Title: While in a Hurry Author: oosh Keywords: nosex,lesbian --- While in a Hurry by oosh 9 April 2000 I was in a hurry, and by chance I noticed that my fuel gauge was dangerously low. A quick change of direction, and I thought that I would find a garage shortly on my left. Yes! My memory served me well, after all these years. I swung the car in under the garish turquoise garage lights. They made my head spin. As I fiddled with the fuel cap and drew out the pump nozzle, I looked into the brightly-lit garage shop. A lovely young girl sat at the till. The garish artificial lights confused my eyes, but it seemed that she was a redhead. Four boys, about thirteen years of age, had gathered on the forecourt outside the door, shoving at one another, dancing about, no doubt daring one another into some devilment. My eyes refocused to the back of the shop, where there were tall chiller cabinets with an illuminated sign above: "Ice-cool food and drink to take away". I almost laughed. Ice-cool food! It was February. The recent rain left the roads black and glistening like oiled slate. The dull reflection of the sodium street-lights deprived the surrounding buildings of colour, drained them of their character, made their old stone look like drab, dirty concrete. On the pavement opposite, a gang of about ten young boys swaggered to and fro, jesting and boasting to one another. And as I turned and started to fill my petrol tank, I saw the four boys on the forecourt enter the shop. They seemed to swarm up and down the aisles, touching everything. They opened the ice-cool food cabinet and reached inside. There was animated conversation. I could imagine them swearing at one another. Two of them were anxiously looking at the coins in their hands. I saw them turn and ask the girl for the price of an item which they held out towards her. She was some distance away. She stood up from her stool and craned her neck, curving her back delightfully, trying to see what it was. From where I stood, it looked like a piece of frozen dung. I saw the boys shake their heads and replace it. Reluctantly they closed the cabinet door. Not enough money. She looked sweet, and very young. She took a cigarette and lit it. Was that to calm her nerves? She blew her smoke towards me, looking at me. I was at once repulsed and excited. My tank was only half full. Not wishing to indulge the ache in my heart, I distracted myself and watched the gang of boys. They were now swarming around the confectionery rack, picking off chews and chocolate bars like gannets. I watched their hands. By the very way they moved, I could sense their dishonesty, their capacity for mischief. They could see me watching them. Once or twice, each of them in turn looked out through the plate-glass window, saw the expensive car, my impeccable clothes. I was making them uneasy, I knew. I memorized their faces. Ugly little bastards. The pump clicked off. The tank was full. Uneasy now, I walk into the shop. The boys scatter, half-afraid at my appearance, at my cold stare, my bitter, humourless mouth. But to her I give my melting smile. It works, as it always does. I put my handbag on the counter, withdraw my note-case, extract my gold card. I stand a little sideways, keeping an eye on the boys. They are up to no good, I am sure. Filling their pockets, maybe, while our attention is distracted. "Would you like a VAT receipt?" she says with a ravishing smile, in a surprisingly clear accent. "No need, thank you," I reply, giving my smile a twitch, and just a warm little wrinkle of the eyes. The boys are smirking. Rage boils within me. I gulp it down, trying to look my best in front of this gorgeous girl. Why? Why? True, there is no ring on her finger. But then… she is - what? Nineteen at most. Once, I might have propositioned her, whispered "Anywhere nice round here where a girl can get a drink? Like to keep me company?" But now I'm no longer the good-time girl: ten years, ten years of mourning, have made a monster of me, a vortex of introverted suffering, a Gordian knot of remembered passion. Look into my soul and tremble! I would not be a fun night out for this pretty young thing. Pretty indeed: red-haired indeed, pale of skin, weak-mouthed, innocent-eyed. God, what pleasure I could give her! How lovely she would look, gasping, her back arching, her breasts swollen and pointed! A gift indeed, but she will not take it from me. Perhaps yes, from her own sweet fingers; perhaps yes (oh God! How unjust!), from some loutish, sweaty, heaving brute of a man, tearing her frail hymen, defiling her purity. But not from this waspish woman bowed by her bitter, bitter past. The boys are queuing up behind me now, pockets doubtless bulging. The credit card machine whines as it smoothly spits out my receipt. "Your card and your receipt," she says to me with another delectable smile. My heart leaps in absurd, irrational hope. But in an instant she is looking at the boys. And I can understand why. The first boy holds out two cheap sweets. "That's eightpence," she says, no smile this time. Her eyes are alert, bright. She holds out her hand for the money. Her forearm is bare. Her skin is without blemish, almost frighteningly white: milk-white. I want to take that hand and kiss her arm right up to the elbow: it is absolutely perfect. And I cannot be the only one, not by far. Does she know this? Can she feel my longing, as she extends her hand to this grimy, smirking schoolboy? He disgorges some coins from his sticky palm. They fall slowly into her slim, clean, white hand, defiling it. I am fiddling in my handbag, putting my card away, groping for my pen. I keep the receipt in my hand. The next boy reaches the front of the queue, just as I find my pen. In his hand, he holds two even cheaper sweets. Clearly visible, tucked under his backward-curled fingers, a pair of chocolate bars worth - I don't know - at least fifty pence. He can see them: I can see them: she can see them. But she pretends not to. She flicks a glance at me, then back. "That's sixpence," she says dully, not a quaver in her voice. He has enough money in his hand to pay for all of it, but he decants exactly what she asks for the sweets he's holding out in front. I glance at his face, afraid to see what it holds; and I am sickened by his bright-eyed triumph. I find my pen, uncap it and, holding my receipt up to my breast, I pretend to write on it, flashing my glance from one boy's face to the next, trying now not to see their impudent smiles. I cannot fight them; we cannot fight them. These little urban rascals always win. But I am gratified to see them look anxiously at me, turn away, make for the door. I follow them determinedly, as if herding them out of the shop. I am boiling with useless anger. What sort of proprietor would leave a shop in the care of a young girl like this? One of the boys lingers by the pumps. As I walk round to my car, he smiles at me cheekily. He is gloating, knowing that my silence makes me complicit in his villainy. My unblinking, hostile stare freezes him out, but it takes a good second. Perhaps it is my pen, still poised to write on my receipt, which unsettles him: I don't know. I hate him too much to care. He turns to rejoin his companions; they scamper across the road to rejoin their gang and brag about their dishonesty. I drop the pen in my handbag and reach for my car door, determined to get out of this hell. I feel base, pathetic. I saw the deception, yet said nothing. I gave her no support. I am not worthy of her. I can imagine how splendid those boys feel. They are learning how to dominate women, how to trick, smirk, deceive, smile, flatter, smooth-talk, rape. Yes, they have raped her, and we did not cry out. Is this how the meek are going to inherit the earth? It is with a grim and involuntary smile that I remember the wag's rejoinder: "That is, if it's all right with everyone else." I look back at the lovely girl in her brightly-illuminated shop. God! She is looking at me! As my eyes meet hers, they seem to plead: "Rescue me." Abashed, I look down. As if I could! I have not even the courage to sweet-talk her. I get into my expensive car and start the huge engine running, taking false comfort from my cocoon of steel. I glare at myself in the mirror. I am rotten. The least I could do for that sweet girl was to get out of her life. And so, abruptly, I swung the car out of the garage and fled the town. I was in a hurry.