|Premier League Woman. (standard:humor, 694 words)|
|Author: red1hols||Added: May 03 2004||Views/Reads: 2502/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Be nice to people on the way up, you might need them on the way down.|
Premier League Woman. Early evening commuters packed the train, but she found a seat. Hot, humid stifling air filled the carriage, but not a drop of sweat sullied her form. All of us rolled with the jolting and jarring while she calmly sipped at her coffee. Not a drop dared to escape those painstakingly painted lips and tarnish her clothes Just outside Birmingham, she rose from her seat with the poise of an actress rising to give a soliloquy. Her flowing towards me caused the world to slow. Not for her any unsightly grab for support. No matter how the speeding express conspired against her balance, she maintained her measured grace. She knew I was watching her. She knew everyone was watching her. An air of superior confidence oozed from the tips of her expensive blonde hair to the tips of her outrageously expensive stiletto shoes. Women like her like men watching. Once they have burned their image into your mind, they invade your dreams and turn them into nightmares. She took small practiced steps. With feet following an invisible balance beam, her designer skirt took on the sexual rhythm dictated by her hips. Bold nail varnish, applied by the best manicurist money could buy, accentuated her arms as they added to the loose-limbed gait. A silver thread shot through the slate grey tailored suit with such care that it caught just enough light to stand out. The cream silk blouse clung to her torso in a way that drew your eyes to her tanned cleavage. The whole outfit was as clear of creases as when it hung in a classy boutique. That single ensemble probably cost more than I earn in a month. As she approached me, her impeccably made up face broke a smile that showed off teeth, slightly too white, yet testament to the skills of her dentist. So expertly flirtatious was she that I and all around me believed the smile was for us alone. I didn't let myself be deceived again. It takes a high degree of cool to open a toilet door on a train and enter the cubicle beyond as if you are entering a box at the opera. That cool was there in abundance matched with calculated execution. With such cool, such style and the wealth to display it, I knew this was a woman out of my league. As the door locked behind her reality enfolded me. Lesser women than her have reached into my heart, toyed with it a while, before ripping it out. She plays in the Premier League while I know I am strictly amateur. It would be strictly no contest should I even try an approach. Bitterness and inadequacy coursed through me. My catalogue of failed relationships and humiliation with every woman who entered my life forced itself into my brain. Adrenaline built with my anger. Slowly and irrationally, she became the embodiment of every disgrace I suffered. My fists clenched so hard my arms began to shake. I hunched forward in my seat. Rational notions eluded me; all deliberations conjured images of retribution. Instinct set in and steeled my body. I saw those exclusive shoes first. Slowly, I slipped towards the edge of my seat. The first titter of amusement reached my ears. It planted enough confusion to delay me. My eyes swept up her long legs and my anger found itself choked by mirth. As she passed each row, the laughter increased. By the time she had swung herself back into her seat, hilarity had swept the carriage. Her bubble of supreme confidence deflated, she looked around trying to understand the joke. We got off at the same station. I followed her through the concourse, watching everyone staring at her. In the street as she stood trying to hail a taxi, I almost weakened. I almost let her in on the joke. Maybe I would have done, had she not shot me such a disdainful glance. Never mind. I'm sure she realised soon enough. Perhaps, I should have thanked her. The strange stain on her grey knickers looked like a meandering bug as those firm buttocks exercised. The hole in her tights corralled what little fat on her thighs providing the illusion of cellulite. Vengeance may have come from her own hand, but it was just as cleansing. I couldn't have hoped to get the opportunity to tuck her skirt into her cheap knickers. Cheap stained knickers are such a turn off. I never knew that holy tights could provide such relief. Tweet
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