Gays On The Train

The station was buzzing, pulsating hungry holes thirsty for seats on their return to their accommodation. A bucket of bottoms pressed happily against the barriers, moaning in an ecstasy of greed, until their vacuous wizards sleeves concave unto a seat.

The rush towards the last train, like sperms dancing and fighting for survival only to be left in the disappointment of fertilising a vestibule of filth. Strewn kebabs, the smell of vinegar in the air, bottles of booze rolling on the floor and in their sound; singing a song of regret as they roll back and forth like a nail dragging on a chalkboard of your conscience.

I was awash in a wave of a gaggle of gays, I managed to secure a seat, a winning prize position to charge and juice my phone in the majesty of a power socket to remove me from this carriage of carnage.

In reaching down to plug out of this reality I rise up to to see Kitty Monroe a figure of beauty with eyelashes that ticked my heart strings and her company glorious as the rising sun.

I have found solace in this journey and on the train tracks for they take me forward in the reflections of blackened glass as we gaze at ourselves and reminisce about our past.

With her leg cocked up upon mine ‘because I’m tall darling’ I should have charged her the privilege yet she announces ‘how much are you gonna pay me?’

As shade is thrown back and forth like a waving coconut tree branches blocking out the sun in intervals upon the breeze it revealed a softer human side to a connection between a wise fruitful rooted soul to a ‘you’re still young dear’

Chicken nuggets and chips on service passed around by the gays on the train, I gobbled the last nugget and sucked upon a chip looking into her eyes.

‘You need that last nugget you’ve got a weight problem’ Kitty barks as I chew and swallow her jibe … as she looks me in the eyes a retreat of kindness drags out the tide. It’s only then we connected and understood each other.

Life can be hard, but you’ve got to have thick skin, take and give as good as you get.

It’s hard now for you youngsters, I used to go the bars and down the docks to pick up trade and suck off strangers – we didn’t have all these phone things then. !!! And look where you are now – one tap away from a bloke tapping away at another 20 blokes- you’re all disposable. That’s sad.

As Kitty left the carriage at Croydon I plugged out of the train and into Bronski Beat Smalltownboy looking out of the window on my return home. ‘To your soul , cry , Run away .. run away’

In my reflection I saw a tired jaded queen but Kitty had seen ,my youth and years and years.

My thoughts interrupted by a train singing ‘Spice up your Life’ being gay is spice enough yet it can either flavour you or burn you.

Farringdon Last Stop. I alight from the Gays on the train, I am no longer one of them in their skinny ripped jeans, plastic glasses of wine, flip flops and tank tops.

I’m Damien, not a gay on a train.

He was Keith, not a drag queen on a train.

Damien

Arness

Dalton

Copyrite 2017

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