It has been a year since my unexpected, acrimonious, and vicious decree absolute. He threw away twelve years for a nineteen-year-old pop tart. He said I was too straight-laced, uptight, and a prude.
It has been nine months since my new year's resolutions included; getting back to the gym, cutting down on the wine, travelling more, and definitely no men. I have stuck to them all religiously.
It has been five weeks since I beat my goal weight. With a 34-22-34 figure, I now have a smaller waist than when I went to university. Five days a week after work, an hour a day in the gym has become my routine.
It has been three weeks since I found a new thrill to brighten my days.
“Have you ever been, you know, touched when the underground is crowded?” Karina, my gym buddy came out with the most random things sometimes.
“No, never, have you?”
“Yes, you should try it. You’ve not had a man since your divorce and you should have some fun.”
She was right about my celibate status, and I was fed up with it after a year. “What happened to you?”
“If I’m feeling frisky or pissed off with hubby I wear my tightest workout pants on the tube and hang a glove out of the waistband. It’s a code to say you are open to being touched. It does not always work, but often does. Search TikTok or even Google, you’ll see.”
We parted outside the gym, heading home in different directions. The conversation went around in my head for the next week. I found myself eyeing up commuters, fantasising about them touching me. I Googled and she was right, there were even arrangements being made for people to offer themselves. I decided I would try it the next time I left the gym and hoped to attract some male attention.
I joined the Friday rush hour in my gym kit. Lycra leggings and a cropped top under a baggy sweatshirt. A pair of bright red gloves hanging from the waistband looked incongruous. September on the underground was hot and sweaty.
My journey was five stops from the gym to home. I was strap-hanging and could not even turn around. The carriage pulled to a stop and the next wave of bodies crushed in. The train screeched and groaned away and then I felt it.
At first, I thought it was just part of the bumping and swaying, bodies bracing against the movement. Someone cupped one cheek of my bum for a second. I twisted my head around to a sea of faces all staring into nothing. I scanned everyone, with no clue to the culprit. It must have been my imagination.
The train ground to a halt with the unintelligible tannoy crackling. I felt the hand again for a couple of seconds. The inky black tunnel turned grimy glass windows into obscure mirrors. Turning my head I scanned both sides and counted a dozen people who could reach me. Bodies were packed so closely that I could not look down for a hand or arm.
The hand returned, cupping and squeezing. I was staring at reflections that gave me no clue. That brief touch was the first quasi-sexual contact I had had in a year. At the next stop, the hand was gone. There were no more touches before I exited and jogged the short distance home.
The following three times, I travelled home from the gym in my kit with a dangling glove. The tube was equally crowded but there was no intimate touching. The fourth time I travelled I jostled into the most crowded spaces, still no touching. I was beginning to worry it had been a fluke.
On Friday afternoon, I left the gym wearing the identical outfit from the first touching journey. I’d decided this would be the last time I tried. I found myself strap hanging at the end of a carriage surrounded by commuters. The first touch was fleeting and strangely thrilling as the train pulled away. I scanned the window reflections without showing any reaction but saw nothing.
Before the first stop, I felt the touch four more times, each time a little bolder than before. We were halfway to the second stop before the hand returned and it held one cheek until the carriage began to judder and slow. As we stopped I felt the fingers slip briefly between the top of my thighs before they were gone. I was left alone for the rest of the journey.
I was tempted to ride the tube over the weekend. I lusted after that anonymous touch that I found so wrong and yet thrilling. I purchased a pair of butt-shaper leggings, not that my tiny butt needed any shaping. They would be uncomfortably embarrassing for working out as the centre seam pulled indecently higher between my bum cheeks.
Trying them on in the privacy of my home, knickers were obvious under them. The rear accentuated my non-existent bum perfectly, the front was spoiled by my pubes. For the first time in over a year, I went completely bald down there.
I changed into my new leggings before leaving the gym on Monday, pulling my baggy sweatshirt low to hide the camel toe. I was carried onto the carriage by the crush of bodies. I reached up to the straps, thrilled that my sweatshirt would also ride up. I found myself deeper in the carriage after the first stop. As we braced against each other and the carriage accelerated I felt a firm hand on the small of my back.
As the carriage jerked up to speed, the hand ratcheted down in tantalising contacts until I felt fingers curled deliciously into the crack of my bum. The carriage lurched as if the driver had fleetingly tested the brakes and the hand released. Without thinking I tried to push myself back but could not move. With the next jolt the hand returned and I involuntarily smiled. I was relishing this game and the illicit tingles it triggered.