Of train rides

Early morning, 5:54am to be exact.

Three old Chinese ladies in their market get-up. Two young Chinese men in their yuppie uniforms of skinny ties, fitted Raoul shirts and G2000 flat-front slacks. A modern Indian couple, the guy with multiple piercing on his left ear and the girl with a belly chain and ample cleavage pressing against the ruffled decollette of her scoop-front cotton blouse. Her bra is a pale mint coulour, judging from the strap.

I, leaning against the wall with a cigarette perched in the corner of my lips as I twiddled with my MP3 player trying to decide whether the correct soundtrack for an early morning train ride should be Who's to Say by Vanessa Carlton, or Flown Away by Lene Marlin. In my getup of thin, heather-gray top with three-quarter sleeves, brown Versace jeans and boots you'll be forgiven for thinking I'm not your usual BDE/Biz rep.

The train came. We ran helter-skelter for it, limbo-ing under the rising grille hoping to make it before the doors close and the 7-minutes-and-36-seconds wait for the next (crowded) train make its appearance.

I resigned myself to another dull day at work. Don't get me wrong; I love my job but it's the routine that I don't like. I was still trying to decide whether I should listen to the next song as we were reaching the Bangsar stop when a tiny whiff of Drakkar caught my notice.

And there he was.

I would like to say that he was eyeing me as I was scrolling through the list of songs contained in my GoGear--oh what fetching picture I must have made! In truth, I think it's more of the fact that in my current seating position I was taking up too much space!Let me educate you about frustration. And discomfort. And perhaps a modicum of pain.

It goes something like this: You have a healthy--no, make that voracious--libido. We're talking about "not sleeping till three" here. You haven't had sex in 7 months, and sitting next to you is a man who is a cross between Hugh Jackman (Wolvie magnetism), Robert Redford (for refinement) and Keanu Reeves (for the face).

Either you applaud my self-control. Or stone me for the frigid bag that I was.

I was crossing and uncrossing my legs, quite certain that my arosal is obvious to other people. Thank Heavens for early morning trains; most commuters prefer catching up on sleep to checking out other passengers' package. I risked a glance at him.

Big mistake. Have you ever seen someone do a Cheshire grin, with their mouth closed? Needless to say, when I reached Masjid Jamek I walked out with a bulging front--did I mention I was wearing boxers?--thankfully the school kids hopping on the train did not notice my constipated look and my get-out-of-my-way-cause-I-need-to-jerk-off-in-the-loo walk.

The bastard. He didn't even have the decency of handing me his number after putting me through that Hellish experience. Granted, I didn't ask so sue my frigid nunnish tendency.

I hope I run into him again . . .