D: Underground, Under

Underground, Under

by Angela Hadley

I'm on the Tube. It's hot and sticky. In the morning rush, cheap-suited
men, jeaned and t-shirted youths, mums with toddlers, press their
communal agglomeration against me.

As the train lurches from one overpopulated platform to another, here
in the carriage crush we make ignoble, intimate contact, avoiding the
accusing gaze of those whose private space we violate.

I hang from the strap. My arms ache. I grip the precious laptop case,
afraid to leave it independent on the floor, prey to careless kicks and
opportunistic theft.

My face is all but buried in the odorous armpit of some ill-abluted
city gent. We're all suffocating. Tense and silent, our bodies
helplessly rub up against each other at every turn of the
Tube-train.

I close my eyes, taking shallow breaths. I imagine my presentation, due
shortly, in the world above this constricted, sinuous hell.

They'll all be men. I thought of them this morning when I dressed. I
know the effect a slightly flirty show can have. They'll know, too,
what's going on, but they'll like it, none the less.

So, weather and audience considered, I put on my dark, figure-hugging
business suit, choosing the skirt to match the message. My
'short-and-sweet,' I call it. Shows me off. I look after my body --
it's well toned. I like people to know this.

The train brakes and we compress. We'll be even later than I thought.
The lights flicker. Gasps erupt randomly throughout the carriage, but
the train doesn't stop completely. As the pressure on our bodies
subsides, I get the distinct impression that a clutching hand has
fastened on my rear. Maybe it's some buckle of a shoulder-bag that
gooses me. I try to move, but the grasp insistently persists.

And then the train accelerates. I feel the hand -- I'm sure it is a
hand -- slide around my bottom. I twist my head, seeing only evasive
stares.

In the crush I feel fingers slipping impetuously between my cheeks. The
carriage twists its subterranean way, and probing digits silently
search out their target. I clench, but still they advance upon me, and
though I squirm in my confusion, I feel them home in, pausing briefly
before their triumphant penetration.

I bite my lip, conscious of my rapid breathing -- my body's involuntary
response to this uninvited intrusion. I feel the flush in my face, and
strain to catch my reflection in the blackened window. The press of
people obscures my view. There's no impediment, however, to my
invisible assailant's intricate manipulations.

I swallow hard as his skilful stimulation threatens to overtake me. And
then the carriage bursts into the station, its sliding doors parting
eagerly to dissipate compressed humanity onto the platform.

This is the interchange, and with relief the crowds disperse to other
lines.

I find my foreign imposition is no more. As surreptitiously withdrawn
as it arrived, my anonymous assault is over.

The carriage is almost empty now, as the doors slide shut and we plunge
once more into the black void. I sigh into a welcome seat at last,
feeling soft skirt-fabric against my skin. The laptop case is now
between my feet, and as I turn my toes to check its safety, I'm
suddenly aware -- my skin: my skirt!

The short-and-sweet is all I have protecting my exposure! In my
surprise I have to stifle a wry chuckle. Somehow, my mysterious
molester has had my briefs away, and maybe even now is burying his face
in their sex-scented warmth.

Opposite, a shaven-headed youth is looking at my knees. I watch his
furtive glances sidle up my thighs. How much can he see?

My legs twitch involuntarily as I look away. I reach forward to
retrieve the laptop, moving it to one side so I can cross my legs. But
then I feel the skirt riding up my thigh. I self-consciously uncross my
legs and place the case on my lap, relieved at the protection it
offers.

The next stop is mine; I stand, lifting the case in one hand while
smoothing down the skirt with the other. I sense the youth's eyes on my
behind as I step off the train.

A cool breeze brushes across the platform as I make my way to the exit.
Stepping up the stairs, I'm buffeted by the rushing air as the train
continues in its burrow. My skirt flaps and ruffles in the turbulence,
caressing my bare buttocks: I feel undressed. The careless wind
continues to invigorate those parts of me the unknown hand so recently
explored.

I hear footsteps behind me on the stairs. I resist the temptation to
turn and look, to see who's had an eyeful.

What they see, they see. I'm exposed, explored, mapped out -- and free
as the morning breeze.

I've no time to buy another pair of knickers. My audience awaits. I
must make my way across the busy London streets to my
appointment.

It's going to be one hell of a presentation.