn't hurry. He headed for the bathroom trying not to drop his ejaculate on the carpet. The practicalities of spontaneous masturbation!
Showered, dressed and well-breakfasted Charley was wondering what to do with the day when the phone rang.
"Hallo," he said almost cheerily.
It was a woman's voice. "I think you have my bag."
"Huh?"
