Theocracy

Then they were finished.

There was a pause between his ejaculation and his withdrawal and she felt sick, thinking of it just lying there inside her.

She turned away from him as he removed the condom and cleaned himself meticulously. He staggered across the room to drop it in the bin and she implored the gods that he wouldn't stop. Out. Out. Out the door, out of her flat, out of this space. He might want to talk or to hold her, or to do whatever he needed to do to make himself one of the good ones.

When he started to dress himself she allowed herself to relax. And when he was gone, she made herself come.

She prepared herself for the day of games ahead by examining herself naked in front of the mirror, watching muscles move under flesh, eyes reflecting back at her, sending coy, loving glances in her direction. With this arrangement of angles and curves, this sum of parts, she knew she had the weapon of choice. She worshiped herself in the shower, caressing the angles, tracing the curves.

But where to go today? The museum for masturbatory images of divine lovers? Covent Garden for flirtations with married men, stealing them away from the Christmas shopping for adventures in the car park? Or a book shop to seduce a shy girl looking at Sapphic images under the cover of academic research? She dressed in red and went out, deciding to let the day take her however it wanted to.

Then abruptly it was Monday, and she gave her hours during the day to the job, like giving blood. Life sucked away in exchange for a few numbers in her account and new shoes on her feet. She came home to find the Sunday Girl still in her flat, eating toast and watching her porn. She let her stay, going out and bringing home a man from PriceWaterhouseCoopers who she fucked in front of her. And they laughed about something she said, something really clever and witty, before the Sunday Girl started crying. Big dramatic sobs, gasping for air, so fucking "look at me that it made her want to strangle the puppy-bitch and put her out of her misery. Instead she gave the Sunday Girl to PWC Man and sent them off to get married and have brats like every other member of the race. Or at least screw each other till one of them fell in love and the other went away. And then those big sobs again, the desperate draw of breath, the whimpers and the moans at the world that didn't give a fuck and went on spinning its merry little way. She smiled at the story of boy meets girl and started painting her nails.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and oops it's summer again. Girls in the park wearing clinging dresses. Catch the light right and you can see their thighs through the material, just more curves and angles. The geometry of fucking and the mathematics of the chase. She loved the summer, loved the sweat and the fire of it. Loved escaping the office to revisit old hunting grounds that lay forgotten in the winter, following the migration of the species, the return to the spawning grounds. Here, by the South Bank she had targeted a sk8ter boi, probably just sixteen, probably lying if he said he was. By the fountains in Trafalgar, a high blood woman protesting the war, but giving up when it got too cold. At Speakers Corner, an old man cursing sin and praising God. His real god lay on his lips when she took him in hers.

Six years on this worn path. Six years of fuck this and fuck that.

A tube train, early morning, latest night. Chips hurled across the floor. Sleeping man missing stop after stop on the Circle Line, coming back round again and again and again, reincarnation for commuters. And there she is, checking out her reflection. Best thing she's seen all night, coming home empty handed and hungry. Perhaps a rest is as good as a change, and she doesn't have to bring home any one tonight. But out of habit she checks out the sleeping man. Stubble, long hair, dark hair, not snoring. A good commiseration prize if nothing else presents itself soon. She moves across, sitting next to him, knees touching as she crosses her legs, presenting her thighs to him, letting her perfume wake him.

They were kissing when the doors opened and a man got on. She let the new man watch as the Sleeping Man slid his hand up her thigh. And she opened her eyes to gauge his reaction and looked back into her own eyes. Expecting passion she was surprised to see the same bored and faintly amused sneer she was familiar with after years of experimenting with mirrors and cameras. The New Man was sitting with his legs out straight, his arms crossed and his mouth smiling in a horrible, crooked way. The geometry of couldn't give a fuck. A challenge.

She makes the Sleeping Man unbutton her shirt and take her naked breasts in his rough mouth. A look towards the New Man. Nothing. She moves onto the Sleeping Man's lap and lets him grind against her, moaning. Still nothing.

Finally the New Man stands up and offers her his hand. This she understands, the sum of one plus one plus one is threesome. But he gently leads her away and captures the Sleeping Man for himself. The bored look doesn't change as he makes the Sleeping Man kiss him, his eyes staying on her as the Sleeping Man moans. The same grey, dead eyes.

They leave him on the tube, and he goes back to sleep. Maybe it was all a dream, maybe he'll wake up soon, take his stop and get home. Maybe next time he goes clubbing he won't come home alone. And they'll move in together. And when they fuck she'll wonder why he never says her name, or any name.

She followed the New Man up to the surface, expecting a short journey from there to his house. A cab is called and she follows him in.

"Drive

The Cabbie nods and the car heads off to nowhere and everywhere. She knows London taxis, knows the rules of "not south of the river at this time love, the need for a place to aim for, the Knowledge needing an answer, a direction. This is different.

"Am I to be a hostage in this cab or are we going to your place? First full sentence she has spoken to a man or woman in a long, long time. Why speak?

"If you want to be a hostage that can be arranged. A shark's smile. Just for show, out of habit.

This game she knows. Checking the Cabbie attention is on the rear view mirror she hooks her long leg over the New Man's and runs her nails over the flesh exposed at the top of his shirt. He turns those bored, laughing eyes at her.

"We can fuck later. First we should talk

Not one of those! Yawn. She retrieves her leg and fussily straightens her skirt. Conversation was never her forte. What do people talk about these days? What do men talk about with women? She knows the chain of words to get a man to bed, but what to say when bed is a far more distant destination, not the goal, but the epilogue?

"So what do you think of the weather we've been having. The words come out heavy and lifeless, dropping to the floor of the cab and rolling around on the floor.

"The weather is not why I found you

She perks up. A stalker could provide some entertain for the evening.

"I have been looking for you for a long time

"I'm flattered I'm sure

"You have no idea what you are, do you?

"Gender: female, age: 27, job: boring, sexuality: variable. I think I have a pretty good idea. Oh wait, is this the point where you start telling me about how Jesus will change my life? Interesting technique you have for recruiting, pulling a man in front of me. Is that what the God Squad is doing these days?

"For someone who doesn't talk much, you talk a lot

"I've been converted

"I hope not. He shares one of those shark smiles again. Dangerous, the kind that gets a woman wet and begging before the night has even begun. A bit like her smile actually. She shifts in her seat. It was having an effect on her. Curiouser and curiouser.

"I'm sorry. He tones done the look. "Habit. You know how it is.

"No, tell me about it

"A demonstration. To the driver, "Stop here

He helps her out of the taxi, a new man indeed. She thinks to ask his name. Decides she doesn't need the weight it holds and lets it go.

It is early, sun rising in the East. She turns to face it and sees red through her closed eyes. They are at Embankment, one of her favourite hunting grounds. It is too early for anyone more attractive than the odd bin man or homeless man huddled by the entrance to the underground. No rich pickings here at the moment.

She turns to see him heading up the stairs to the bridge. She assesses him.

Underneath the suit there is definitely a good body, she knows this as dowser knows where there is water. She guesses dark hairs curling on his chest to match the wavy dark hair on his head. As to his vital statistics¦ she has a sense about that as well. She watches the way he walks. The clues are there if you know where to look. Out of body she sees herself naked. Imagines him next to her. Do their bodies match? It's never bothered her before. She's never really seen the other one, even in mirrors and film. Never bothered by her lover's looks, only watching her grey eyes, watching her limbs shining, slick with sweat. But now she wants to know. It bothers her.

He has turned back to see if she is following and sees the thought in her eyes. He smiles. And then she knows. They match perfectly.

She joins him on the bridge. There is an infinity of silence before he speaks.

"You think we match.

"You don't?

"I know we do¦ You only think we do. You've forgotten.

"Have we been together before? She feels like she is spinning. She takes hold of the bridge and the confusion spreads out. Lights change erratically, a bird falls from the sky, and a woman goes into labour early. Signs and portents.

"What do you mean? She feels like the bridge is swaying. He takes her hand away from the bridge and holds it tight. Now there is only the pulse between them, a heartbeat. She has felt this before, but only coming from her lovers. Not two ways like this.

They stay like that long enough for the morning rush to start. Bodies swirl around them, women in suits, men in suits, sexuality squashed into tight shoes for a days work.

It starts subtly, his free hand held out to the side, knocking into the people as they rush past the statuesque couple. Chain reaction. One person touched, touches another, who touches a third, a fourth, a fifth. The pulse spreads. The little tricks with the Sunday Girl and the PWC Man were nothing to this. The Sun feels warmer. Coats are removed. Suit Jackets go next. Shirts are unbuttoned. The pulse catches them all in its beat. A man smiles at a woman who smiles at another woman who smiles at a man. Hands reach out to feel bodies passing in the opposite direction. Breasts, chests, groins and behinds are touched fleetingly. Couples form, divide and multiply. A dance of looks and touches. Lips come into play as the New Man kisses her. She feels a hundred lips caressing hers, a hundred workers working on the bridge. He traces a line up her thigh, under her skirt, and a hundred hands follow his. A hundred squashed sexualities are freed and fly on that bridge on the Thames. And when he makes her come, she is not alone.

There is a pause, and the world returns to normal. No embarrassment, no shame, but no words as the suits start back on their way to work. There is some confusion, but it fades during the day, and soon the pulse on the bridge is remembered only in abstract fantasies in the dark, on their own. What if¦ what if a group of strangers on a bridge started touching each other? What if on the way to work this man touched me while I touched the woman to my left who kissed a man who stroked another¦? What if in the midst of this a man and a woman shared a moment of pure, explosive, sexy, divinity? What if they were there one moment, and then gone.