ARE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE? (PART THREE: SCOTRAIL SYNTRIBATION)

(This gets graphic and offensive, just so's you know)

The next morning, Keith made me a piece on egg – Keith is what is technically known as a Top Fucking Man – and I made my way down to Edinburgh Waverley to get my train to Glasgow Central. An hour and fifteen minutes, not too long a journey. I just plopped myself in the first seat I saw, on the right side of the carriage, the row next to the doors. There were only four other people in the carriage; an average-attractive dyed-blonde woman who looked to be in her mid-forties in the row ahead to my left, sitting with a puppyfatty, attractiveish young woman in her early twenties, whom it quickly became clear was her daughter. When they spoke I heard English accents, though I couldn’t really place the region, and didn’t much care anyway.

The other occupants were directly in front of me. I could see the face of a salt-and-pepper-darkhaired matronly Hattie Jacques-type woman in her sixties sitting facing me, next to the window, and who I assumed was her husband sitting facing away from me next to the window as well. I had sat down in the aisle seat, plopping the bag with my clothes in it on the seat to my right, to hopefully deter anybody from sitting next to me. As it was, I shouldn’t have worried, as the carriage was practically empty. And if I hadn’t sat where I was, the strange, hilarious, weird, vaguely sexy events that happened next would not have occurred.

As the train clanked off, I glanced at the mid-forties blonde woman to my left. Wearing tight blue jeans and a pink hoodie, she was sitting in the seat facing me, aisle seat. Her daughter was sitting next to the window, and started reading an Ian Rankin book. I personally fucking hate the ever-growing mass of fucking tartan noir (which sounds like a bad, pretentious 70s aftershave) books. To me they’re dour pish to make middle class readers think they’re being ‘intellectual’ solving crap crimes, when it’s just the usual dark-minded, crime-obsessed Scottish sexual repression and body horror shite the country’s been wanking over forever. Ultimately it’s all just a shitegeisty attempt to cash in on that Crime pish by Irvine Welsh. Still, it wasn’t me being asked to read it, so what I thought hardly mattered anyway.

What did matter much more was the weird madness that occurred shortly after we started moving. I yawned and stretched a few minutes later, randomly glancing again to my left. I just caught the eyes of the blonde woman darting away from my crotch. I was wearing black joggy bottoms, because I find them much more comfortable to travel in than jeans. My joggies had ridden up a wee bit when had I sat down, and were a bit snug round my dick. I snort-chuckled once in bemusement. Aye aye, roving eyes, as usual, I thought, wonder if she’ll do that again.

There’s a sleazy, funny wee game you can play with the (very) odd woman on public transportation, where she will snatch quick glances at your bulge, and you can try to catch her doing it. It can get pretty heated. Especially if the journey isn’t just a five-minute two-stop quickie, which was the case here.

And this is how the meatybeat goes; sing along if you know the words:

How many of you have heard of syntribation? Quick show of hands here. HOI YOU! TAKE YOUR HAND OUT OF THERE AND PUT IT IN THE AIR! NO METHOD READING!

Anyhow, what was I talking about before I was so rudely and crudely interrupted by that weirdo pervo-devo…oh aye, syntribation. Some have heard of it, some haven’t, which is pretty much what I expected, really. Syntribation is a female form of finger/toy/cucumber/hairbrush/midget’s leg/whatever-free masturbation. The woman will cross her legs and rub them together, eventually spunking in her heated knickers after enough amiable clitoral friction. It’s just a fancy term for wanking.

Apparently men can do a form of it, too, but it just sounds like too much hassle (prostate pressure, Kegel exercises, the potential to painfully crush the coconuts) just for a wank. It’s really good for doing in public places, for a woman to enliven a boring work meeting or university class.

Or train journey.

Which is exactly what started happening here. English Blondie’s legs started to move rhythmically in-and-out, knees sliding towards then away from each other. Sometimes this seat-dance can just be nervous energy or pee-needing revelation, but not this time. I knew instantly what was going on. It wasn’t the first time I had seen this particular phenomenon, let’s just leave it at that. Ah, the raw power of cock lust, a thing much-mocked these shrill feminist days. They hate male sexuality because they can’t control it, and they want fucked by some non-feminised male, which angers them even further. Middle class men are so womanly and cowed these days that fucking them is like lesbianism for straight women. IVF is popular amongst them cos the (wo)men can’t do the job, apparently. Get the frustrated females in question down to a building site sometime in lingerie…open a few bottles of giggly wine-o-clock vino...and let the drunky preggy party begin!

I snorted in a laugh and pushed it back down into myself. Well well well, here we go again, I thought, this is a turn up for the books. I genuinely felt like laughing, tickled pink, just as she was tickling her own pink. Legs together and apart, in out, in out, wriggling all about, doing the holey pokey. She started slow. I randomly glanced across briefly and only caught her looking my way once; she was good. Cos that’s the essence of the thing, you see – it’s a game played between two people in public, with nobody else aware of what’s going on, which adds to the ever-building fun sleaze and secretive sexcitement.

When I say nobody knows what’s going on except the parties involved, I should amend that in this case. Looking round once, I locked eyes momentarily with Hattie Jacques in the row in front of me. She glanced across to her right once hornbird had gotten going for a few minutes, slightly confused, then looked back, and that was when she looked at me. She nearly burst out laughing, a look of bemused disbelief on her face, because she knew exactly what was going on with the bird handlessly wanking away across from her.

She knew I knew too, though I was not sure if she knew that it was me being stroked over. I stifled an urge to laugh and acknowledged Hattie’s self-abuse amusement with a small shrug, a wry smile and a slight nod of my head. Then her male companion said something, she looked away and started talking to him, and I went back to playing the game by, well, doing absolutely nothing whatsoever except breathing in and out.

Even wankerbird’s daughter noticed her mother’s agitated leg calisthenics after a few minutes, coming away from her Rankin (Ian Wankin, I thought, and nearly laughed again) book to ask her:

“Are you uncomfortable?”

Her tightlipped, briefly-interrupted mother frowned and shook her head dismissively, just keeping legspreading-then-closing. “No,” she answered, smiling across at her, and the daughter went back to reading her book. Yer maw’s not uncomfortable, doll, she’s having a wank, she’s very comfortable indeed, I thought, realising her daughter was totally clueless about the joys of public transportation fanny-twanging. Not like she was going to get an explanation right there and then from her uncaring mother, mind you. Imagine having a wank right in front of your daughter on a train! Absolutely fucking mental! You couldn’t make it up!

And so it went on for another ten or fifteen minutes. It was a forty-five minute journey, and she had started the old rubntug early, so my fellow sleazy passenger had plenty of time to finish. She stuck her hands into her pink hoodie pockets, pulling the material down low, over her mons pubis. I wondered if she would be using the pockets as a shield to stimulate her clit through her jeans even more, but couldn’t be sure.

They say that women don’t letch over men like men do over women – what a joke. And we see it too, ladies, don’t think we don’t. There’s a lot of online videos of sleazy female behaviour – pointing, laughing, giggling, discussing male genitalia with friends, even taking photays and video. I’m not going to link to any of them, cos I think it’s weird and creepy to film people in public without their consent or knowledge, just as weird and creepy as some of the women in the videos filming or photographing guys is.

It’s a creepazoid clusterfuck all round, really, making a mockery of modern prim and proper standards, a nothing-but-natural curve-study wet pussy circus of pangs of covert lust and longing. There are women reading this right now who know exactly what I mean, would they but admit it, though there are a majority of women who keep their eyes to themselves, for the most part. Still, no point calling out female hypocrisy in anything, it's the middle class (working class women are far less full of shit and far lustier) female supremacist factory default setting these days. They will not give men an inch in admitting to any kind of salacious or unladylike behaviour. What a hilariously sick fucking joke, way sicker than Sadowitz came up with.

Meanwhile, back at the wank ranch, things were getting hot and heated. After around fifteen minutes, my horny lonely fan was clearly heading for some sort of orgasmic terminus, her legs moving faster and faster, and her personal train was about to pull into that knicker-wetting station. “The next stop is Satisfaction Central,” I almost heard the train announcer say. I’d glanced across once or twice at her, half-bored, but had only caught her glancing in my general direction. I had briefly though about thinking erotic thoughts to give her something more to work with visually, but I really couldn’t be bothered. Too lazy. Whilst it was a fun secret to have building between us (and Hattie Jacques), sitting on a train in the middle of the day didn’t exactly bring sexciting thoughts to mind.

I did, however, ‘carelessly’ lick my lips slowly and lasciviously a couple of times. I honestly believe that the woman thought she was the only one aware of what she was doing, getting away with it in plain sight, the sneaky wee midden! How wrong she was, of course. I mean, I knew what leg-frigger was doing, Hattie knew, and even her own clueless daughter had noted her odd behaviour. She obviously just couldn’t control herself, and I wondered how long it had been since she’d had a cock up her. At one point she was giving it the usual ambivalent female signature move of agitatedly playing with her wedding ring, twirling it round her finger, slipping it on and off; beyond obvious stuff, really. 

After one particularly long, sssssllllllooooowwww left-to-right full liplick, then nipping my tongue back to the centre of my lips to slowly draw it back into my mouth over my top lip…the train creep suddenly stood bolt upright out of her seat, like she’d received an electric shock! Laughing here as I recall it. I thought she’d unleashed the warm splashing joy fountain right there and then, and that my liplicking was the final visual stimulus that had pushed her into hidden gruntsplatter territory.

But no, she must have caught herself right on the edge. Slightly flushfaced, she mumbled something to her uncaring, book-staring daughter and ran off down the carriage past me slightly bowlegged, an obvious aroused lubricated gait, then, moments later, she realised she’d run the wrong way and slippylipped bowlegged-barrelled past me again, running up the aisle and disappearing into a bog at the far end of the next near-empty carriage. I chuckled. Crazy shit.

As I sat there idly counting the minutes she was gone, I thought of her wanking her sopping sleazy voyeur cunt, face contorted into getting-there rictus shapes. You know how that goes, every urgent come-nearing wave etched on her frowning features. I also thought about how unpleasant an atmosphere it would be to have a wank in. You know what train bogs are like, smelly as fuck. But she clearly just couldn’t wait any longer, and having an orgasm in her chair would have been even more obvious than her edging behaviour had been. Even her daughter probably wouldn’t have mistaken that for anything else.

(I bet Jerry Sadowitz wouldn’t have been surprised by this degenerate behaviour in the slightest; might even have gotten some new material out of it. Fuck off, Jerry! Get yer own ideas, ya fucking plagiarist!)

After eight or nine minutes she came back down the aisle. Her face was slightly flushed, her dyed blonde hair a sated, knowing, slightly-bedhead halo round her pink face. Her walk was much more normal. I suppose it could have been seen as a creepy sort-of compliment that she’d strokepoked herself to orgasm over me, because she probably wouldn’t do that to a man she didn’t find attractive. Then again, you never know with women. Hell, you never know with anybody at all, male or female; somebody could smile at you one minute and then punch you in the face for no reason the next. Humans are dense, inscrutable ape-cousins with shoes and delusions of grandeur. We know little to next to thing about each other, and probably never will.

Wetbird walked up to her table. There was a half-empty can of Budweiser there I hadn’t even seen or heard her open and drink from. She tanned what was left of it in one gulp and banged the can back down on the table, with an exaggerated “AHHH!” (heard that metallic clanky happy sound right now as I wrote that) before sitting back down. I peeked at her crotch as she did so. No distinguishing wet stains. I am chuckling here. It was her triumphantly marking the end of her self-inflicted slippy-lips-and-clit experience. You’re not even meant to drink on trains, but I suppose when you’re as much of a crazed sexual criminal animal as this woman was, pubic enemy number one, public drinking byelaws (Local Government (Scotland) Act, 1973) mean nothing to you. Bloody anarchist, it’s her fanny-twanging kind that are destroying the country!

Or self-abusively amusing it.

Laughing.

So eventually the train arrived in Glasgow Central, and we all got off, my pal getting off for the second time in a few minutes. Wankerwoman didn’t even look at me, she was good at her slipsloppy concealment, and I felt so used! Or would have, had I given a fuck about it. I walked behind my admirer and her daughter briefly, and they went off over to the public toilets on the right to the lower level. I decided to go outside for a wonderful breath of Glasgow’s miraculously fresh LEZ-filtered air, because I had a while before my next train back home. A couple of minutes later the woman walked out past me, stood a few yards away against a train station wall, and lit up a fag. She glanced my way and, mischievously, I gave her a wink. She caught it and a big, sly, happy, knowing grin shot across her features. I took that as her cuntrubber confession gotcha moment, chuckled, and went back into the station.

I went to the platform where my train was leaving from and a few minutes later, quite by accident, my admirer and her daughter walked by dragging their luggage. I looked at her mother’s face again. She looked slightly embarrassed, looking (ah fuck what would the exact word for it be) chagrined (hafta do)(actually, no, fuck it, sheepish is better) as she passed, like women do when caught looking at your crotch and they snap their heads back and to the left like JFK, cos no way were they checking out your semen-sprayer measurements, sir, and how dare you suggest otherwise! I smiled, moments later they were gone forever, and I got onto my train for the final part of the journey. I remained unmolested by lascivious female voyeur creep eyes this time, thankfully, and the rest of the way home was wankfree and uneventful.

Now. I know that some naïve readers of that story will not even think it’s true, but I can categorically assure you that it is. And there are those of you of both sexes who may have been put under the predatory female gaze (nobody ever writes condemnatory essays about that, though, do they?) masturbatory crosshairs, and who are just nodding your wise heads right now. Believe it if you want, but you’re wrong if you don’t. There are more things in the hot Heaven of a woman’s knickers, Whoreratio, than are dreamt of in your puritan philosophy.

You know the sad, truly horrible thing about this? It nearly never happened. Last year the halfwitted lesbian manhater SNP Transport Minister Jenny Gilruth was at the forefront of proposing the idea of female-only carriages, to keep her further away from the sex she hates:

https://www.spiked-online.com/2022/02/21/the-madness-of-women-only-train-carriages/

The erstwhile partner of the no-less-halfwitted Kezia Dugdale claimed that mixed-sex carriages are a liability, full of drunk, deranged, scary, threatening, flirtatious, domineering men. She's clearly never been on a train, or in a pub, when there's been a hen party there - they would put men to shame. She's now the Education Minister - surprised she's not advocating more female-only schools. But imagine if she'd gotten her sexual apartheid way. Think of the poor woman who wanked over me here. She would have been denied her sexual agency, the right to be a perv on a train any time she wants. Think of the fact that this article would not exist. Think of how much worse your life would have been without it.

Hardly bears thinking about, eh?

Are you uncomfortable? Good, if you are, that was the idea of telling the whole story, of writing this whole Free Speech examination. Obviously. A sex crime was committed against me….or was it a crime? Was she a criminal? Discuss at your leisure. It certainly wasn’t consensual (on one level; I could have just gotten up and walked away), because the woman never knew at the time that I knew what she was doing. I obviously couldn’t challenge her, because she could easily have denied it.

 

I just wrote this because I felt like it.

Get that fucking ben ye!

I still can, and will, always continue to write and say and think what I want for the rest of my life in an increasingly, pathetically censorious country. New American extremist cunts will never dictate to me artistically. Everybody in the Western World is politically homeless now, it’s just that a great many people don’t realise it, and maybe never will. Still, let them shout at each other online day and nightmare, it keeps them off the streets. Their pained confused insane clamour abruptly disappears the minute you go offline.

Thank fuck.

I believe I have made my point.

If not, what the fuck does it matter anyway? Nobody cares about my opinion, or yours either. Hell, we might all fucking die in a Middle Eastern tribal nuclear conflagration any day now. Ho-hum. If you're reading this, you're still alive. Christmas early, really. Things could always be worse.

In closing, here’s a nod to the halfwit governments and corporations running the world (into the ground) now, and maybe forever. And also the online whiners. You do yourselves a disservice. A big fat one-finger salute to you all.

(WISH IT WAS) THE END

PS: This is dedicated to Jerry Sadowitz and Fred Negro, two peerlessly fearless malcontent art-savages in a world of content-slinging invertebrates.

PPS: No gone-soft comedians, or New Americans, were hurt during the making of this production. Abnormal service will be resumed shortly.

So long, farewell, auf weidersehen, fuck off...