Admittedly I must start by admitting I don’t take the Tube in London during peak hour all that often. I have the fortune / misfortune of working outside of London and are therefore reliant on ye olde’ over ground network.
I had two appointments on Oxford Street this afternoon regarding London Fashion Week, of course running on gay time I was about thirty minutes late for each of them. One of the guys I was meeting is also gay, so for him I was right on time; the angry lesbian whom I was to meet afterwards was far from impressed as I strolled through her studio with latte in hand…. Anyway I digress…
The sleazy Central line. Had I known it was like this earlier perhaps I’d spend less time in the changing room of my gym? Personal space seems like a myth when you’re that far underground. Never before (wearing clothes) have I stood so close to someone that our crotches were touching in public. Through this lad’s tracksuit and without using hands, I was able to feel his religion -if you see where I’m going here. The entire journey between Oxford Circus and Liverpool Street I spent trying not to move my pelvic region in anyway, all the whilst trying to visualise Margaret Thatcher trying to apply nail polish to her toes in the nude.
With every thud and shutter the train makes as it hurtles along the track I found that I was bounced back and forth by the gaggle of people surrounding me, giving me no option but to go with the flow of movement and let my stationary hips meet his as they flew my way. Awkwardly our eyes met, I think he wanted to apologise, of course no one talks on the tube so he was forced to mouth this. Perhaps what I interpreted as “sorry” could very well have been him beginning to subtly mouth the first few digits of his phone number (mental note: be more observant).
Embarrassed, he squeezed between the throng of people by the door and pushed his way onto the platform at Liverpool Street.
With any exit from the Tube during peak hour it then sees the entire population of standing commuters shuffle for slightly more space before the next lot of sardines’ board. Swept up in the arrival of these new passengers and the disappearance of the semi-erect (possibly Jewish) boy I found myself launched between a married couple. I don’t think they got the memo…They continued their conversation at a normal volume, further compensated for the fact that I was sandwiched between them. I expected that beyond Liverpool Street the crowds would reduce a little, I was wrong. The journey continued and I now had the crotch of a sweaty middle aged bearded guy essentially up my backdoor, and his little wife’s vagina further applying pressure on my already fitted, now extra tight skinny leg suit trousers.
I believe it’s only a matter of weeks before we have a miracle conception during peak hour on the Central line.
Given gays have turned everything into some sort of beat or cruising ground – gyms, toilets, national parks, cemeteries, etc – I am surprised that there’s not more lurking about in the peak hour mass waiting patiently to clamber onto an already packed train. Perhaps this is a dating avenue that we’re yet to explore. I guess it could work like speed dating, (a) find yourself a good looking boy (b) place yourself in a suitable position among the crowd and then (c) if there’s some chemistry alight at the next station and head to a bar… or his.