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From: "Mark Bastable" <markb@aboy.demon.co.uk>
Subject: Alphabet Stories: E - Requested Repost
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                                Escalator
                                ---------


I was going to work - a normal day of London drizzle and hopeless
skies - and I brushed through the gates of the Underground as the
flaps opened before me in their promiscuous way. The day was normal
inasmuchas I was late. I'm always late. It must have been after ten,
and I knew that my boss was already glancing sidelong at the clock,
readying his sarcastic quip. I can live with it. He'll never fire me -
he gets too much fun out of humiliating me.

By gone-ten, the Tube is practically deserted. It's too late for the
office workers and too early for the shoppers going up West. You can
get a seat easy - you can read your paper with room to spare - you
can ride the escalator untrammelled by the elbows and impatience
of your fellow drone.

The escalator at my station is one of the longest on the entire
Underground system. It stretches into the depths, silver and
unarguable, carrying you down to the real world of work and timetables
and hurrying tunnels. It's a kind of no-man's-land between the life
you aspire to and the life you submit to. It's a border, where the
rules of neither world particularly apply.

On this normal day, I stepped onto the escalator, slipping my ticket
into the breast-pocket of my suit, and I adopted that dull expression
that, I think, typifies the urban commuter. My eyes scanned the
advertisements in a desultory, disinterested way, and then dropped
to watch my own slow descent into diurnal hell.

As I watched the little ante-hall to the platform rising to meet me, I
noticed a figure stepping onto the up-escalator. She seemed miles away,
removed - wrong, somehow, because she was taking the first step on
the silver ladder that would take her up into the light. If I'm
honest with myself, I resented her for that.

Maybe that's why I stared at her - resentment. But, in staring, I
detailed her in a way that one never really details fellow
denizens of the Underground. She was, maybe, twenty-two -
punky, with blonde hair streaked green at the front. As she
approached, carried by the inexorable track of the moving-stair,
I clocked a black cotton mini, leather jacket, tie-dye t-shirt,
tightly-laced ankle-boots.

I must have been staring hard, because she lifted her chin at me -
we were still some fifty feet apart - and gave me a you-got-sumthin-
to-say? scowl. I tore my gaze away, but only momentarily. I couldn't
help it. I looked back and met her eyes.

I'm not so old. Thirty-six. I've done my stint with earring,
ripped-jeans, eyeliner. But to her I must have looked like the
worst kind of business stiff, all Gap suit and Tie-Rack accessories.
I must have looked like all those sad, jealous, gawping straights
who used to photograph me when I hung out Saturdays on the King's
Road, with my blue Mohican and my can of Spesh.

We were closing on each other, as our escalators took us each
to where we had to go. I was still looking; she was still staring
me down. She stared me out, frankly - but I averted my gaze from
hers only to look at her body. Her tits were small, but delineated
precisely beneath her t-shirt. Her legs were clothed in the
classic '77 ripped fishnet, and the thighs disappeared beneath the
miniscule skirt at the precise point at which they ceased to be
merely her thighs.

We were almost level, and my attentions were quite evidently
irritating her. I guess I could see her point - I was openly
ogling her. As we got level, as we crossed, at the moment we were
no more than four feet apart, she grabbed the hem of her
t-shirt, and yanked it upwards.

Suddenly, I was face-to-face with a pair of beautiful, dove-white
tits. They're still hot in my mind. Pointed, conical, tipped in
flat brown nipples - lit in the unprepossessing neon of the
subway shaft.

She shook them, shimmied them, as she held her t-shirt above them,
and laughed a mocking laugh.

"All right, mate?" she called. "Happy now, are yer?"

And then she pulled her t-shirt down again, rising on her stairway,
passing me - laughing.

I turned, watching her ascend into the light. I wanted to explain -
to tell her I wasn't what I looked. I wasn't some desperate sad
straight, some panting middle-aged business man. I was like her.
I didn't want her to judge me by my cover.

She was still laughing, as she receded - twenty feet from me now.
She looked over her shoulder and grinned, looked me straight in the
eye. Then, as I gasped, struggling for some forgivable closing
line, she bent forward and hitched up her skirt at the back.
Above the stocking tops, she was naked. Her round arse gleamed in
the neon, and she shuffled her legs apart so that I saw her cunt,
framed with blonde hair and - even at that distance - I could make out
the distinct dark pink of her disinterested and damning pussy-lips.
Her hand snaked between her legs and she stroked one finger along her
gash - like a come-on. The finger twirled around her clit, and then
dipped briefly into her hole.

As she reached the top of the escalator, she straightened up,
pulling her skirt down with a wiggle of her hips. She turned
and laughed again, watching me descend into the dark of
the Underground.

"You're fuckin' pathetic, mate, arntcha?" she yelled.

I can see how I appeared that way, but I'm not, though.
I'm really not.

















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