One of the most difficult fears to overcome is the fear of being weird. That’s partly why I write this stuff – I want people to read it and say “Oh, she does that as well. Perhaps I’m not abnormal after all.”
But far greater than that is my need for people to tell me that it’s OK. That I’m not odd. That they do this sometimes too.
Here’s a story about wanking on the train
There’s one train journey I take that makes me uncontrollably horny. Why? I have no idea. Trains and buses are arousing anyway – the rhythmic movement, the fact that you can’t get off until you reach your destination, that there are so many men around – these are all things that contribute to a general feeling of arousal.
But one train journey in particular is worse than others. I don’t know why. All I know is that from the minute I sit down I get a churning, growing lust in the pit of my stomach. Everyone on the train, attractive or not, is filled with sexual potential.
The harassed-looking parents looking after their children? I could follow the father when he goes to the toilet, and relieve his stress by sucking the spunk out of him – quickly and silently, while he forces his dick into my mouth with an anger born of shame.
The ticket inspector? OK, he’s old – but dirty old – the sort who might take me into the guard room, pull my knickers down, bend me over his knee and beat me because I haven’t paid the right fare.
That guy sitting opposite with the piercings and tattoos could be up for some playful fucking – forcing me up against the wall in the sordid train toilet and pulling out a nice, thick, pierced dick to shove deep inside me. He’d fuck me from behind -a practical fuck with no speaking. As I run through the scenario I can almost hear the sound of skin slapping skin, and his muffled grunts as he comes, before zipping up and getting off at the next stop.
I should be ashamed of myself
I have no idea what it is about this particular train journey that sets my thoughts on such things and if I’m honest, I think it’s weird. It’s shameful.
I try to read books, to tweet, to take my mind off the dull ache and the yearning to have someone fuck me – to use me. My cunt twitches and throbs as I think about it, and I feel utterly disgusted with myself.
The guy comes past to collect tickets, and I try to clear my mind of the spanking scenario. I avoid all eye contact with men nearby. I try to stop my right knee from jiggling up and down restlessly. I don’t touch myself. I try not to let my legs brush the legs of people sitting next to me.
And I look out of the window, and try not to think about fucking.
I try not to think about the man on the row opposite, in tight jeans that show off his cock. I try not to think about when the harassed dad last had sex, and how powerfully he’d come, deep into the back of my throat. I try not to think about the boy I’ll shag when I get back to the city, and the force with which he’ll fuck me when I tell him how horny I was on the train.
I try. And I fail. And I leave my bag and my jacket on the chair, stumble down the carriage to the toilet compartment and lock the door.
Thinking hard about the flash-frame fucks I’ve been trying to avoid for the last hour of the journey, I pull my jeans and knickers down to just below my hips, lean against the wall and, with an efficiency born of desperate need, I rub my clit until I come.
As the train pulls into the station and I sit red-faced back in my seat, I burn with shame and look around. I am depressed and dirty and unsatisfied. I am filthy and pathetic and disgusted at my lack of self-contol.
But most of all I am hoping that other people do this too.