London to Brighton Ch. 01

I sit in Dylan Rey's hair salon on Tunbridge Wells High Street and stare at my new little black bob.

I worried it wouldn't suit my face, that I wouldn't be able to manage the upkeep, and that at thirty-six I was too old. Scariest of all, if I didn't have long hair would I look blokey -- the perennial risk for a transgender woman?

But it is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

A chunky, straight fringe hangs from a small white parting. Neat curtains either side of my face ease into dagger points that curl towards my chin and create a striking angle along my jaw. The back is rounded, curving up to my crown from a little shaved bit on the back of my neck.

I love the way it moves, supple yet full, and the tickly feel of it on my cheek. Like me, it is both feminine and androgynous. The power it conveys is like permission to be everything I've ever wanted, and I feel like a superheroine.

I'm in a little blue bodycon dress, like those worn by female science officers on Star Trek, but without any insignia. I wear thin black tights, black boots, and carry a brown leather handbag. My nails and makeup are already done, so I am ready for the evening.

I pay, Dylan and I embrace, and I head up the High Street on a warm late July afternoon.

As a trans woman, I still sometimes feel nervous when I step outside. You'd have to look closely to tell, but people do tend to look closely at me. I'm small and slim, with big brown eyes, a full mouth and a rather large nose with a diamond stud through the left nostril. I'm good at makeup; I like to look pretty, and now I've got this lush little bob, which makes me feel so sexy it's like a tingling in my soul.

Although I've had my facial and body hair lasered off, I haven't had any operations and I don't take hormones, because I'm perfect as I am. I realise a statement like that can sound arrogant, but it took me a long time to be able to say it.

Today though, I don't feel nervous. Instead, I feel very comfortable, and very happy. Summer is here, and I love summer. It's as if I have found my own sunlight and it's beaming out of me. There are days when you know everything is going to be great, and this is one of them.

I arrive at the train station and strut through the ticket office. I've already got my ticket; it's on my phone, because I dislike paperwork. I'm going to Brighton for the weekend, and I have not booked any accommodation.

You will have gathered by now that while I have confidence I do not always have self-esteem. One reality masks the other well enough for it not to matter most of the time. However, when your lifestyle is as high-risk as mine it's worth knowing how you'll react under pressure, including when that pressure is the body of another person as they have sex with you.

Given the way my weekends usually turn out, I've decided not to drive because of the state I will be in tomorrow. So, I board the train and have a pleasant but uneventful trip up to London, where I change and get on a direct train back down South.

This part of the journey turns out to be more eventful.

The man who will be my first lover of the evening looks like a scaffolder in his late twenties. His football shirt reveals that he supports Millwall. I imagine he is off to Brighton to crash a party he has not been invited to because it's being held by a bloke he does not like. The reasons for this dislike will not make sense to anyone, especially him.

He stomps past my seat, stops, looks at me, mutters 'Fuck', and barrels on. Then he pauses with sudden, almost uncanny grace, looks around for an empty seat (there are plenty) before sitting with his back to me. After that he huffs in exasperation and slithers across to the seat opposite. He tries to pretend he is not staring in my direction, even as I watch him do it.

His head has been shaved but not recently (ditto face) and he is that odd burned-meat colour that white English people go when they think they know better than physics and the reasonable expectations of their own flesh. He's got a small cluster of features in a large face, as if they have shrunk, and sports the following tattoos: the England flag, writing I suspect I wouldn't be able to read even if I was next to him, and something that looks like a carburettor. Although his upper body is an untoned yet muscular slab, his blue footie shirt is still overlarge, as if it's scared to get close. His shorts are too small.

I want to find out how he smells. I suspect there will be a touch of perspiration, and the hoppy residue from the can of lager he carries. Delicious. I also want to free him from those shorts. Slowly.

We've got the carriage to ourselves. Most people wanting a weekend in Brighton are already there, and it's too early for the nightlife. I'm heading down now because I want to see how much sex I will earn with my black bob before everyone gets too drunk to satisfy me.

Millwall keeps looking at my hair; I can tell because he stares at my eyes, then lifts his gaze a touch. He licks his lips, stares out of the window and drinks lager. It's Bud, which is a surprise; I'd have expected Stella. Then I notice it's one of those 568ml cans unique to Bud that is almost the length of my forearm. Cunning.

I get out my phone and open the Grindr app. I don't get much hassle for being trans on there, and it's usually from losers whose 'firm views' wither under fire from a series of one-liners I have devised for the purpose. People slag Grindr off, but the trans apps are useless, and Tinder is too fiddly. I wait for the app to refresh with my new location, gathering interest for use on my return journey.

Of course, I don't really care about Grindr. I care about Millwall, whose presence has evolved into a smorgasbord placed just out of reach of a starving woman. Phones are as much a prop as anything else. 'Look how busy and popular I am' goes one narrative. 'Regard my concerned expression and consider what daunting drama my life involves' goes another. I am currently essaying the 'I'm a bit ditzy so don't know how cute I am as I look at pictures of kittens' with innocent wide eyes and mouth lightly pursed. You know the one.

After a few minutes of this nonsense I snap my eyes up to stare right into his. There is nothing innocent about me now. I am looking at him, and he is looking at me; we are both thinking the same thing, and I want him to know it. He holds my gaze, then looks out of the window again. He goes to sip his beer, but seems to have forgotten where his mouth is, so he lowers the can again.

This is the thing about men. They have this reputation for being on a constant sexual Charge of the Light Brigade, but in fact are bloody hard work. Take this fellow. It could not be clearer that he wants me, and I could not be clearer that he can have me. He is not -- and I do not think this an unfair assumption -- what I would call a deep thinker. Why, then, does he not crack on?

We have about forty minutes left -- less if someone gets on at the next stop. The beauty of my little black bob demands satisfaction.

With a start, I realise I have no photos of it. I was so overwhelmed at the hair salon I completely forgot. A well-known issue with perfect hair is that like all perfection it does not last. Shiny black bobs are the ultimate expression of this reality.

There are many hazards: rain, excess moisture in the air, gale-force winds.

Sweat.

I might already be too late!

I fumble up the camera on my phone and get a few snaps from different angles. When I check the photos, I discover my bob is still perfect. Phew!

As I edit the images for background blur and optimal lighting, I find one picture that's going to be the profile pic for social media, work email, and even my next business card. I look happy, with a halo of light around my parting.

However, I would like other photos in which I am not so obviously on a train. I must change position, which is a good excuse to get up and slink pass Millwall.

"The lighting isn't quite right," I explain.

He looks at me, then stares ahead.

This is tricky. Rightly or wrongly, us trans women are often seen as exotic creatures, and people don't always know what to say to us. Now this poor chap is being accosted by one, and she's mental to boot. Awkward.

I go to sashay past.

"It is," he says.

His voice is higher than I expected; higher than mine.

"Hm?"

"It's perfect," he says.

I stand in the aisle and look at him.

He sits by the window on one of those four-person arrangements where two seats face each other. Close up I see he is literally twice my size. Given how small and slender I am, it amazes me how I instigate these situations with bull men who could rip me apart if they wanted.

Perhaps I secretly want that too.

I move closer. He glances at my boots, then looks straight ahead again. Slowly, I extend my hand towards him. He clutches his can tighter. My hands are the only part of me that's bigger than anything on him. I extend a long finger with a red-lacquered nail until it taps the side of the tin.

"May I?" I whisper.

"I had a cold. Don't want you getting it."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. When was this?"

"Week before last."

"Are you quite recovered?"

"Probably."

I leave my nail pressed against the can. He snorts in a way that might indicate laughter and inclines the can to me. I take it. It's still very cold; it must have come from a fridge in the railway station shop. There's a trace of condensation around the rim, and the can is three quarters full. I take a couple of deep swigs, then we both regard the can. Millwall's expression reminds me of Bambi's mother, moments before her exit from the film.

"I love Bud," I say.

"I prefer Stella."

Ha!

"It's the larger cans --"

"Yes!" he says, expression animated for the first time.

I hand back the beer and indicate the seat opposite.

"May I?"

He shrugs. Charming.

"Oh," I say. "I don't want to impose."

"No."

I raise an eyebrow.

"You're not," he begins. "It's not..."

He points at the seat. I perch demurely on the edge, put my handbag down beside me, and look out of the window.

Kent gives way to Sussex in a racing vista of deep green fields, tight clumps of woodland, and bright bodies of water that flash in the golden evening sun. The beer makes it even lovelier. One thing alcohol doesn't get enough credit for is the unique perspective it gives to appreciating landscape. I feel like I'm deeper in the countryside, as if it's rushing through me instead of the other way around.

"Beautiful," Millwall whispers.

"Isn't it though?" I sigh.

"I mean... err..."

He is suddenly in front of me, the can held out again. I look up at him past my fringe. He seems out of breath, almost panicky. I lift my chin and part my lips. He blinks, then eases one of those massive hands around the back of my neck. The feel of my hair on his dry, calloused skin is exquisite.

He leans forward, his face tense with concentration as he puts the slippery edge of the can to my lips and pours. I gulp, and my eyes go wide as I gulp again, then again. I don't think he's trying to overwhelm me; it feels more like generosity. Finally, he eases the can down, takes a huge swig, crumples the can and throws it into the small bin between the seats on the other side of the aisle.

He looks down at me. I bat my lashes.

"Now we've run out of beer," I say, "what are we going to do?"

"Are you pre-op?"

I'm sometimes disappointed at not always 'passing', but only slightly because I am never without the right sort of attention.

"On the basis that I'm not going to have any operations because I'm perfect as I am," I say. "No."

He thinks for a moment. I get up and stand in front of him. My face is level with his neck, what there is of it, and I put my hands on those brute shoulders. It's like holding a sack of warm concrete. I push down, and he sits.

Smoothing my dress, I take care to get the creases from around my breasts, down my flat stomach so he can see my abs, to my hips. He strains to see the bulge between my legs, but he won't; I'm too skilled for that.

I lean down, unzip my bag and take out a 25ml bottle of poppers. It's a new one, although I'd already removed the cellophane because that bastard stuff is so hard to get off they should build jails out of it. He follows my movements and his breath deepens. He puts his hand up my skirt, rests it on my thigh, then takes it away.

I do not respond; I am busy taking ages unscrewing the lid. Like Millwall's can of lager, the poppers are in the biggest receptacle I could get.

Millwall puts his hand up my skirt again, and the back of his hand brushes me between the legs. Unsure what his desire for me means, he snatches his hand away as his breath gets jerky.

My gaze clicks to his.

"I am a beautiful woman," I say. "I wish to be treated as both beautiful, and a woman, albeit a slutty one. That is all."

He's breathing deeply now, and his hands shake. I get the cap off and hold the bottle under his nose.

"Breathe, baby," I say.

He presses a shaky hand to his left nostril and inhales hard, as if worried I will take the bottle away. I don't, and he sniffs again, a smaller one this time, and then repeats for the other side. He moves his head back; I hold the bottle to my own nose and inhale the sweet chemical dread that opens such beauty inside me. I only do a couple of tokes because the evening is young, and I do not want to land on the Dark Shore. I recap the bottle and leave it on the little white-topped table between the seats.

The countryside flows by, more smoothly now. It's as if the removal of tension and the speedier flow of blood is reflected by our race through a sweet golden-green landscape under its rich blue vault.

Almost absent-mindedly I kneel, aware of the feet of countless commuters who have rested their shoes on this spot: the delectable filth of it, and me on my knees in that great depth of shared experience. I can almost see everyone who has ever sat here, watching me as if time has shunted together to reveal us all in our boundless erotic curiosity.

I wanted to take my time with Millwall's shorts, but they seem to simply vanish. He smells as good as I expected, like a great roast dinner. When he spreads his legs; I inhale him for a while, and surreptitiously get the wrapper off a condom. I then look up into his eyes and grip him as he hardens. He gasps, fascinated by the sight of my hand on his cock. I get the condom on him before he realises; he goes to speak, and I say, "Don't worry, you won't notice."

And he doesn't.

I expect him to push my head down until I gag, but he is happy for me to work him and get used to his rhythm. When I'm ready, I take it right the way down, and it's then that he thrusts, at which point I don't care. He holds the poppers under my nose, and I take a couple of hits. By the time he has capped the bottle and replaced it, the sweetness rushing around me would outrun the train.

He puts his hands on my head.

I worry he will mess up my hair, but his touch is gentle. As I suck, I realise how much he loves and wants to preserve my precious bob. He strokes the fringe with the back of his fingers, then places his hands either side of my head, sandwiching those two bouncy, cheeky little curtains.

It is so lovely, to have my beautiful hair held and enjoyed on a speeding train with a hard cock in my mouth, hearing the sighs of someone delighted into solid arousal by my mouth, my hands, my body.

I reach under my skirt and grip myself the way I gripped him. I shudder with pleasure, and with truth.

This is what I love, because this is what I am for.

I feel something strange then, a drip of something in the little parting. It's warm, and he presses it in with his fingers. Spit, I realise. He has marked me as his.

"To remember me by," he whispers, barely able to speak.

I look up at him with lust-crazed eyes and mock outrage.

"Well," I say, my voice thick because it's harder to speak. "That does it."

I have him lubed even faster than I got the condom on. I stand, turn my back, and lift my blue dress.

I'm wearing suspenders and black lacy gaff panties with an open back. I don't have to take anything off; I only need to grip the table for balance, lower myself, find his cock with my right, and guide him in.

He's a big lad, and I need to get used to the penetration. For a while I sit with his cock in me, then I tighten my back-pussy muscle and he barks.

I take a couple more popper hits, which loosen me enough to start sliding up and down. His hands tighten on my hips, and I wish I could package the contrasting sensations of big, rough hands on my soft naked skin. I would make a fortune.

Other things endear him as he fucks me, such as the way he lowers the armrest so I can use it with the table to manoeuvre myself over his cock. Damn, I love sex with practical men! When I get hot, he lifts my little blue dress up over my breasts, and runs his gorgeous bastard hands over my slippery abs. He remains uncertain about Big Clit, but his attention is so gratifying I don't care.

One of the reasons I work out so hard is to keep going during sex regardless of intensity. However, as we approach Preston Park my legs begin to ache. I don't want to stop, not least because I can see my black bob swing, as if it is someone beautiful I've always admired, who is now my friend. My rhythm falters, however.

"Hm," Millwall says.

He stands up with me on his cock.

His legs are longer than mine, so I get on tiptoe, but there's still pressure on my pussy. He walks me to the seat opposite and I get up on my knees.

"Brace yourself."

I grip the headrest, angle myself to receive him, and he pounds me.

It's as if everything before was to prepare me for this ferocious assault on my intimacy. He grunts and snarls, shouts and thrusts -- oh God he thrusts.

Soon he enters a smooth, rapid-fire rhythm and I know he's going to come. I love this part: the physical pounding, the engulfing of another person's sex, and the knowledge that I am the inspiration for such ecstasy. He grips me and thrusts harder, harder, harder...

Then he's gone. Out of my body, out of my soul; out of this brief romance when we were the only two people in the world.

Hot and panting, I leave my dress pushed up to cool me, and watch as he peels off the condom. Unexpectedly, he pushes his finger into the white bulb of his come, then strokes the dagger tips of my bob as they point towards my chin.

"So you can smell me later," he says as his breathing calms, "when another man is fucking you."

My nostrils flare as I inhale deeply.

"Yes," I whisper.

I tighten the cap of the poppers and slip the bottle into my handbag as he drops the condom in the bin. There's a toilet cubicle at the end of the carriage; I strut into it, lock the door and look in the mirror.

I certainly look like I've been fucked. I open the window and cool air rushes over me. Wipes ensure I won't have a wet patch on my dress when I sit down, while pocket deodorant and a spritz of perfume deal with any aromatic evidence. My lipstick is a touch ragged, but that's only to be expected and easily fixed. Foundation and other products were applied with this activity in mind -- which is to say they're quality, waterproof, and haven't slid off in the heat of summer exertion.

And my shiny black bob is still perfect... almost. Given the products pressed, dried and rubbed into it that isn't too surprising, but it's started to kink at the back. I lightly brush it until it's once more the flawless, shiny black helmet of a boldly questing galactic agent.

I pull my dress down, gather equipment into my handbag, and leave the cubicle.

Millwall has gone. The train stopped at one of the stations I can never remember (Hove?) and he must have got out there. I smell the tips of my hair again. Sweet.