We’ve all been there… catatonic with exhaustion after a soul-sapping day and wanting only to get home to bed. Bed dances in the mind like a tricksy mirage. All that stands in the way is a commute. It’s fine, you’ve done it before but ‘oh look, there’s a shameless sleazeball’. Whoop-de-fucking do.
It’s important to draw a distinction between shameless sleazeballs and other social sub-groups that breeze around buses, tubes and trains. Terrified loners may catch your eye longingly but they will rarely be licking their lips, raising their eyebrows or gazing at your rumpled body like a slavering beast. Likewise bashful lusties will have a quick perv than stare at the ground. I should know, I’m a bashful lustie. I’m sorry. Good-looking people make good looking, y’know?
The problem with shameless sleazeballs is they cross a line. It’s common knowledge that a lot of people are fit and we are drawn to witness that fitness. But anyone with a smidge of social concern realises that not everyone they fancy instantly fancies them and that it feels horrible to be sized up. HORRIBLE.
It’s like suddenly the space you’re in shrinks. Looking in any direction carries the potential of locking eyes with that goddamn shameless sleazeball, so you stare at the ground. Then – if you’re like me – you get mad. You recite your favourite swearwords mentally but even that doesn’t change the fact that the shameless sleaazeball’s eyes have freedom of movement while yours remain landlocked.
Unless you have no fear of publically reprimanding the eye bastard, your options are limited to such passive activities as listening angrily to music or occasionally snarling in their general direction. It’s not fair.
Damn you public transport sleazeballs. Damn you to hell.