Girl on a Train - Erotic Tale

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Girl on a Train, Ocean to Ocean By Angela Mazzone

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

I’m not wanting to say when this growing-up event occurred, or even to give my real name. I wrote the story you are about to read for my college creative writing class. The assignment: 1) tell about a significant maturing event; 2) in present tense; 3) as though from a diary.

Since I keep a diary, even if I didn't need it to recall meeting that tennis player, I got it out. I paged to January.

Oh yes, there's the train ticket, a drink coaster I took from the lounge car, a photo of dad, and – standing at the bus – another picture: it's him. My nose recalls the scent that night – Irish mint.

My last year of high school ahead, I was seventeen.

Dad died early. I miss him. In those years Dad was a chippie, a carpenter. He made make good money. He sent the across-Australia, round-trip train ticket: first class on the India-Pacific.

Dad – a tennis buff – took me too an international event two days before I was to return to mum and school in Sydney.

We

watched

four

matches

including one

an

American bloke lost badly, 6-2, 6-3, and 6-0. Someone from 2

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

Sweden or Switzerland won the match for men. One of the Williams sisters, maybe Venus, won for the women.

After leaving dad on the platform – usual hugs, kisses and promises – I'm looking for 3-K and almost to my cabin door when I nearly wet my pants to see that same American tennis player lowering his head to enter the cabin across from mine.

He glances back. Pausing, looking even taller than two days ago, he watches me approach.

This tennis bloke – on first sight – standing there appears deep in thought. His gaze is courteous, caring, and steady. I see kindness in his blue eyes as he holds my narrow door open so I can squeeze in with camera bag and two pieces of luggage.

I say G'day. He answers with Hello. A smile confirms perfectly white teeth.

Enhanced by his sponsor's blue polo shirt – Nike – his eyes are a standout. I was to learn, blue (same for me) one of his favorite colours. No rings. I turn to thank him. He beams.

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My heart misses a beat.

Closing the door, on my right there's a narrow couch. I lift its base and it flips into a bed, sheets made. The walls are close. Processed air hums. It's fresh.

There is a washbasin. Next to it a door leads into a spacecapsule size bathroom. A sign over the loo says “Not for use while in station.” I wonder where it goes.

I get my stuff out: panties, blouse, socks, both cameras, two paperback romances, and a photo of Berkeley, my cat.

The train pulls out – all thirteen carriages. It's home for four days, three nights.

My stuff organized, my mind is still on the tennis player. I page through one of the paperbacks I planned to read. I cannot. The anticipation of him, being so near, comes as a taste of slow melting, sticky chocolate in my mouth.

Covering my eyes with the open, tent-shaped romance novel, I flop face up on the cot. I doze.

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Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

*** An hour later I'm leaning against, listening, at the door.

It's lunchtime. When I hear his door click I step into the corridor. I say with cheer, “G'day. Isn't this a happy coincidence?” I give him a detached, cool look but I am burning inside; my school-girl belly is tight.

I walk – more like creep – ahead of him while weaving along three sleeper cars to the site of napkins, food, forks and spoons. Like an ocean-liner at sea, the Indian-Pacific sways.

Windows at each end of sleeping compartments provide the best views of Australia's vast, dry interior. Swaying together there are furtive bumps. I wonder if he notices.

At the end of each carriage we both look out. He has to stoop. We are already beyond residential suburbs. Wheat farms stretch into the distance. At the second window, looking down at me, he tells me about wanting to see, really see, the outback so he decided to take a cross-country train.

Him saying that made me even more aware of being together, alone really, through days and nights on nearly 5

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

soundless iron rails, Indian Ocean to Pacific Ocean, Perth to Sydney.

I don't tell him, but it's all a bore to me. Flat wheat lands and endless salt brush. An occasional emu or a kangaroo.

I've never been out of Australia.

He didn't tell me right off, but the tennis player is on his way to the next competition, Sydney, then to the Australian Open in Melbourne. His coach said he should relax.

At the queue for the dining car, the waiter, I recall an aloof, short, balding, veteran of the rails, offers to seat us at the same table.

I am quick to say, “I don't mind.”

The tennis player, still wearing the blue polo shirt, smiling brightly, “Yes, of course.”

He gestures for me to lead the way. He's a gentleman.

Most Aussie mates are not so courteous.

Even when not in his white tennis shorts, my eyes sort of caresses every part of him, as, with athletic calm, he moves 6

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

to sit opposite me. I think that is when I began thinking of how sweet it be we might become lovers. I already have that smitten feeling.

We are seated on the north side by sun-warmed windows.

Because we are younger than other passengers, I notice we are attracting the attention of what looks like mostly grandparents.

Not yet far from the sea, seagulls glide outside. In silence, we sit and watch, than – as the gulls fall away – we search the menu. I don't feel uncomfortable not talking. If my girlfriends were with me, we'd never have a moment of silence, boys, boys, boys.

We order lamb cutlets – French-cut and rare. When the meal arrives, embarrassed, I point to my braces, saying, “Only need these a few more weeks.” Adding, after a pause, “You know, an adjustment my dentist says I need for a better bite. Imagine at my age!”

The tennis player says nothing as he pours glasses of water.

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When he puts the pitcher down, by way of introduction, I say, “My name is Stacy, and I know yours already.”

He looks surprised. I tell how I watched him play tennis.

That is when he told me how badly he was feeling about his terrible loss. He seemed in need of talking. Mean of me, I know, while it compounded his sadness, I was pleased to learn his girlfriend had gone the day before, to holiday in Italy.

He looks hurt and alone as he tells me. Even his coach was traveling without him; they would meet again in Melbourne.

I was surprised when he asked my age, I lied, saying, “Almost twenty.” Told another lie: “Attending College in Sydney.”

Those formalities past, we engage in the usual small talk: the distance across Australia; the remoteness of Perth; how good the Williams sisters are at tennis; about Federer the Swiss player; the endless sunshine; my hobby as a photographer, saying, for romantic tone, “My purpose is to capture fleeting moments of sadness, love and friendship.” I 8

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cringe now, think how, like, totally teenager-lame that was to say.

*** Well past lunch, late the first afternoon, “arvo,” as we say, the train stops in an 1800s gold mining town, Kalgoorlie. We join a dozen passengers on a thirty-minute, bus-tour of Hay Street. All – same as in the dining car – except us appear of retirement age. Several Elderly women smile at us in a kindly way, maybe thinking we are on a honeymoon.

Seated at the window, I snap photographs of sex-workers posing – as they do in Hamburg's Ripperbahn – in the storefront windows of Australia's legal brothels. Named Swedish, China, Spanish, and so forth, each – the woman-bus-driver says – “...is a house offering benefits.” I think I blushed.

My tall, slim, hunk of a tennis player is amazed that sexwork is legal over most of my country. Rolling his eyes, he says, “In the States that is only legal in (I think, he said) Nevada.” After he said that, he grinned, so I concluded he didn't take the matter seriously.

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I took snap-shots of him leaning on the bus; he did the same of me. Nothing taken together; we are not that friendly.

Not yet.

Back on the train, as it will be for three more days, we return to steady hum of steel on steel, air-conditioning and the soothing sway of carriages. We dined together most meals.

The first evening, after dinner, the tennis player suggests going to the Gold Kangaroo Lounge car. There we became favorites of the black-mustached, white-haired Armenian bartender with a formal bow-tie and an almost too flashy, red-satin vest.

When the American tennis-guy tells Nickabar he knows the location of Armenia and knows the capital city is Yerevan – telling me later, an odd bit of trivia retained from a geography class in Chicago – this trivia gets us a larger pour in our drinks, more slices of lemon and extra ice cubes.

The Armenian didn't even ask to see age identification.

Because my family is Italian, I have been drinking wateredwine since I was eleven or twelve. Otherwise the drinking age 10

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is eighteen. I look older...a little...I hope.

During this first of two visits to the Lounge, having exhausted the small talk over dinner, I tell about visiting my dad and how he and my mum divorced, partly – wanting to be very adult, and, it was on my mind – because mum thought dad wanted sex, I said, trying to look casual, “Maybe too often?”

Neither dad nor mum told me that, but I overheard them arguing. I'm certain there were other issues, but that was one important one for dad. And, I suppose, for mum too.

I pretended – more-than-a-little – knowing about guys and sex when I said, “Naughty blokes always want to get into my knickers.” Of course, I wanted the American tennis player to think I knew about sex, even if I am the last virgin in Sydney. At least, I had rubbed a few fellas who wet their pants and did let my boobs be felt, not that there is much – even today – to feel. So far, my sex-play had been more curious even frightening, less than any great pleasure.

The tennis-guy listened politely not showing a startled emotion or discomfort, even when I, reaching across the 11

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

table, touched my finger tips to the back of his hand. Not daring to look into his eyes, I ask, “How often does, like, a guy, you know, have to do it?”

Since dinner, heightened by every touch, I feel chemical changes in my body and an intense curiosity. I'm feeling cheeky. Maybe it's because it is that time of the month when I feel horny. He's almost frighteningly beautiful. Maybe later in life, that handsomeness might warn a girl away. Not now. I care not, even if only a 'ship-board' romance. He's mine. Or so I imagine.

Elusive, I see he thinks he has a way out of answering.

His words are sticky as if he had eaten white, dry bread, “If I was married, maybe I could tell you.” He didn’t think he had to say more. Maybe – he thought – none of this chat is really happening. A moment of delirium?

By now I am feeling, kind of, in control. I don't know why but I don't mind causing him some mental discomfort and I do want to know more about guys and I am never going to see him again and think, if he has a girlfriend and looks, maybe, twenty-five, he has had sex lots of times so he can tell me.

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This time I look into his eyes, and I say, “But you blokes have needs. You’re all the same...married or not.” Then I give him a belt-level glance and a squint, and ask, “Is there pain down there if, you know...,” repeating, “You know...if you don’t...?”

That's when I felt embarrassed. I tried to correct what I said, “I don’t...don’t mean you, not you, you know, blokes?”

I felt like falling into a hole, disappearing.

He did look uncomfortable. Maybe I made it worse when I told about my best girlfriend, Annie, and how she told me her boyfriend said he needed to come on every date...and Annie.... I didn't say more. I didn't know what she did for her boyfriend. But it got me wondering?

I'm remembering mum too. She told me, as a young woman, how she favored older men, “You learn more ....”

The American tennis player, looks like he's not certain where questions are going, hedges, saying, “Every man is different. I suppose every woman too.”

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Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

I let a minute pass. I expect him to say more. Crawling from my hole, I peer directly into his lovely blue eyes. I sip from my glass. After another minute, finally, I say, “Aa-nndd...?” I leave the word hang as I continue staring.

He tries a clever move. To divert questions from him, he suggests asking the Armenian bartender, Nickabar, for his opinion, “I'll ask the barkeep.”

In the spirit of the moment, I know he is playing with me.

This ploy is fruitless. He's not to weasel out. Ignoring his suggestion

about

Nickabar,

feeling

less

embarrassed,

certainly not – for that moment – shy, I tease, “Come on, like how's it...with you?”

Seeing – for dramatic effect – my imploring eyes, he knows he must answer. Looking around first, he answers, softly, “It all depends on a desirable woman,” then, barely breathing, between words slowly expressed, “If available, yes...I...ah...feel desire...sure, frequent desire.” He rubs his forehead, but says no more.

I listen intently, peer harder, not saying anything.

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Seeing I am not satisfied, and he seems more daring, he continues, “Sex – you know, good sex – has to be someone (sounding formal) with whom I feel connected, you know, whom I know something significant about. Maybe I know her hopes, or a dream, maybe her fears, maybe she has some insecurity, maybe...maybe...(rambling now, searching for what to say)...maybe if I feel I can add some joy...for...even just...once, yes, sure, I feel desire.”

When he muttered, “Even just...once,” I knew he had experience, thinking maybe lots of one-night-stands. I keep my head up, I continue showing interest, but let him talk. I think it's like older girls who always say – never really admitting how many lovers – five, six or seven. I want to ask how many lovers he has had. I don't.

After a pause, directing my attention away from the isthere-pain-down-there point of my question, the tennis-guy adds, “That is what is so wrong about the ladies in the windows. I doubt there is any, you know, knowing between the sex partners.”

He shifts nervously in his seat. There is a long pause before he adds, intently, with a simple, sincere expression, 15

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

his tone intimate, saying, at nearly a whisper, “I want the woman to know me too. I don’t want only to be (he looks uncomfortable now)... you know...a...er...her...sex toy.”

I have a quick, naughty thought, Maybe he could be my sex toy? I don't say anything.

After the sex-toy thought, I realize his voice doesn't belong to his tall, squared shoulder, athletic body. It's careful, soft, almost quiet to a point of shyness, maybe a deep shyness.

I think I'm falling in love. When he learns I'm just a kid, it's doomed. Really. At best – like I thought before – a shipboard romance, brief and over. Someday, when I'm a famous writer of romances, I'll know how to tell of a one-night-stand, even if it was on a train.

He continues to evade telling about himself by asking me a question, “Don’t you think, it’s a matter of harmony, spirit to spirit, between the man and the woman, even two women?”

Adding quickly, I wonder for a second, if too

quickly, “I don’t know anything about two men.”

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Now, I think, he couldn't possibly be gay. He may not be macho like a football player, just a real guy, with a tender side. I like his, maybe, Irish looks, the unkempt black hair around his ears, wide chin below expressive lips and, under full eyebrows, those lovely blue eyes, so steady and honest.

During a stretch of thoughtful silence, wrapped around his highball glass, I note long, slim fingers and well-trimmed nails. Mum told me over tea one morning, when the subject was boys, I should look to see if a guy cleaned and trimmed his nails; I think she knew that is a sign of good breeding, you know, a good family, someone worth dating.

I know, like his arms, seeing him racing across the court, running, jumping, his legs are lean and hard, and suppose his toes are long and delicate. I am wondering ... yes, that too. Then I say, the tone a question, inviting, “Tell me more.”

He nods a sort of okay, then stands. Walking to the bar, he orders a beer for himself and, “Nickabar, please, a tall ginand-tonic, no ice, for the lady.” Wow, I thought, he called me “a lady.”

He looks relaxed and thoughtful as he reaches around 17

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

my right side, sliding my gin and tonic and a napkin in front of me. He returns to his seat.

While sipping drinks in silence, we look out the side window seeing in the light from the carriage a kangaroo leap into the brush. His eyes light-up and bounce same as they did in the afternoon when we saw emus running in groups.

We feel the carriage weaving more than usual – a rare stretch of poor roadbed. He sips his beer to keep it from sloshing. I know we are each feeling the intensity of the moment. I no longer feel the need for him to tell me anymore.

We already jumped some fences.

I notice him, like guys do, staring at my breasts. I'm glad.

I shift sideways for a better angle. I think maybe open a button, like it's too warm. I don't. We smile without reason.

We both grin. I think it is because we are both thinking of becoming lovers. I hope.

A half hour later we decide to call it an evening. We walk along the narrow passageways. Both swaying side to side with the train’s movements our arms bump comfortably. It's like I have known him for a longer time.

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At the water cooler I pause. Without saying anything, I wash down a white pill from my purse. Mum buys them for me. She said, “Stacy, you need to be careful.”

At our cabin doors, we hug lightly, then self-consciously laugh for a moment, as, at exactly the same time, we say, “It is nice meeting you.”

Less than a day since he held my door, we are already feeling friendship. He offers, bending, with a peck on my cheek, a “Good night Stacy.”

“Good night... to protect his identity, let's say ... “Shawn.”

I didn't sleep much that night. Thanks to dad, with a first-class fare, I have two meters of skylight. The thick strip of Milky Way, its clouds of stars, against a darker than coal background, are a luminous vapor. Frequently obscuring the orderliness of familiar constellations, even the smallest single-pinpricks of light standout. I do make-out the Southern Cross. Non-twinkling planets – Saturn, Pluto, and – on the horizon – the setting Venus, beam large. Even without the moon, stars provide sufficient light for writing or even reading as the carriages, with more than a hundred, 19

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mostly sleeping passengers, are pulled across the 800 straight and flat kilometers of the Nullabar Plains.

Laying on my back on the narrow pull-down cot, I look through the overhead canopy, almost unaware of the stars, feeling an extra-sensory message, an emotional pull, a connection

to

the

tennis

player,

“Shawn.�

A

man.

Completely mine and only meters away. I wonder if he feels a pull. My face burns; my heart pounds away; yet my hands feel cold until I clasp them together and squeeze them between my legs, finally, rolling to my side, I fall to sleep.

Initially I sunk like a stone into a river of forgotten dreams. Then during a sleepless stretch, on my back again, I imagine the sky is without depth as though I travel in a space vehicle, the sound of steel on steel a solar wind pulling me fearfully now into an unknown. As I lie there, I grip the sides of the narrow bed, digging my fingers to overcome the feeling of streaking through the galaxies, the vertigo.

***

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The next day was without an important event except I went to the lounge car to take a portrait-shot of Nickabar, who says – as I ask him to lift his chin – with pride, “This run with thirteen carriages,” he adds, “is – for me – four hundred and thirty-two crossings of Australia. I work only less the three years. This is good, no!”

There is a picture of Nickabar in a scrapebook from that never-to-be-lost-from-memory trip.

*** Dinner time, day two.

As the waiter arrives with the lamb roast, I stand and offer to serve, then, looking down, in my most adult way, ask, “Do you mind telling me more about yourself? I've been doing all the talking.”

As we cut and tasted, Shawn told me he was ranked, I think, sixty-sixth among tennis players. If he didn't do better, he was going to return to university studies in law. How he did in Sydney and then the Big One, the Melbourne Open, would set the pattern for the French, British and American Opens. His expectations were not high. I could feel his 21

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doubts and pain.

Then he told me he thought his girlfriend was going to leave him (maybe had already) and he was sad about that possibility. He seemed to need to talk. He admitted to not sleeping well, full of worries, did a lot of – as he said – “flipping and flopping.” I wanted to comfort him.

The main courses finished, he is silent as I watch him lift the last sweet Pavlova to his lips. There is a broad smile. He seems relaxed again.

I turned the conversation, as I pushed my plate away, placing both elbows on the table, to something I thought about during the night. In a low voice, not easily heard over the muted hum of the rails, I asked, “Shawn, I am curious.

I'd like to know how a guy feels when he...” I stretched out the phrase, “is ... is ... commmmmming? What's he feel?

What's it like?”

I must have blushed. I see he flushes. His eyes enlarge. I have surprised him. I suppose he thought, here she goes again. After a deep breath, I see him grinning. Now I am more relaxed too. Our moods change so quickly.

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Rolling his eyes across the wood-paneled ceiling, then turning around to see if anyone might hear him, he says, “You know Stacy ... ah ... it feels kinda good.” He has a dreamy look as he returns his eyes to look at me.

I run my tongue over my lips before saying, “Yeah, but, what feels good? Is it just in a guy's ...?” I cannot say that word, not to a guy. I add, “You can tell me.”

“Ah, well ... yes.” Long pause.

Feeling cheeky now, I add, “And...?”

Swallowing, he looks away, then returns his gaze, looking into my questioning eyes. Feeling more courage, he asks, “How much you ... you want to know?” Then he adds, “Really have not tried ... ever ... to put it to words.” There is a long pause then he adds, “Never really have thought, you know, about what happens. Just, you know, happens.”

I purposely look intense, pursing my lips, and say, “I like detail...if it hurts, or...well ... I don't know?” I keep my eyes on his. To break the tension, I stick my tongue into my cheek making a bulge, tip my head, sort of clown-like.

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I want him to know I am willing to wait, not wanting a quick answer. I offer a smile. As though there is a conspiracy, I whisper, “I won't tell.” I blink my eyes, continue staring.

Sounding like he is dodging, the world-ranking sixty-six takes a deep breath, letting it out, less formal now, he asks, “Like, so whacha want to know?”

Aware I don't know what to ask or how about how to ask, I say simply, “Can you sort of start after a guy, you know, is, like, hard ... ah ... and he is ... ah coming....” Quickly I correct myself, “No, not then!

I see he's patient as I fumble for the right thing to say, the right words....

I want to say when 'he has' or 'he ... you....' Even 'you have an erection,' but I can't say that word, so I say, 'Like when a guy knows ... like ... I think ... he knows he can't ... you know ... longer, but he's not coming yet, but he's, like, going to.' I paused, and quickly added, 'You know ...then.'

He continues with a patient look while searching for a 24

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

way to start. I wonder if he is beginning to think I am still just a teenager. It worries me. I'm feeling so dumb about all of this, wishing now I hadn't started.

He removes my worries when he finally says, “Well, ah, there is a sort of pressure.” He stops, looks, leveling his eyes at mine, questioning tone, and I am again afraid he is going to ask my age, but doesn't, instead, softly, he asks, “You want detail?”

Maybe with too much enthusiasm, I say, “Oh yeah. Yes. Like where is this pressure?” Damn, I sound like a kid, asking dad where the batteries are on a new Christmas toy.

The tennis-guy seems to be caught in his own thoughts, not seeing me as I probably turn pasty white. He says, “Ah ... ah ... at the base of a guy's – you know – penis.”

At the mention of that word, I try to look like I hear it all the time, and now trying to sound cool, I casually ask, “Like, when it's (I get it out) erect, hard, like up? There is ... like...pressure?”

While I try to figure out what he means by “base of,” he 25

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

adds, “Yes, and the pressure grows, and...a guy feels it more and more.”

Now I am quick again, “Feels what?”

He thinks, rolling his eyes, then, says, “Even in his belly, muscles sort of contracting...like a pulse is --” -- breaking in, I ask, “Balls too?” I hope he doesn't see me cringe. I don't know what got into me. Oh God! After my interruption, he simply says, “Later.”

We both shifted around in our seats and he sips his beer and I finish off my gin-and-tonic which by now is at room temperature barely cooler than my hands which were wrapped around the glass. For relief of tensions, we both looked around the carriage to see if anyone pays attention to us. No one cared.

I

excused

myself

without

necessary

explanation.

Returning ten minutes later, I saw he had a fresh beer and I had a new gin-and-tonic.

After thanking him, and getting seated, I knew there was 26

Girl on a Train Angela Mazzone

an expectation of continuing from where we left-off so slowly I asked, trying to sound intellectual and nonchalant, “So a man feels pressure and the pressure is building. Then what does he feel?”

To be helpful, before he answers, and not seem like it is from personal experience, I say, “Like in the movies, when the actor sort of groans...you know.”

Shawn looks out the window, takes a deep breath, then another, looking again at me, biting his lower lips before answering, he says, “When I come ... I mean, when he comes, the man feels the tingle of fluid raising ... pumped, sort of, as it goes up.”

“Ripper! You mean, up his shaft.” Damn, my buttocks clench.

“Ahhhh...yeah.” Again biting his lower lips, he adds, “Up the shaft.'

Maybe I've not seen a penis close and personal, but I have watched a few porno videos. I go, “Yeah? You mean, like, when it spurts out? Sort of shoots.”

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He answers, “Yes.” Not to appear too – you know – naive, I take a deep breath to calm myself and almost whisper, “Fair dinkum.”

Looking less comfortable, Shawn, repeats, “Yes.” Getting this far seems to relax him. He looks into a halffull glass of beer. His expression is vacant.

After a pause, I try to summarize: “Let me see, if I get this? As you get hard you feel pressure ... like from a pump, then feel it, sort of warm juice go up. It's like a pulse. And it tingles.”

Tennis player: “Something like that. Yes.” Not satisfied yet, I ask, “Tell me more.” I look with my most imploring eyes.

Feeling more comfortable now, more relaxed, having said so much already, he adds, “And you know how a guy's body spasms?”

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I don't, but say, “Yeah. Oh yeah! Uh-ha. Sure.”

He sips his beer. I draw down my gin-and-tonic. Fishing the lemon peel out, I chew the bitter rind and wait. I cannot imagine what more there is to tell.

He goes on. Telling like something from a distant past, I see his eyes moving about doing a memory scan, he says, “Well, when a guy comes...there is this uncontrollable – I think 'pumping' is a good word – pumping...from down deep ... maybe ... maybe ... once every second for five or six or even ten seconds.”

This seems like it's an orgasm. I know what that is, so I say, “You mean, like, a guy can't stop?”

“Ah...yeah...the

pumping,

the

pulse...hmmm...more

spasms.” He looks away.

“Like,” I say, “uncontrollable...over his whole body?”

Still not looking at me he nods his head and says, “You would know.”

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Pretending, I say, “For guys, sure, yeah, I know.” He is still looking away when I ask, “But it isn't over, is it?”

His eyes return to me. Looking annoyed now, he nevertheless, goes on, “Not really. There are after-shock spasms, milder. You know, like a twitch.”

He seems caught up now in analyzing his experience so I see an opportunity to learn more. Playing with him now, I grin as I ask, again being cheeky, “How long does your tingling last?

Maybe I was too loud? We both look around to see if anyone is listening or looking our way. There are three other couples and a table of four, but they are busy with their own chatting. I again look at the tennis-guy.

He closes his eyes, contemplating. Lips pursed, then teeth grasp his lower lip longer than usual. Finally, as he exhales, he says, “Not long.” I see him sigh.

He also appears saddened. I wonder if there are thoughts about his girlfriend.

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Ignoring the lack of time-detail in his answer, I ask, “You feel tingling, like...in your...in your...(I say it)...like in your balls. There too?”

I hold my breath, think for a moment I should have said 'testicles.' I sigh.

My girlfriend Annie always says 'balls' and 'cock.' I think she gets some kind of kick out of shocking me. She told me once how she sucked on her boyfriend's cock. I don't think I could ever do that. I did wonder if Shawn's girlfriend sucked on his penis.

As though he is trying hard to remember or shake thoughts about his girlfriend, there is a pause before Shawn answers, “No, not really... Not as much.” Then with a twitch of his shoulders, he says, “Well, that's about it.”

Braver myself now, breathing again, I want to keep the upper hand, perhaps make make him squirm or reveal more about himself. I ask, “Does it tingle, like, for a long time after?” I pause. Feeling encouraged, I add, “You know ... as you ... I mean ... it ... it gets softer and softer?”

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Looking away again, he says, the tone contemplative, “Gets more sensitive, kind of a twinge, raw, you know, easily hurt.”

With more caring in my tone, sympathetic voice, “Really, you mean vulnerable. Soft and kind of spongy. But the tingle is gone?”

“Yeah. That is when I – you know,” he corrects himself, “- I mean, guys feel a peaceful feeling wash over and want to sleep.”

I don't say it but, yes, I read about rolling over and falling asleep but I didn't know about pressure or feeling fluids pump or getting spongy and vulnerable. I am feeling affectionate as neither says anything. Then I realize we were both so intense we need a break.

I see his glass is empty so I went to Nickabar, whose back is toward me, and – remembering I am not old enough to legally order liquor – say with offhand aplomb, “Excuse me ... my partner has earned another beer.”

On the return to our cabins that second night there is 32

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another stop at the water cooler, another pill and – for me – the good night hugs are too casual.

Maybe I thought he would invite me into his cabin? The cabins are small. We would have to sit on the pull-down bed.

That had its possibilities. Maybe even look at the stars through his sky-light. We could lay side-by-side looking up.

I'd point out the Southern Cross. Maybe I could start something by kissing his cheek?

I trusted in the kindness of this American. And I knew he needed affection, the sort of attention he deserved. I wanted to take his mind off his faltering tennis and the probable loss of his girlfriend. I now felt I knew him in some personal way, in a way allowing us to become intimate.

Maybe I am not the model-perfect girl, certainly no plans to be a model, more like the girl next door. Annie, blond, shapely, sexy friend, said I am “eye-candy, good-looking everywhere it matters to boys.” I wish I had her boobs, but mine are perky and the nipples a lovely darker-brown than most I'd seen – and stand-out, pointy.

In a tasteful bikini, at a beach north of Perth, my 33

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charming Dad said, “Stacy, you are so beautiful, I cannot believe you are really my daughter.” But that is dad. Mum worries about me and boys, so I guess I am okay. But tonight, I am disappointed Before falling into a drooling sleep, horny, I engage the fingers of a girl's best friend. *** The third and last night.

We are to arrive in Sydney about nine am the next morning. We saw little of each other through the day. With cell phones completely out of range, I feel the joy of the present as I snap photos around the train. Sponsored by the Indian-Pacific Railroad, I planned to enter a contest; the photos had to be of and within the carriages, even passengers -- if I had their permission.

Taking pictures of the crew was easy; they posed for me.

The prize was 5,000 dollars. As I anticipated taking photo and film courses in college, if I won a prize, it would help me earn a scholarship. I already had the beginning of the portfolio of work to submit to the selection committee; except for a few photos – personal shots Annie took of me – I showed 34

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it all to dad. He thought I might have a promising career. The portfolio is in my luggage.

About three in the afternoon, I knocked on 3-J. The brass numbers are not on the door, tastefully, to the side. From the open doorway he looked a bit unkempt. His hair not combed, he had been napping and reading, but agreed to go to the back of the train, the rear platform, where I could (as I told him) take pictures of him with the rails trailing off in the distance and the light at an angle creating shadows to enhance his profile.

He laughed, sort of merrily, when I offered to comb his hair.

I was invited into his cabin. Combing his own hair, he added a long-sleeve, blue-striped shirt over a plain white teeshirt already tucked into worn jeans. The shirt and jeans matched beautifully. I try not to stare, but notice a slight bulge to the side of the zipper.

Looking away, I see his cabin is the reverse of mine: to the right, the same pull-down, single bed with a reading light; on the left, a wash basin and mirror are next to door 35

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into the loo. I see a movable chair I don't have.

Looking right again, I am envious seeing his girlfriend's picture on the only shelf. Leaning seductively, with a comehither expression, on a black BMW, I see she is tall like him, blond, and – in snug jeans and a tight, sleeveless blouse – appears to have – seeing the shadows – at least C-cups.

When he noticed me staring, I said, “Nice car.”

He answered, “Yeah, it's hers. College graduation gift of her father. He's a banker.”

All I mustered was 'Oh.' When I looked for an expression, I saw his lips tight, puckered out, like when hard thinking is going on. At first he was merry, but now he didn't look happy, not at all.

As he reaches to open the door for me, I glace again at the bulge.

Turning right we weave our way to the open-air, last compartment and platform. I tried not to think about him 36

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with her. I did anyway. Even when viewing him through the view-finder, I recalled an image of a sexy, gorgeous, tall, and rich girlfriend. I hoped he would not mention her name. He didn't.

We returned to our cabins.

My hopes for our last night went up, then down. Up, when standing alone in the corridor, he placed his hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes and thanked me for asking him to a photo shot, saying, “I needed a break.”

Except that I was holding a large camera, I wanted to wrap my arms tight around his waist, get really close. Then I wanted him to, maybe, invite me into his cabin – in a vague sort of way, hopeful, maybe, to kiss.

Hope went up again, then down. With his hands remaining on my shoulders, he said, “Without you, the train alone is boring, even Australia ... you are such a sweet girl.”

Oh God, I thought, 'sweet girl.'

I liked him touching my shoulders. Just finger-tips. Then – at least – I hoped for a hug. No. 37

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He must have seen my deep disappointment – same as the night before – and, wanting to cheer me, added, “We had such interesting talks; you really know how to ask good questions. You made me thoughtful. I discovered a lot.”

I took that as a compliment.

Best of all, was when he added, “I'm looking forward to tonight. We'll have to make the most of our time.”

Then best of all, he offered, “I'll make reservation for ... is six okay? ... and order a bottle of Australia's best wine... maybe, if okay with you ... even start with champagne.”

I was faint. The ups and down came so fast. I didn't have words, so I looked up with a I-want-to-kiss-you, chin up expression. He bent, and our lips met, touching barely.

Turning away, as I opened my door, I said, sort of over my shoulder, “I'll be ready. Six.” Collapsing on the bed, I waited until my breathing slowed to nearly normal then considered what do wear and how I might get invited into the American guy's compartment.

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I hung out a figure-hugging skirt, blouse with buttons, front and shoulder, and – this being a celebration – dug out the heels. Pearl necklace and matched ear-rings, seemed right to make me look older. Check my make-up later. Add a fragrance.

Laying on the bed again, looking through the sky-light into the blue and cloudless sky, I collected my thoughts.

Seeing me stop to take the pills at the water cooler both nights means he must know I am on the pill; well ... maybe not ... so tonight ... if need-be, at the water-cooler I'll say, casual, “You know, birth control.”

Hard to know how it is with his rich girlfriend? But I'm here and she is.... Difficult to read his intentions, but guys are guys so maybe he is only a little slower, maybe more shy; that is okay as I tend to like guys who are on the shy side.

Before dozing off, my last thought was, if he didn't invite me in, I could sort of invite myself by offering to show him my portfolio ... get his advice....

In the still of my cabin, the only sound muffled, murmuring steel on steel. I dreamed....

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*** They walk, swaying through three carriages to their cabins. The girl in the dream makes a stop for pill and water, saying, matter-of-factually, “Birth control.�

She looks at her watch. It is 9:30 when she taps on his door. He turns the single reading light out and opens the door. In the light from the passageway he sees she is barefoot, otherwise dressed in the same tight skirt and blouse he saw at dinner: the blouse with the three buttons on each shoulder; only now, the buttons are undone, the blouse nearly slipping from one shoulder.

As she enters, he smells a new fragrance, perhaps rose.

With the cabin lights out, after she closes the door, a shadow-less glow from an endless universe of unblinking stars adds a mysterious feeling to the dark. The man stands and lowers the bed from the wall as she, facing away from him, slips her blouse over her head. In the dim glow, he sees she is not wearing a bra. Still with her back toward him, she chats easily about the afternoon. Then placing her blouse on the back of the only chair she turns.

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Showing her breasts to his anxious eyes, she sees he is standing leaning on the door fully dressed. The girl reaches to his shirt. Not opening a button, instead she grips the collar, pulling good naturally, saying, “What about this?”

She is pleased to learn he showered earlier, smells of peach, and got dressed again. Pleased to see too, that, like her, his feet are already bare.

Letting go of the collar, she reaches around his waist, lowers her hands to lightly clasp his hips, on tiptoes, raises her lips for a wet kiss, saying, before their lips meet, “Sorry about the hardware. It won’t hurt,” adding, “I promise.”

As their lips meet, he worries, “Won’t hurt what?” His worries diminish to nothing as her softer than soft, moist lips, then searching tongue, are felt.

Lowering her head again, the girl seems hurried as she helps him out of his clothes. She starts with the shirt buttons as he undoes the belt. It is awkward in the small space as he lifts one foot at a time out of the trousers.

Hands again on his hips, as they sway together, her 41

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fingers are feeling along the band of silky boxer shorts. As the train passes over a rough patch of rails, she holds tightly to steady herself, then with thumbs she slips the man's boxers to his knees. In the narrow space she is unable to bend further, so lifting a foot she expertly pushes them to the floor.

Now, only wearing a particularly chosen, long, tee shirt, he moves into the corner, continues standing, giving the girl space

to

pile

his

garments,

boxers

last,

neatly

and

domestically, under hers.

Still standing in the corner, he thinks, it best if she leads.

He is enthralled by her confident ways. Over the humming from the steel rails, he hears water running from the tap in the small sink; he sees she fills a glass and places it in the glass holder next to the bed, the bed, perfect for one, is so narrow he wonders how they both might fit.

Knowing he is shy, she is in charge, the girl doesn't say anything, nor feels any need to say anything since the brief meeting of lips. With everything ready as she planned, she says, “Best if you get in first.�

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When lowered the bed’s surface is waist-high. While wondering about her next move, he hosts himself and slides onto the surface. On his side, bent, he faces the length-ofcompartment, outside-view window.

Comforted by it being long, he didn’t attempt to remove his tee shirt. He thought she might have wanted it off, but realizing he might feel vulnerable, she thoughtfully didn’t attempt to raise or to remove it.

He didn’t know when he was standing in the corner and the girl glanced at him, because his legs were invisible in the dark, she thought he looked like a tee-shirt-wearing-puppet hanging by strings from the skylight. She smiled to herself, remembering what he said about not wanting to be a sex toy.

The photo-taking girl had planned ahead. He didn’t know where it came from, but the next thing he became aware of was a small candle she lit, placing it in the slot on the shelf below the mirror over the wash basin. A warm glow flickers, adding to the glimmer from distant stars.

Looking at a reflection of herself on the window, the girl sees her breasts glowing, sensual, she lifts both hands, 43

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thumbs her nipples.

Now she is standing beside admiring the man's lean body, long fingers, and even the outline of legs a woman might like to have. As she feels the slippery liquid seeping to her knees, she contemplates getting her camera, adding the wide-angle lens, asking if he might... Tasteful photos of willing nudes might add a cutting-edge to her portfolio. Later, maybe.

The girl sees the promise where his legs join, imagining the soft curve of his penis, the ridge of foreskin ... She gently places her fingers, so lightly on his waist, touches his tee shirt, as she follows his eyes outside also seeing the curve of a river, its surface reflecting a sliver of new moon.

As he waits for her next instruction, knowing she is standing behind looking, the man, who is not much more in years than a boy, is calmed by the passing scene, the open spaces, the river, a rail-bed curve now so sharp carriages front and back come into view, their lights reminding him of boats floating in a Fellini film.

He feels her fingers lightly on his tee shirt, first at his 44

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waist then sliding lower over his hips. He wants to turn toward her, let her lift the fabric and – weakened emotionally by the loss of his girlfriend – he wants to give himself totally to the girl who photographed him, the girl who is lying about her age, the girl whose fingers he now feels raising his shirt about to expose his nakedness.

As the girl lifts the soft cotton, in a window reflection, her photo-sensing eyes are mesmerized seeing his exposed, circumcised penis coming to life, filling and stretching. As voyeur she is spellbound realizing he does not know what a relishing sight her eyes behold.

Totally aroused the tennis player wants to turn, show himself to her. He waits. He swallows. When finally her fingers, so slowly, are felt gently urging him to turn, he closes his eyes rolling slowly unto his back awaiting her intention.

The girl feels an urge to kiss him there ... so easily ... only her lips ... as the train, entering a tunnel, slows, brake's squeal waking all the dozing passengers. On her own bed, the girl feels a flush of blood burning her cheeks.

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*** Struggling for air to cool myself, rolling over, I see it's five-thirty. I reach for my hairbrush, change into dinnerwear, brush my teeth, check my makeup again, and wait for the tap on the door.

When I open the door I see at six feet and more my favorite tennis player looking handsome in a light-weight, pure nubby-silk sport jacket, matching tan trousers, and brown wing-tips. Yes, and an ear-to-ear smile. A girl's dream.

He takes my hand. Draws me into the passageway.

When seated in the dining car, we are pleased the the champagne is complimentary to all first-class passengers.

Even the refill.

Shawn asks me if a red wine, from the state of Victoria – a pino noir – is a good choice? I feel honoured he should think I know. And I do. Dad's a wine buff. “I remember him saying Victoria has the best pinos.”

I say, “Good choice.”

Even after the champagne, it's a little awkward getting 46

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chatting started. It helped when he said, “That's a lovely blouse.”

I answered, grinning, “Thank you. “Goes well with a wellchosen jacket.” I felt it was a mature, clever thing to say.

Something a foxy woman might observe.

As the first-class dining carriage is fully booked, we are seated too close to other passengers to have the sort of probing, personal sharing of the first two dinners, so over sauteed scallops, then a nutty-flavored Coqau-vin, wine and – we agreed – the best-ever chocolate fondue, I learn more about who he thought would win the match in Sydney (a Spanish guy, Nadal – I think) and about his hope not to be beaten too early in Melbourne; he wanted to – at least – survive first-rounds in both cities. He told how his coach, a Canadian champion player, was urging him to adopt an aggressive net stance. I told him, hiding tongue in cheek, I played tennis, “Since I was sixteen...not too well, so only (doing my math quickly) about four years.”

I was terribly uncomfortable when he asked what courses I am taking in college. After some vague reference to literature and history as well as multi-media classes, I 47

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changed the topic quickly to asking his impressions of Australia. He was – like all visitors – impressed by the many beaches and so few people. He tried surfing but – and we laughed – the waves were not known for their challenging ways in Chicago, so he ended, as he said, “Eating a lot of Australian sand.”

We followed impressions of Australia by me asking about Chicago and gangsters...he also told me about his two brothers and two sisters, his mom and dad ... all suggesting he came from crime-ridden, political city but a good family.

There was no mention of the girlfriend. I'm glad. Too personal, I suppose, he didn't ask about boyfriends either.

When – after the fondue – he asked if I wanted to go to the lounge car, I declined, saying, “I had enough to eat and drink.”

That's when I expected he might invite me to his cabin.

He didn't.

As it was only half past eight, while I looked at my watch, not at him, I – casually as possible – said, “It's early enough, 48

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if you might be interested, I'd love to show you my portfolio of best (connecting to visitor status) Australian photographs.”

Both still seated, I see the next guests are approaching.

Time is slipping by. No answer.

As I wanted him to invite me to his cabin, I didn't add, “They are in my cabin.” Given all our chatting about Australia, I didn't think he could turn down an “AustralianPhoto-Show” opportunity.

Still no answer as he slides he chair back. I do the same.

He stands. There is a polite you-first nod. Clutching my purse, I lead the way toward our sleeping compartments.

There is no space for him to reach ahead and open the door for me, so I precede the tall, yummy, hunk of a tennis player out of the dining car.

Still silent, following, he pauses behind me as I reach the water cooler. As I pop another tiny white pill from the package, he says, “Yes, I'd like to see your photos. Is my cabin okay?”

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I very nearly dropped pill, package and bag. As I quickly washed the pill away, not looking up, nearly a whisper, he hears, “You know...birth control” Then feeling more collected, louder and

clear, brushing my hair to one side, I answer,

“That would be nice.”

I'm thinking, Oh Goody!

We don't say more until we enter our carriage. He is behind when I turn to say, “Give me ten or fifteen minutes to get ready.”

Immediately after saying it that way I want to shrink into the rail-bed below the floor. It was so like, yeah, I need to get into something comfortable, take my bra off.... Maybe I am too conscious of everything?

“Sure,” he says, adding, “Can I fix us some tea?”

Again, I say, “That would be nice.”

As our doorway, after allowing a man and wife pass, I turn, place a free hand on his right shoulder, look up and, he, knowing from my look, feeling the moment, lowers his 50

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head. As I brush an appreciative kiss on his cheek, I say, “You will like my photos.”

He gives me a tender, quizzical smile, tips his head sideways and nods. I see he's is thoughtful, but says nothing, so I say, “See you soon. I really enjoyed dinner. The wine sensational.”

In my dark compartment, I drop my bag to the floor, and as the bed is still lowered from the nap earlier, I flop face up.

I've wanted this moment to come since that first lunch and through two days of anticipation. I am making dry swallows like the pill is still in my throat. I squeeze my eyes tight. I begin to take deep breaths. Same as at the end of an orgasm I give myself, the air leaves my lungs in gasps. It feel like being in a fog. For a moment, I consider telling him I am not feeling well ... sorry.

Maybe five minutes have passed. I open my eyes. I see endless space, the sliver of a new moon, and hear the now comforting distant roar of what sounds like the sea, the rhythm of steel on steel.

Calmness – even strength – begins to wash over me. I 51

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fetch the portfolio. There isn't time to sort photos in advance so it is leaned next to the exit. Turning the light over the mirror on high, I check my makeup. Adding a touch of eyeliner, I then brush my hair, and after removing my bra, dab a bit of fragrance under my blouse. Ear-rings are tossed on a shelf and I leave a top button undone. The pearls about my neck stay.

Before I tap on his door, I recall the dream. She was so in-charge, took initiatives. I'm fearless.

First I see he has removed his blazer and – neatly covered – the bed is down. Every light is on. I smell tea and see the electric pot and two cups on the pull-down bed-stand.

*** Returning to her cabin, hours later, she, re-living, sees it all again, as if through the sight of sticky-beak bird, a raven, its beady eyes focusing in on them from the outside, the north side, his window. It chatters, its voice ratchety, wings stretch out, flap, and fold in again. The blind is up. A single light is dimmed.

Seeing the full width of the compartment from the dim 52

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light, the mirror and the washstand on the right to the chair to the left, the raven sees order. On the chair, his and her clothing are folded – hers on top. A portfolio of pictures stands on a shelf where earlier in the day a rich woman's picture stood. A tea pot and cups, all rinsed, and are drying below the mirror.

The first-class passenger assigned to compartment 3-J is sprawled akimbo, long, muscular-legs and knees inches apart. He's on his backside, head on a pillow, eyes half-open looking tense. The passenger from 3-K is seated at his side, naked, except for a strand of pearls. Both her hands are stroking the back of one of his, like a mother consoling a son after she learns his bike was stolen.

He wears a long tee-shirt or perhaps it is a night shirt.

White. The lower edge is almost to his knees – inches above.

The sleeves are short; his lean, hairless, arms show. The hand she is not stroking is clenched.

She speaks, but cannot be heard from outside. What she says appears to be a mix of explanation and pleading.

Because the dim light's glow is behind, her expression is not seen, as the man, so few years from being a boy, listens 53

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intently.

With his free hand, he gestures toward the portfolio, then shakes his head as though she needs to explain more, or better. She appears to agree, nodding as she explains.

Adding to the message, she leans placing her hands on either side of his eyes, at the temple, massages as one might to sough a headache.

Soon there is a reluctant smile, yet his eyes remain halfclosed, still looking up, seemingly to avoid staring at the girl's breasts, so pert, full of youth.

Seeing him smile the naked girl lifts herself, kisses his forehead, takes two wet fingers to his lips and – after she speaks – he first kisses the fingers and accepts their presence in his mouth. She runs fingers along his lower teeth then his lower lips as he keeps the fingers moist with his tongue.

Speaking again, after he nods, she frees the hand stroking his, reaching, she draws the covering fabric up.

Inches. She stops, looks questioningly, says something.

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It may have been cute, funny, amusing, silly – at least entertaining – as he smiles easily.

The girl now extends her other arm and with fingers from both hands slides the garment high enough to expose bluestriped boxers, the same shade and strip as the shirt the passenger in 3-J wore earlier.

Reading the girl's lips, her tongue planted firmly in cheek, one might think she said, “Looks a lot like .. no doubt ... a matching gift from mum?”

The boxer shorts were not of the fly-open front, rather exposing a single pearl-colored button the shade of the girl's necklace.

As his hands, thumbs inward, inch down she stops them; it appears she wants to remove the boxers herself. But first she reaches to lower the window blind and does.

There is a roar as the train enters a tunnel, a long tunnel....

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*** I'm awakened by the seven a.m. sun. When I returned to my cabin last evening it didn't occur to me to lower the blind on my east-facing window. I'm in my pajamas.

There is no time for brekkie on the train and I am hungry, so I am happy when – always-on-time mum – even before the first hug – says, “Stacy dear, you look exhausted, let me take you to my favorite breakfast chef.” Mum writes restaurant reviews for the Sydney Hearld.

As mum and I hug, over her shoulder I see him step off the train. He flashes – seems to me – a mouse-has-caughtthe-cat smile. He approaches. Mum looks up seeing him waiting. She realizes he is my friend. With a modest bow, he hands her an envelope before sauntering off toward the exit.

He turns for a moment, smiles, blows me a kiss. I do the same.

Turning the envelope over in her hand, mum asks, “Who is that?”

“Guy I had dinner with. Plays tennis. A yank.” Then I ask, 56

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“What did he give you mum?�

Opening the flap, she lifts out, holds up two premium, box-seat passes to Sydney's Olympic Park Tennis Centre.

And that was not the last time I saw World-ranking, sixty-six.

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End.

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