The whole freaking bus is filled with secrets. I hate secrets. But somehow, I know a lot of secrets. I know the man at the front cheated on his wife with the girlfriend of the man at the back. I know my colleague told his wife he wanted to divorce and got a new girlfriend later that same day. I know she in the middle is secretly in love with a woman but too scared to show her feelings. But I hope she does, the woman already knows and likes the idea. I know my friend wanted to cheat on his girlfriend, but I am pretty sure he didn’t. Or at least, not with me. With all these secrets, I can’t help wondering: why am I still here? I should have gotten out a long time ago. This can only go terribly wrong. And yet, here I am. In. The. Freaking. Bus.
The bus journey takes all evening and all night. Across the aisle sits a very handsome man, I am happy to call him one of my friends. He has seen and done it all. For a long time, I dreamed about travelling together. I wanted him to show me the big wide world. I would have joined the mile high club, of which he is already a member. I would have had my first threesome, of which he has had numerous. I would have been pleasured on the dancefloor of a night club, of which he has owned several but never used a remote-controlled vibrator in one. He would have had a sexual revolution, of which he has had none but needs it so desperately. Sadly, he chose differently, and now his flame is all black and ashes, not an amber left. It’s still painful for me to see, but it’s his life: it’s out of my control.
“What are you thinking of?” he whispers. “The mile high club” I answer equally softly. He smiles “No wonder. Have fun. Write a story about it.” He rearranges the pillow, crosses his arms, closes his eyes, and falls asleep in a minute. I wish I could do that. Instead, I push and pull at my pillow, trying to find a comfortable position but failing miserably. Annoyed, I give up and stare outside. The sun is setting, it’s a nice view but not particularly beautiful tonight, more like functional. Like masturbating, it’s nice but there are better ways to come. And yet, masturbating is better than dreaming about threesomes that never happen. Luckily, I can masturbate while dreaming about threesomes.
A soft rustle of movement pull my attention to the aisle again. Steadying herself with one hand, holding her blanket and pillow in one big packet in front of her, she looks straight into my eyes. Her eyes twinkle and her cheeks are red, her whole body is radiating. She looks beautiful. She looks at him: “He is asleep,” she says, stating the obvious. I nod, agreeing with the obvious and look questioningly at her. Silence. Completely ignoring me, she sits down next to me, puts the pillow in her neck, arranges the blanket over her and makes herself comfortable. When she finally looks at my questioning eyes, she has a naughty smile and I can feel her body buzzing. Without breaking eye contact, she put her arms under her blanket. My eyes and her smile widen when I feel her hand gently touching my arm. Slowly finding her way over my belly, the top of her fingers teasingly under the edge of my pants. Suddenly, I don’t mind what position I am in as long as her hand has room enough. I lay my head on my shoulders and pull one leg up, the blanket covering all our movements. As her fingers finds my wetness, I sigh silently and close my eyes, pretending to sleep.
Not the mile high club I dreamed of, but I am done dreaming anyway. I rather have nice reality than a good dream. And tonight, there is the perfect reality of the mile long club.