Maybe it’s the rhythm of the train as it clunk-clunks over the tracks, or the hum of the bus engine beneath your seat, but public transport’s fucking sexy, isn’t it? I’ve probably spent almost as much time talking about public transport sex fantasies than any other category. So as this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is ‘passenger’, asking us to think about erotic scenarios on buses, trains and planes, I thought I’d go the whole hog and write a sex story about every stage of the journey.
Public transport sex: the longer the journey, the dirtier the fucking
It takes an hour to get from any point in London to any other point in London. Why is that? Going from Oxford Circus to Liverpool Street shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, but by the time I’ve downed the last dregs of my pint and said my goodbyes, pushed through the bottleneck of tourists at the top of escalators and zigzagged my way down onto the tube, I’m already delayed. Ten minutes at the other end to pick up snacks and have a smoke and what do you know? The magic hour’s elapsed.
It doesn’t help, of course, that I was so busy thinking about being bent over and fucked by besuited commuters that I missed my Central Line stop. There were two guys having an intense conversation, trying to shout-whisper over the grinding screech of the carriage as it sped through the tunnel. One of them frowning so hard I could see the veins sticking out in his neck. The way I imagine they would if he really put his back into beating me. Get his friend to hold me down over his lap, pull my jeans and knickers down and stop me wriggling while the angry one whipped me with a belt. Then taking it in turns – him, and him, and maybe those other strangers too, each racing to get their cock wet before the train reached their stop.
So I missed my fucking stop. Had to get out at Bethnal Green and cross over – sweating and flustered and slightly weak at the knees.
My train from Liverpool Street is delayed. Inevitably. So I park myself in a free seat on the furthest carriage from the ticket barriers (the better to avoid chatting families and giggling teens), put my headphones in and wait for the carriage to start rolling.
There’s no rule I can discern about when your tickets get checked. Or even if they get checked. It’s roulette. And although my sensible, anxious self would never let me board a train without a ticket, there’s always a voice in the back of my head that whispers ‘what if, just one time, you didn’t?
‘What if this one time, instead of buying a ticket, you threw yourself on the mercy of the ticket inspector? You, up here, in the privacy of the front carriage which no one else can be bothered to walk along to… what if you just didn’t show him a ticket? What if you offered him something else instead, and he smirked cruelly before demanding even more?’
I know. I’m a cliché. But there’s 47 minutes of journey and I’m saving my book for the plane so… yeah. Fuck it. What if he fucked me?
What if the ticket guy’s bored and horny just like I am – after all, he’s doing this all day. And he’s lonely and hungry and hungover and this morning he watched porn. Sitting on the edge of the toilet while his ancient boiler took ages to warm water for the shower, he propped his phone up against the sink in the bathroom and beat at his dick with a sense of late-for-work urgency. And he didn’t make it in the end. Too tired, maybe. Too stressed. Needs something more substantial to take his lust out on.
Enter me. With no ticket or knickers. I’d offer to suck him in exchange for free passage, and he’d point to the CCTV. Tell me I need to put on more of a show if I expect his colleagues to cover for him. Then he grabs me by the hair, pulls me out of my seat so I’m face-to-face with him, and confirms: “you’re serious?”
When you’re bent over and have your face ground into it, train moquette feels the same as carpet. I spit fibres from my mouth as he grunts and pants behind me, mumbling dirty talk about how I won’t forget my ticket again in a hurry, once he’s punished me with his cock.
Even in my sex fantasies, men are fucking wrong.
None of this happens. It never happens. Public transport sex fantasies aren’t about realism, just distraction. When the inspector comes round I’ve got my tickets ready, fanned neatly out on the table: outbound, return, like a model passenger. She gives them a cursory glance before nodding and moving on.
I kill the 30 miles to Stansted with daydreams of ice cream and anal.
When we get to the airport there’s the usual slow-motion suitcase fight, as huffy tourists wrestle cattle-sized luggage off the tiny racks, then race each other to the lifts which will never fit more than five. I take my backpack up the stairs because I’ve done this trip before: mild discomfort in the shoulder area beats queuing behind families every single time. Besides, I’m lighter on my feet when I’m not dragging weight behind me, which gives me a swifter route to departures. I don’t know why I care about this: I’m just buying myself more time in a check-in queue, but there’s a point of pride about being near the front.
When I’m near the front, all the other passengers are lined up behind me, so once I’ve checked my bags I can take a long, slow walk back – flicking my eyes up at any solo travellers who look like likely imaginary companions for the public transport sex dreams I’m planning for the flight. Him? Blonde, young, fresh-faced enough that we’d have nothing in common. Or him? Brunette, podgy, bored-looking. Carries his case like it holds feathers and air. He’s a possibility. Or how about him? Older, beautiful, worn. Clearly traveling for business not pleasure. Either of those two would do.
I have a final cigarette and then dawdle in security, so I can watch men removing their belts.
Oh for a fucking stag do right now! One of those you read about in the papers, where the guys get drunk and rowdy and get refused boarding on Ryanair. Doing shots in the airport Wetherspoons, and potentially persuadable to give me shots of their dicks, administered one after the other in the wide toilet cubicles on the concourse before you hit Smiths. Tearing eagerly at my clothes and telling me I’m dirty while they compete with each other to fuck harder than the last. Calling me ‘slut’ like they don’t remember which one of us kicked this off.
This doesn’t end with sex on a plane: no good story can. By some magic it’s possible to cross London in an hour, but we’ve not yet made it easy to fuck on a plane. The stewards watch that toilet like it’s an MoD access hatch, and even if you can squeeze two in you’ll have no fun grinding where there’s not enough room to really bang. So as we board I smile weakly at the gate staff and cross my fingers that the flight’s half-empty, so I don’t have to have an elbow fight with my seatmate, or spend the next three hours trying not to disturb a sleeping toddler.
Old guy, podgy guy, and too-young guy all board before me, and as I’m shuffling awkwardly in the aisle waiting for everyone to stow their bags, I picture what each one looks like wanking. The way their faces contort when they know no one’s looking: that firm, intense determination to come. I picture how and where they come: one neatly in a tissue, which he scrabbles for at the very last minute. Another looks around in panic as he gets closer to climax – his phone’s in one hand and his dick’s throbbing hard and fat in the other, and there’s no time to find anything so he blows jets of it all over his chest. Maybe there’s still some left, a droplet of spunk nestling under the hairline behind his left ear. That he forgot to scrub away because he didn’t want to miss his flight.
You can get anywhere in London within the hour. You can do anything in London inside your head.
I sit by the window and watch the city fall away, imagining all the people in all the carriages rumbling under the streets. Each one late or early or stressed or busy or relaxed or excited or bored. Most are on a journey inside their head too.
And some of them travel like me.
Go and read the other Wicked Wednesday posts on the theme of ‘passenger’…