“It’s raining,” she said.“So?” He looked at her. “You’re not scared of rain, are you?”She wasn’t. She wasn’t scared of him either. She wasn’t even sure what she was scared of or what she was protesting about anymore. She thought of drinking coffee with him and wondered how he’d take his and figured it wouldn’t really hurt to find out.And maybe they’d share an umbrella or something equally sickening and they’d be like one of those beautiful couples she’d come to despise. She could see it, could already see their joint reflection in shop windows, blurred with rain and grime and yet so perfect and wholesome. Holding hands and going places. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d held someone’s hand and looked down at his, wondering how it’d fit with hers. It looked like a nice enough hand. Clean nails. There was a scar across three of his fingers and she wondered if he put them together it’d be like a jigsaw, the three separate sections connecting into one clean disfigurement. He. Then out of the blue the other man came and sat next to me, he carried a mackintosh, I knew straight away he was one of the men that belonged to the dirty Mac brigade. These men would drape their Mac over their leg and yours so they could manoeuvre their hand discretely over your knee. As was predicted the man sat down draped his Mac over my knee, while undid the clasp of my trouser waist and slowly lowered my trousers zip. The Man just smiled at me, he was about 50 years of age, balding head, he wore the typical dress code of his age a shirt, a tie, a suit, and of course he carried a beige coloured Macintosh. Then came the commencement of his action, I felt his hand on my knee, massaging it gently, these men were always careful not to be to rough with panty boys, because I didn’t object he continued to manoeuvre his hand from my knee until he reached my groin, within seconds I could the man’s face light up when he realised I’d prepared my crotch area for his easy access. Eventually.
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