Diversion
They enter the carriage. What are they? 17? One looks it. Might be ok when she's older. She's ok, but she's a girl. The other one's got her head up her arse; I can tell. I dislike them immediately.
The young-looking one reads. The other sleeps. Hours pass.
The irritating one looks up, refreshed and restless. She's looking around, she needs a diversion. The carriage is full of old-looking men, the young one next to me who's snoring and: me.
I begin to take notice of her.
This one's a tease. You can tell. Eyelids half-dropped, a technique of allure too infrequently practised. A look that challenges and yet does nothing; knowing the puzzlement the contrast will bring. Ennui in every muscle, goading: " Wake me up! Get me hot and ..."
More often than not with this kind I'd just be bored: your game's too simple, I've got nothing to tempt you with and I've got better things to do. But I'm bored and I want a distraction. And she's it. For now.
She's about the same age as her friend; 21 tops and has one of those faces that can be good-looking and, in some way, most unattractive at the same time. Her eyes are brown and oval, but they stand out just a fraction too much, adding to the aura of dissatisfaction she conveys. Her skin is slightly-tanned (rare here) and sets off her waist-length, brown, just ever so slightly wavy hair that has a tint of blonde on top.
She wears a tight purple long-sleeved t-shirt that moulds itself to her in all the right places (and she has them) and which rides up slightly to reveal vestigial handles, for now cute.
Dark blue jeans that cover still slim legs though they bunch up the burgeoning layer of fat underneath and plain black shoes (not the FMPs I would expect), complete her attire.
I think she'll not age well, but that's not my concern so I just let my eyes wander as they will.
Occasionally I think she plays to this by changing position. It's funny how every new arrangement of comfort can seem to produce something...provocative about it.
Maybe it doesn't and I'm lost in a pervert's paradise. Still, being lost can have its advantages.
As subtle as I'm not I continue with my wandering eyes: let my overworked brain take a rest, I think.
Her left breast, in full view, reminds me of an apple. A cooking apple, it has that width to it that some do, even when held in place by one of woman's best friends: her bra. But it's got that softness about it that always raises a man's...curiosity. How can this be like this? It has those rounded curves that prompt such thoughts as...succulent, juicy.
Her breathing is quick, shallow. So unlike a man's - deep and pondersome; dull in comparison to hers.
And she breathes into her stomach; the one she's filled with 2 large bags of crisps in double-quick time. So maybe she's not one for waiting?
She has hips too, another rarity here; the women all too often lacking those most vital of lines. And a pretty good bum too. When you're a man you notice these things. But often little else.
She bemoans the fact that she's broken one of her acrylics to her friend as they read 'Glamour'. All about 'cekc', as it's called here. And the desire to punch the little princess surfaces, but as she then proceeds to fix it, quickly and with little fuss I realise I've been too hasty: she just wants to moan. To complain and create a little interest in what is otherwise, little of nothing.
Soon fixed, it's time to prepare herself.
With the delicate accuracy I have come to respect in a woman's hands, tools of finesse, she paints them in turn, ambidextrous, and leaves one to dry under my appreciative eyes, mere inches from my face.
We make contact: eye to eye. For maybe the third time in the journey. It's that 2-3 second look she has that stays on your eyes and doesn't move. It's a " ...what?"
She looks away and I prepare to carry on as before although it's getting...harder. To maintain interest.
But it seems there is a surprise. For me. I know it's for me. She's looked a second time, not in itself unusual; women often look out of curiosity and then to see if I'm looking back. I do. Why disappoint? But the deliberate way she moves tells me this is not a whim, and so I prepare myself....
It doesn't start well. The large, unweildy bag of cosmetics is too redolent of the spoilt brat I wanted to punch. Picking a compact sans miroir is just plain dumb, or cocky.
"I hope you're damn good at this!", I mutter to myself, slightly terse. But the mistake is soon replaced with another compact. With mirror.
The show begins.
Seeming barely to touch either powder or face, she plays the tan circle across both: a cicular touch on the compact, a flick, flick on her already-powdered cheek. She moves right to left, and repeats.
Next comes the mascara. I've always wondered about why women wear this, but for now I have other things to think about. She shakes the container; "Well-used", I guess, and pulls out the brush. Unsatisfied by its offering, she inserts, shakes and withdraws again.
And proceeds to make herself...bewitching?
The brushes are firm, single-stroke, upwards, eyes-open. Too practised to fear a mishap and possible injury, she moves confidently, starting each stroke a millimetre from the roots of her lashes. 4 X 4: she's done.
And we're starting to cook a little here.
Eyeshadow next. She's chosen dark brown to complement her colouring. It works and I say a 'thank you' to 'Glamour Magazine': maybe it's not tat after all?
The brush is drawn across that murky yet bright powder cum paste in the pallet and applied in slow, careful, deep strokes. Under each eye. Then above, in that deliberate way that prolongs the attention of the watcher, me, beyond, far beyond the resolution that they seek.
We come to her lips. Full, naturally pouting; a little, just enough, they do arouse my ...interest. Not for kissing, though, that's too intimate, but for....
First comes the pencil. To set the scene, to highlight yet further the promises that might come from such lips, be delivered by such lips.
Unhurried, accurate, controlled. I wonder how much practice she's had. How long does it take? Not only to master the application, but in all situations: cars, trains, indoors, outdoors, a quick 5 minutes, or more?
Next comes the gloss. A pinky, gummy goo on a stick that is the master stroke. Pulled across her thrust out lips, one by one, the brush snags and drags the lip with it, emphasising its fluidity, elasticity, its lush fullness.
One. She pulls and drags. The lips promise.
Two. She pulls and drags. The lips promise. More.
Three. Promise heightens, strengthens, stiffens.
Four.
And
...she pouts and checks her lips, her painting, herself.
She turns sideways so I can critique her handiwork: Yup. Not bad. Not tarty, even. It's probably pushed you up a mark.
There is no eye-contact. Ever again.
Nor should there be: she doesn't want to give the wrong impression. It was a spectacle, a diversion. Nothing more.
The young-looking one reads. The other sleeps. Hours pass.
The irritating one looks up, refreshed and restless. She's looking around, she needs a diversion. The carriage is full of old-looking men, the young one next to me who's snoring and: me.
I begin to take notice of her.
This one's a tease. You can tell. Eyelids half-dropped, a technique of allure too infrequently practised. A look that challenges and yet does nothing; knowing the puzzlement the contrast will bring. Ennui in every muscle, goading: " Wake me up! Get me hot and ..."
More often than not with this kind I'd just be bored: your game's too simple, I've got nothing to tempt you with and I've got better things to do. But I'm bored and I want a distraction. And she's it. For now.
She's about the same age as her friend; 21 tops and has one of those faces that can be good-looking and, in some way, most unattractive at the same time. Her eyes are brown and oval, but they stand out just a fraction too much, adding to the aura of dissatisfaction she conveys. Her skin is slightly-tanned (rare here) and sets off her waist-length, brown, just ever so slightly wavy hair that has a tint of blonde on top.
She wears a tight purple long-sleeved t-shirt that moulds itself to her in all the right places (and she has them) and which rides up slightly to reveal vestigial handles, for now cute.
Dark blue jeans that cover still slim legs though they bunch up the burgeoning layer of fat underneath and plain black shoes (not the FMPs I would expect), complete her attire.
I think she'll not age well, but that's not my concern so I just let my eyes wander as they will.
Occasionally I think she plays to this by changing position. It's funny how every new arrangement of comfort can seem to produce something...provocative about it.
Maybe it doesn't and I'm lost in a pervert's paradise. Still, being lost can have its advantages.
As subtle as I'm not I continue with my wandering eyes: let my overworked brain take a rest, I think.
Her left breast, in full view, reminds me of an apple. A cooking apple, it has that width to it that some do, even when held in place by one of woman's best friends: her bra. But it's got that softness about it that always raises a man's...curiosity. How can this be like this? It has those rounded curves that prompt such thoughts as...succulent, juicy.
Her breathing is quick, shallow. So unlike a man's - deep and pondersome; dull in comparison to hers.
And she breathes into her stomach; the one she's filled with 2 large bags of crisps in double-quick time. So maybe she's not one for waiting?
She has hips too, another rarity here; the women all too often lacking those most vital of lines. And a pretty good bum too. When you're a man you notice these things. But often little else.
She bemoans the fact that she's broken one of her acrylics to her friend as they read 'Glamour'. All about 'cekc', as it's called here. And the desire to punch the little princess surfaces, but as she then proceeds to fix it, quickly and with little fuss I realise I've been too hasty: she just wants to moan. To complain and create a little interest in what is otherwise, little of nothing.
Soon fixed, it's time to prepare herself.
With the delicate accuracy I have come to respect in a woman's hands, tools of finesse, she paints them in turn, ambidextrous, and leaves one to dry under my appreciative eyes, mere inches from my face.
We make contact: eye to eye. For maybe the third time in the journey. It's that 2-3 second look she has that stays on your eyes and doesn't move. It's a " ...what?"
She looks away and I prepare to carry on as before although it's getting...harder. To maintain interest.
But it seems there is a surprise. For me. I know it's for me. She's looked a second time, not in itself unusual; women often look out of curiosity and then to see if I'm looking back. I do. Why disappoint? But the deliberate way she moves tells me this is not a whim, and so I prepare myself....
It doesn't start well. The large, unweildy bag of cosmetics is too redolent of the spoilt brat I wanted to punch. Picking a compact sans miroir is just plain dumb, or cocky.
"I hope you're damn good at this!", I mutter to myself, slightly terse. But the mistake is soon replaced with another compact. With mirror.
The show begins.
Seeming barely to touch either powder or face, she plays the tan circle across both: a cicular touch on the compact, a flick, flick on her already-powdered cheek. She moves right to left, and repeats.
Next comes the mascara. I've always wondered about why women wear this, but for now I have other things to think about. She shakes the container; "Well-used", I guess, and pulls out the brush. Unsatisfied by its offering, she inserts, shakes and withdraws again.
And proceeds to make herself...bewitching?
The brushes are firm, single-stroke, upwards, eyes-open. Too practised to fear a mishap and possible injury, she moves confidently, starting each stroke a millimetre from the roots of her lashes. 4 X 4: she's done.
And we're starting to cook a little here.
Eyeshadow next. She's chosen dark brown to complement her colouring. It works and I say a 'thank you' to 'Glamour Magazine': maybe it's not tat after all?
The brush is drawn across that murky yet bright powder cum paste in the pallet and applied in slow, careful, deep strokes. Under each eye. Then above, in that deliberate way that prolongs the attention of the watcher, me, beyond, far beyond the resolution that they seek.
We come to her lips. Full, naturally pouting; a little, just enough, they do arouse my ...interest. Not for kissing, though, that's too intimate, but for....
First comes the pencil. To set the scene, to highlight yet further the promises that might come from such lips, be delivered by such lips.
Unhurried, accurate, controlled. I wonder how much practice she's had. How long does it take? Not only to master the application, but in all situations: cars, trains, indoors, outdoors, a quick 5 minutes, or more?
Next comes the gloss. A pinky, gummy goo on a stick that is the master stroke. Pulled across her thrust out lips, one by one, the brush snags and drags the lip with it, emphasising its fluidity, elasticity, its lush fullness.
One. She pulls and drags. The lips promise.
Two. She pulls and drags. The lips promise. More.
Three. Promise heightens, strengthens, stiffens.
Four.
And
...she pouts and checks her lips, her painting, herself.
She turns sideways so I can critique her handiwork: Yup. Not bad. Not tarty, even. It's probably pushed you up a mark.
There is no eye-contact. Ever again.
Nor should there be: she doesn't want to give the wrong impression. It was a spectacle, a diversion. Nothing more.
posted by jonny at 5:13 PM
5 Comments:
I've only just arrived here, or have I? Ok if I've been here before and made some kind of reflection I apologise for not remembering. Anyway, I'm here now and off to read the rest of this blog. So far, good work again jonny. I'm starting to like you! (In a non gay way that is)
Red, indeed. But can we please remember that if you put too much on you get those horrible little mascara clumps around the lashes. Can I say ewwwwww... And also, No using the most expensive stuff doesn't fix this problem!
As a kid, I would always get girls complimenting me on my thick eyelashes.
So I trimmed 'em with scissors once!
Nice to know I had it, even when I was young...!
:P
No seriously though and this will be the gayist comment I've ever made.... Clear mascara really works if you just want to draw attention to your eyes a little. Doesn't matter if you are male or female!
Err not that I've ever worn it, now where is my beer wench.. (farts and scratches nuts!)
No I didn't!
Perhaps strange comment:
(Puts Egg on Christmas Card list.)
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