A Meeting of Minds Ch. 01

Charley was pissed, not really pissed in a completely pissed way but the sort of pissed when you make mistakes like saying "Good Afternoon" to the taxi company on the mobile rather than "Good Evening." He had been dozing for half an hour or so after getting onto the train late that evening. To say he had slipped into a drunken stupor would be quite unfair: he had merely been tired after spending too long at the office party. He'd only planned to spend a little while there, but one glass of quite pleasant Merlot had led to another and he had walked around chatting happily, nibbling on bits and pieces - but never the strange wrinkled cocktail sausages and mini pork pies. Why did anyone buy those now? Bits of cold chicken tikka, hummus dip, samosas, tortilla chips (surely they were crisps?) and funny bits of pretty sushi in a plastic tray were much more the thing - much more appetising.

Time had passed at the party, a lot of time had passed and he had spent much more time there than he had intended. The room had cleared leaving only the diehards and him. Charley reflected that there were some people who seemed to stay at office parties exactly to the earliest time they were allowed to go home - people he had contempt for. Not really interested in their colleagues, happy not to be working but not prepared to stay a moment longer with their 'colleagues' than they absolutely had to - and then there were those who were not quite like that but just seemed to disappear. Nobody saw them go but they were just no longer there. At least, Charley reflected, they were certainly not there when he had left, they had just disappeared and vanished like smoke. He could imagine them on Monday saying what a good party it had been Friday, how they had enjoyed it, would talk about what people had said - but they had not stayed as long as he had - right to the end; though he was not sure he should have stayed so long.

He started. The conductor looked down at him, "Tickets please."

He pulled his season ticket and photo rail card from his coat pocket and the man moved on with a cheery "Thank you, Sir."

"Sir?" - Who but ticket collectors, waiters and shop assistants said that nowadays? Certainly, his staff and people at the office didn't call him that. He'd called his boss, "Sir" when he had started years ago and had, in turn, rather expected to be called that as he had risen a little up the ladder: he had been disappointed because things were all so different now. He rubbed his eyes trying to focus. He wasn't really pissed. Bloody American mock familiarity. Everyone pretending to be on jolly first name terms with everyone else. A joke really. There were three Waynes, two Megans, four Kirsties: but not one surname the same in the whole office. First names just caused confusion. Why all this mock familiarity? Far better to use surnames. He scowled and received a startled look from the little pinched looking girl opposite. He checked himself - he was being quite unfair to her.

By 'pinched' he'd meant in the sense, really, of not being fat. Actually, she was fine to look at, dark brown hair dropping down her forehead, half covering her eyes - a visit to the hairdressers called for - pleasant face with rather pointed nose and not particularly full lips - but Charley liked the way she sucked in those lips as she thought. He glanced again. Really her hair could have been longer; it was worn as a very small pony tail; yes, longer would have been better but the fringe still needed to be cut. How much had he actually drunk? She was listening to music on her I-Pod and looking wistful as she listened - quite attractive really. 'Pinched' was definitely unfair.

Charley sighed and closed his eyes. Should have left the party earlier; got home and sorted himself out for the weekend.

Charley rubbed his face. At least he wouldn't have to bother to shave tomorrow. He didn't usually weekends and let the stubble grow. He did not much like shaving and would prefer to have let his beard grow but his mother and sister got at him. He hated that term 'facial hair'; it sounded so like a blasted women's term. It was a beard wasn't it and growing it was what men did - well one thing they did anyway. A friend of his had joined an American company and was told to shave his beard off. What sort of problem did those Yanks have with beards? Were they controlled by women too? Charley scowled again.

He opened his eyes. The pinched faced girl, well woman really, she wasn't that young - there were the start of lines on her face. She wasn't middle aged or anything, but the baby-fresh skin was starting to thicken. No, he thought, that is an unkind term to use on a thirty something old. The skin was starting to mature, develop character. She was a woman not a girl and there was nothing wrong with that - nothing at all. She was gazing at the I-Pod, changing tracks or something. Eyes looking down, concentrating on the machine. He watched her for a few moments.

The movement of the train was soporific, and Charley fell into a doze. Long habit caused him to wake as the train slowed outside his station. With a start, he moved to stand just as the woman opposite did the same, their foreheads met with a bang, pushing them both back into their seats momentarily dazed - the bump painful for both. It was a real 'klonk.' Muttered apologies, a scrabbling for bags and coats and they were both off the train.

Charley stood blinking, still dazed from the bash with the pinched woman's head, no, he must stop calling her that, and trying to recollect where he had left the car and what he should do next. He remembered the taxi. He hadn't been too pissed to order that, not too pissed to realise he really should not attempt to drive. Not really pissed at all actually. He set off towards the taxi office.

It was good to get home. Charley sat in the kitchen drinking down a pint of water. Long experience had taught him what to do after he had drunk quite a lot of wine. His head hurt - he must really have bumped it. Charley finished the glass and went to the tap to refill it. He hoped the pinched face woman's head was not hurting as much as his did. It had not been his fault but he was sorry it had happened to her. He sat down to watch the match, the half-finished glass of water by his side. Before he had got the hang of who was winning his head lolled forward and he was asleep. He awoke two hours letter not feeling too brilliant but with the odd feeling he was not alone, he could hear deep regular breathing but it was not the cat. There was, of course, no one there and he drank the remains of the glass, refilled it and climbed the stairs to his bed where he should have been two hours ago.

The dawn chorus had impressively performed, done a curtain call to the backdrop of a red sun with diffused mist effect before moving on to a different theatre by the time Charley awoke. He awoke late.

He awoke confused. He had a raging erection between his thighs, a desperate desire to pee but at the same time he felt wet, positively soaked around his cock and between his thighs. He wondered if he had wet himself. Surely not, he hadn't been that pissed - not pissed at all - and had watched the match after getting back, he thought. At the same time as feeling so wet, he had the most vivid erotic image in his mind of a girl masturbating. He could see her body so clearly, almost feel the tingle in her breasts as she pulled her nipples, her other hand finger deep inside herself, thumb working her sopping clit. His own hand grabbed his cock and despite the urgency of the call to the bathroom did not want to waste the dream. He wanked as the girl in his mind wanked. Charley could feel her, see her at work, all so wonderfully clearly. She was close to coming, he knew that, and instead of his usual care to prolong his wank he pulled at himself as the vivid image of the girl thrashing around held his mind and he came splashing onto his stomach.

Charley opened his eyes. It had been so vivid - he had seemed to smell not just see her excitement. It was rarely that good, and in such detail - if ever. Best wanking daydream he had even had. If only he could have had his pee first! That was quite an image he had conjured up in his mind. He felt between his legs, yes he was sweaty but not wet. Strange, it had felt really, really wet, yet, clearly, he had not wet himself despite how he had felt but he would if he didn't hurry. He headed for the bathroom trying not to drop his ejaculate on the carpet. The practicalities of spontaneous masturbation!

Showered, dressed and well-breakfasted Charley was wondering what to do with the day when the phone rang.

"Hallo," he said almost cheerily.

It was a woman's voice. "I think you have my bag."

"Huh?"

"I think we picked up the wrong bags on the train last night after we collided. Certainly this is yours - luckily it'd got your 'phone number in it."

"Collided?" He was being stupid. Who was he talking to?

"Banged heads. How is yours?"

Knowledge came to him. "Oh, yeah, all right. I was worried I'd hurt you."

"Well, it wasn't your fault and I expect the bruise will go." Charley got the impression that she thought it was his fault. There was a pause. "My bag I..."

"Yeah, yes I haven't looked. Shall I?"

"Please."

Charley looked at the bag still sitting in the hallway. It was like his bag but wasn't.

"Looks like I've the wrong bag. Shall I..." he thought quickly. What was etiquette? What was polite? What was the right thing with a woman? "Shall I bring it round or do you want to bring mine here?" It was a puzzle, neither was quite right. Should he have her address or should he ask her to come to a strange man's house. Strange man was not really right - he smiled to himself - bloody too ordinary really.

"I, err, could you bring it here?" She gave him her address and he agreed to come round later that morning.

Charley shaved. He wasn't not sure why he bothered but he had a feeling he had made a bad impression on the train and he didn't want to make it worse - not that he would see her again after delivering the bag. Had she noticed him looking at her? He had not been leering, though a glass or two of wine did sort of make one, perhaps, more ready to stare and speculate.

The Mach 3 razor scraped up Charley's chin, he closed his eyes as he raised up the skin of his cheek ready to scrape and then pulled letting the razor slice through the stubble clearing a path through the foam. He thought of the girl, really he had been a bit unkind to think of her as having a pinched face, it wasn't really like that: she just wasn't fat at all - not much of a chest either he thought and - blast - Charley opened his eyes. He had felt himself cut his face with the razor, three parallel lines right through his skin but as his eyes opened he didn't notice the small drops of blood welling or feel the sting, instead he was staring, really staring with wide eyes, into the mirror seeing not himself but the pinched face girl - only it wasn't his mirror. She was naked from the waist up and, no, she wasn't very endowed - small breasts, little dark brown nipples. Charley stared at her face - as well. She was applying a bit of make-up, some eye liner but staring back at him. Then he felt the razor sting and was looking at himself again in his own partially steamed mirror, the blood beginning to run down his cheek. He blinked, puzzled, dabbed at the blood with some tissue - that didn't stop it - and carried on shaving as the water developed a pink tinge.

The blood did stop, but the tell-tale of the three red parallel lines showed and there was not much he could do about that. Well, it was what men did - sometimes. He should have used a new blade but they were expensive - ridiculously expensive. Charley dressed himself in reasonable going out weekend clothes - clean jeans, buttoned shirt and jacket. He was puzzled by the sudden vision of the girl, particularly as he did not have sex on his mind whilst shaving that day, not after his recent early morning wank. He glanced at the bathroom mirror as he combed his hair and saw her again pulling on a red tee shirt, a vision just at the moment she tugged it over her naked breasts and then she was gone. Charley shook his head, "so, no bra then" he thought with a smile, "not needed."

It was not far to drive which was just as well as the car was still at the station, so Charley walked. It was a fine morning and Charley found his thoughts returning again to the girl. He could not fathom his daydreaming of her in the mirror. It almost seemed to be real. He shrugged his shoulders, he would only need to worry, it would only be really weird, 'spooky,' if she was wearing a red tee shirt with no bra.

Charley found the place and double checked the scrawled note he had made whilst on the 'phone, before he knocked at the door. He was not usually someone lost for words but he just stood there holding the bag after the girl opened the door. Her jeans were blue but her tee shirt was red and, whilst much of this was hidden under another shirt, there was not a hint of a bra. Charley was suddenly conscious he was looking at her chest not her face, he looked up embarrassed, but she seemed to be staring at his face apparently in surprise.

There was an unusually long pause before either spoke.

"Thanks, my bag," she said, "stupid to mix them up but they do look similar." She had the makings of a bruise on her forehead. "Kind of you to bring it round, here's yours."

"I'm Charley, Charley Rogers" he said rather late and inadequately. This was weird - he couldn't have seen her...

"Jackie," she said automatically, "Jackie Peters... thank you."

It was obvious the conversation was about to end. Charley, though, was intrigued, wanted to know more about Jackie. "I'm sorry I stood up so suddenly."

"These things happen," the girl was smiling but retreating, giving the signal that the meeting was at an end.

It was a pity, he thought, she did not invite him in for a coffee.

Then all of a sudden Charley was looking at himself, looking at himself from where Jackie was standing.

"Coffee?" he said and found himself back looking at the girl.

She was looking startled as if she had said something she hadn't meant to. "Did I say coffee? You can come in for a coffee if you like." She added, a frown coming to her forehead or what could be seen below the fringe.

"Please," he said completely puzzled.

He followed her into a compact kitchen.

It was actually an awkward conversation - nothing more. Difficult really to make conversation when feeling so totally confused by sudden apparent dislocation, seemingly more than once. He knew what she kept looking at on his face: those small triple parallel lines made by his razor. Had she seen them in the mirror? His equivalent of her red tee shirt and no bra. Charley had asked the usual polite questions about her, her work and hobbies. The sort of questions you might ask at a party.

From Jackie's house Charley walked to the station and collected his car. Perhaps it had all been a one-off experience - OK, maybe two, once in bed sort of, it had come to him that feeling of wetness and vivid female masturbation was connected, and more clearly at the shaving mirror, except it had been three: he was sure it was him with her voice that had said 'coffee.'

Probably it would not happen again, perhaps it had all been imagination, perhaps he had drunk too much after all... yet Jackie seemed genuinely puzzled by something and had, he was sure, been looking at where he had cut himself. She had not mentioned it. Had not asked if he had cut himself whilst shaving or even said she liked a man who wet shaved. Did she like him? He rather liked her.

Charley swung in beside the kerb near his house and parked the car. He wet shaved, did she? He had recovered enough from his morning wank to think he would not have minded seeing Jackie naked in a full-length mirror shaving under her arms or somewhere more interesting.

"Fuck!" Charley was suddenly not seated in his car but in Jackie's room looking at the television. He could see legs in front of him in blue jeans and that he was wearing a red tee shirt.

It was only a momentary dislocation and then he was back in his car. 'Fuck!' he thought. If he had still been driving... what then? You really could not have out of body experiences whilst doing that. He was shaken, really shaken and even went for a lie down when he got inside his house.

It did not happen again - that day.

Charley awoke on the Sunday. He had been off the booze the night before, had not even gone down the pub with friends to watch the football. He lay there in his bed thinking morning thoughts - thoughts of sex, though not especially with Jackie. Marianne, the new young graduate who had been at the office party, featured quite prominently. 'Prominently' was a word that fitted her. She was very different from Jackie. More ample and not 'pinched.' Not that, really, Jackie was that thin, but Marianne tended to the voluptuous with a very pronounced or prominent bosom. He had found, as the wine had flowed, his eyes had kept returning to the shapes encased in a clearly well-fitting and shaped brassiere. She had a very rounded posterior, was dark haired instead of blond and, indeed, was very dark skinned. All in all, a masturbator's delight, imagined naked or with a nurse's uniform taking a 'sample.' Charley was no different from other blokes in having one or two odd little kinks.

Pleasant to imagine Marianne available to him, very good to imagine himself permitted ingress between her legs. Was she shaven or was there a black forest tangle? It raised a very similar question in his mind about Jackie. He knew what her breasts looked like - or he thought he did - but what of her sex? His imagination pictured Marianne and Jackie on a bed - with him, of course - anxious to secure his erection for themselves. He stroked happily, imagining them taking it in turns to fellate him. And then, all of a sudden, he knew the answer to his question: Jackie did not shave very much.

Suddenly Charley was not in his own bed, not in his own room: indeed, not in his own body, but staring down at a female body, at breasts he recognised and a smaller hand than his own down amongst his curls, or rather her brown curls - down where seconds before his penis had been rearing up in his hand. Charley felt, excited to feel his or her bush curving under him/her and the wet soft flesh between. Fuck! He thought, realising Jackie actually had a plastic penis, a dildo up inside her. He could feel the hard end sticking out a couple of inches. Of course, he pulled, of course he wanted to feel what a penis was like being extracted and, even more so, what it felt like to push it in again. Even if it was only plastic. To feel what it was like - and he had always wondered - to have oneself opened and stretched by a hard penis. The answer was, unsurprisingly, good, and so it was when his fingers found his/her clitoris. A significant little protuberance and as sensitive as he had imagined. Like his knob only different.

Charley did not worry over the sudden translocation. It was an opportunity, an opportunity to feel a woman from the inside, he did not ponder on the strangeness of the experience: more just how to bring himself to a female orgasm. He had been imagining Marianne sucking his cock. It was very easy to imagine Marianne down there on him/her now, between his feminine legs..

Unfortunately, did not experience the female orgasm, indeed he missed out completely. All at once he was back in his own body with his penis beginning to wilt and a long trail of semen all the way up his stomach and onto his chest. Fuck! He had even reached his own mouth - he could taste it on his lips. Jackie had undoubtedly brought him off and, very possibly, back in her own bed and body was bringing herself off - again!