Train of Thought

The Metro

Finally, after three years of non-stop haggling, shifting goal-posts and missed deadlines, I received a letter from my solicitor confirming that the last of Beast's properties had been sold.

I heaved a sigh of relief. That place had been a major draw on my patience and tenacity for far too long. This letter meant an end to three years of back and forth, push and pull, give and take, a process wherein it quickly became very painfully obvious that the only individuals getting rich off this long, protracted scheme were the solicitors.

For those unfamiliar with this saga, Beast was my former band mate, my mentor and occasional lover during a brief flirtation with the music business some twenty years ago. He was forty two when he died of pancreatic cancer in 2019.

I'd never even visited the house until a few months ago and I remember the emotions from that day very clearly. I opened the front door on a cold, cold October morning and entered a barren desert, a heartless shell devoid of any love, of any connection, of any human feeling.

And, in an instant, I felt crushed.

This decaying pile of bricks had been Beast's final hideout whilst the pancreatic cancer that was killing him took hold and then wrecked his body.

"An odd choice for a place to live," I thought. "Not exactly his style at all."

And yet, looking around, I realised he would have had everything he needed at his finger tips. A convenience store over the road for food. Next to it, an Off-licence for booze and cigarettes, and his main Dealer had installed himself a few doors down. Quite a nice man by all accounts.

But perhaps this property's most important selling point of all was that it was within walking distance of Beast's Oncologist, a smart choice given that his alimony payments meant that he could no longer afford to take the bus.

Beast bequeathed the bulk of his estate, and this house, to me - in part to punish his faithless wife but also as my reward for years of loyalty in spite of his personal quirks. We both shared an earnest desire not to wash each other's dirty linen in public. Certain members of the British Royal Family might like to think hard on that last point.

Anyway, skip forwards in time to January 2023.

There was a thick layer of ice on the pavement when I arrived, bright and early, at the front door. I wanted to be there simply to ensure that everything was in order before I finally handed the keys over to the new owners. The house was still cold and bare, and spartan to the point of being monastic. I was ready to say goodbye, not because I had any real emotion invested in this dismal frame but mainly because, four years after he jumped the Shark, I still missed my friend. His former house felt sad and lonely and bereft of joy. This is not how I wanted to remember the man and this is not how houses are meant to end their days. This place deserved better, I thought.

I stared out through the thin and faded net curtains, and into the main street. It, too, was deserted. Not a single sign of life. None at all. No children playing in the road. No cars running up and down. Not even an aged and weatherworn drudge washing her front step.

I threw open the back door and walked out into a small jungle of parched grass and fallen branches, and immediately stumbled over a haphazard path made from a mess of broken bricks casually strewn about the yard. At the end of the garden sat the remains of a barbecue, with beer cans and burger wrappers lying wherever you looked.

"What a way to live?" I thought. But then... Could you even describe this sorry state of affairs as 'living'? Some do, doubtless.

A Metro train sailed past the bottom of the garden at a steady, even pace.

I smiled.

"Memories," I thought, and I was instantly transported back in time to those moments when I was a regular passenger, heading home from another indifferent day at school. I remembered how I would look through the windows of the houses that lined the railway tracks in search of any sign of life. You would typically see people sitting outside, some drinking tea or weeding or mowing a lawn. Within, you might see people cooking or doing homework or just watching TV. In the summer months, you might see the occasional sunbather although they were rare.

However, every now and again, you'd see something or someone you perhaps ought not to have seen. A bare thigh. A shapely leg. A boob. A bare bum. Typically male, sometimes female, such a vision made my day.

And you know something? I was jealous. I so wanted to be that person, innocently, or maybe not so innocently, flashing a small section of bare skin in the direction of an unsuspecting passenger. The joy that comes from the simplest of titillations. To be seen. To be viewed. To be admired. I have always found such pleasures to be utterly intoxicating.

Why? I'm an exhibitionist. Always have been. Hopefully always will be. Simple, really.

Another memory rose to the surface.

Some years ago, maybe 1999 or so, I really don't remember, I got on to a Metro at the Haymarket station in Newcastle bound for Whitley Bay and beyond. Nothing remarkable. Except that, on this occasion, I was wearing just a pair of flat-souled shoes and a long, long over coat. Nothing else.

What happened?

Nothing.

Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. Nobody really paid me any real attention at all. Not at first, anyway. To the majority, I was just a short-arsed, skinny goth chick on the way home from a boozy afternoon in a downmarket bar on the other side of the tracks.

Did I flash anyone? Did I do the whole exhibitionist thing?

Of course I did. Where would the fun be if I didn't, or hadn't?

I flashed a couple of my fellow passengers, specifically an old geezer who wouldn't stop staring even when his wife suggested that, if he didn't refrain then she'd cut his balls off and feed them to the cat. I flashed him because his leering wasn't pleasant or friendly, or well-intentioned. He was just a letch. So I gave him what he wanted. Visibly shaken, he nearly fainted. He certainly had to have a sit down. His wife? She was furious and ran off as fast as she could in search of a station guard. Good luck finding a member of staff in those days, or any day for that matter.

I also flashed a bunch of guys from the safety and security of the platform just as their train pulled out of the station. They were just loud and leery, and their jeering comments hurt more than a little. I wanted to make the point that, as available as I was, I was also completely unavailable. They didn't like that.

Happy days, eh?

Anyway, back to today.

I watched the Metro train sail into the distance with a smile and a sense of nostalgia for my ancient past. To the residents of this humble street, the Metro train was, by and large, invisible. It was so frequent, so regular, so utterly commonplace that I'm convinced it barely registered. Just part of the regular background noise to life in the twenty first century.

And then I had an idea.

I pulled out my phone and googled the Metro timetable for the adjacent line. I checked the clock on the wall. Assuming it was right then I had another twelve or so minutes until the next train went past and, since I had nothing better to do for the next hour or so, I started to feel an old familiar twitch in my lower regions.

Should I? Shouldn't I? Where's the harm? Who would know? Or care?

I checked my watch again, and again, and compared the time on the wall clock with my phone's clock, all the while wondering, scheming, imagining, what might happen.

With no more than sixty seconds to spare, I decided to dive head long into an adventure.

I skipped to the back bedroom, pulled the curtains shut and undressed as quickly as I could. Mindful of the bare wooden floorboards, I stood peering out through dirty unwashed windows, and waited for the train to approach. As soon as the driver's cab had passed... I threw the curtains wide open.

The last three carriages passed as swans moving majestically down a shallow stream. Each of the metal containers was far from empty and at least half a dozen faces were turned in my direction at that precise moment but...

Nobody moved. Nobody waved. Nobody screamed or felt giddy or tried to take a picture.

Bugger.

Well, that was a disappointment.

Am I so invisible? Are people so self-involved that they can't look up from their phones if only for a second?

Then again, what if they couldn't see me? Hardly likely, eh?

I checked my timetable. Another train would pass in the opposite direction in a matter of minutes.

I went to the window, pulled the curtains wide and struck a pose.

The train sailed past and... Same as before. No reaction at all. Nobody noticed. Nobody waved or smiled or shouted or anything. Disappointed, I flopped back into a chair and began to contemplate getting dressed.

Then the penny dropped. The sun was directly to the south and, from the reflections on the adjacent roof tops, I reasoned that the sun's rays would have been bouncing directly into the eyes of the passengers. No wonder they couldn't see me. They'd have been blinded.

I had an idea. I grabbed my clothes, went downstairs to the living room and closed the door behind me.

I found the keys to the patio doors and ... they worked. The lock was a bit rusty but snapped into place on the second attempt. I pulled the door wide and stepped outside. The coast was clear, so far as I could tell. The back garden wasn't overlooked except by the Metro track itself and maybe a few buildings at the far end of the row but I doubt they'd have seen anything.

I checked my watch. Eight minutes. However, by now, my heart was punching a hole in my diaphragm and I started to have some major second thoughts. Was this wise? What if I was seen? What if I was photographed?

Time for the big glasses and the coffee cup. Carefully placed, those two items can provide a remarkable disguise. I also spotted a spare Vape, a fake-cigarette, lying atop the kitchen counter which I thought would make an excellent accessory.

Another time check. Six minutes to make a cup of coffee, find my big sunglasses and adopt a pose.

I pulled the patio door wide, trying to frame myself in the opening.

I checked my reflection.

Hair? Good. Boobs? Sort of perky but not quite. Ass? Tight and firm. Pubes? As scruffy as a Magpie's nest. Never mind.

The train crawled into view some fifty meters away and drew closer and closer...

With a coffee cup in my right hand and my left arm snaking over my head and touching the top of the door frame, I crossed my legs and put the fake Vape cigarette close to my lips.

I'd found the perfect pose. Very Bridget Bardot, I thought.

And then...

Beee-Barp!

... the unmistakable tone of the engine's horn.

Either the driver was signalling to her would-be passengers at the next station or... I'd been seen. I decided it was the latter. Definitely the latter.

I watched from behind my tinted frames as the carriages passed before me, and waved. Heads turned. Hands waved in reply. Phones were pointed in my direction.

I waved back.

And then it was all over as the patient murmuration of the motors faded into the distance.

I skipped back into the living room and pulled the curtains shut behind me. I'd done it. I'd finally become one of those soft targets I'd fantasised about all those years before.

I was elated.

Time to get dressed before somebody called the cops.

And yet...

There was something still left undone, some tiny detail incomplete.

I had no record of the event, either still or moving, and I wanted a solid, tangible artefact for my files. Why? Isn't that incriminating? Well, yes, it is. But...

I pulled my dress over my head and went out into the garden where I carefully positioned my phones. I installed my business phone at the bottom of the garden, propped up on two building bricks yanked from the path and positioned it so that its lens had a commanding view of the patio doors. I moved closer to the house and balanced my personal phone on a table so that it was inclined upwards in the direction of the train tracks.

Six minutes to go.

Then five.

Then four.

Three.

Two.

One...

I ran to the bottom of the garden and touched the record button. I ran back towards the house and set the second phone running before dropping the dress and taking up position in the door frame. Lord, I had some pretty mean goosebumps.

The train approached. I struck my pose and waited, and waved.

No loud honk this time but... plenty of staring faces. Plenty of waving hands. Plenty of cameras.

Success.

Once dressed, I recovered my phones and checked the footage. Both had worked flawlessly so I was a happy bunny.

Well knowing that I would later assemble these clips into a full length movie, I photographed another five minutes of B roll footage, mostly backgrounds, filler material, static objects, coffee cups, a boiling kettle, the Vape, the curtains gently flapping in the wind. I added some additional A roll shots of my ass, my boobs, my foof, both in long shot and close up, just for good measure.

More B roll footage was required. You can't ever go wrong with more B roll. Floorboards. My toes. My discarded clothes neatly piled next to the door. Keys. Yes, the door keys. All very necessary if you want to set the tone and scope of the final movie.

Oh, yeah. Ambient sound. Very, very necessary for building he right ambience. [Yes, I'm a film maker]

And yet, this still wasn't enough. Something was burning away in my crotch.

Still massively turned on, I went upstairs, shut the bedroom door behind me and cracked one out whilst leaning up against an empty wardrobe, which rocked back and forth every time I started to lose control. To say that I was sopping wet would be incorrect. I was utterly dripping. In fact, I think I squirted a little, which is unusual these days.

Once I'd sufficiently recovered from this impromptu quick naughty, I checked my watch. Ten to two and the Estate Agent was due to collect the keys on the hour.

I dressed quickly and put away all evidence of my former sins including the coffee cup and the fake Vape.

The Estate Agent turned up a few minutes later. I did wonder if she might be into some rumpy-pumpy but, alas, no. She was no more than a doe-eyed simpleton wearing too much make-up and too many fake nails, and did not appear even vaguely interested in a sapphic moment or two up against the kitchen counter.

Twenty minutes later and I was watching from the side of the road as the Estate Agent locked the property up for the last time. I had hoped to meet the new owners, to wish them well, to offer them support and encouragement. Alas, they'd been held up.

I felt kinda sad but then...

It's strange how your perception of a building or a place can change. When I first walked through that front door back in October, the house felt cold, unfriendly, desolate even and I knew in an instant I would never want live there. Too much bad karma. Too maudlin, I thought.

However, as I drove away for last time, the whole atmosphere felt different. Genuinely different, as if a light had been switched on somewhere beyond the dull facade and the weatherbeaten woodwork. I sensed that the building's whole aura had changed, renewed even, and the house now felt more like a home. Warm. Comfortable. Welcoming. Maybe that's all some of these old buildings need. A place to feel complete again, to act as a nurturing shelter for a new family starting out on the road to... wherever next.

Sounds a bit New Age if you ask me but... the sentiments made me feel good.

Yeah, very good.

Back at home, I edited my footage together over the next three or four days on my handy, dandy MacBook. I managed to build up something of a complete story, too. Once properly edited and then colour-graded, it looked quite good. Very arty. And, of course, I showed the result to my husband. Needless to say, he was elated. Utterly elated.

Why? Shouldn't he be well used to these shenanigans after... What is it? Four years together? Surely he's sick to death of staring at grainy pictures of my big, wobbly bottom and my unkempt crotch?

Well no, because in this instance, we both recognised that I'd regained something very special, something very important, both to myself and to our relationship.

I'd regained my self confidence, and my sexy, so to speak.

You see, it's been a pretty tough couple of months. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. Theo and I have been ill. Alex has been stressed over a project that went spectacularly wrong. I may or may not have been pregnant in the run up to Advent Sunday. I'm certainly not pregnant at the moment. That's for sure.

So, yeah. A tough couple of months.

And yet... This adventure made me happy. Very happy.

I started to feel some affection, real affection for that grey, decaying old shell of a building, a near derelict pile of Victorian bricks and mortar, which maybe hadn't seen a friendly face in four or five decades.

And suddenly I have my sexy back, my Mojo, the spark that keeps me going.

I felt renewed, empowered, fulfilled.

I hope the new residents of Beast's old house are happy. I hope they make themselves a gorgeous new life and enjoy it to the full. I hope they find time to renew the building's interior so that its redemption can continue apace. Above all, I hope they have time to tidy the garden.

And I'll remember today when I next go screaming past on the Metro en route to Whitley Bay.

The day I finally became the object of my own desire.