Popped by Casey Truman Page A

culture, that didn’t mean it was a more valid
way of expressing our feelings for each other. We kiss sometimes,
and there was that incident after the faculty party in October when
he groped me in an alley on the way home — all very unseemly, but, he had been drunk at the
time.
    No, I was
right to wait. I may be a virgin, but I had a boyfriend. I was
content with the way things were. Tonight was New Year’s Eve and
his mother was throwing a small, dignified party for a few of
Phillip’s friends from the university. I’d sooner be there than at
whatever sort of get together Parker and her friends would be going
to.
    Thirty minutes
later I switched the phones off, and everyone rushed about
gathering up their things and preparing for the night ahead. Parker
waved at me on the way out the door, “Night, Clara. Don’t do
anything too wild now.”
    I didn’t
dignify that with an answer. Everyone seemed to be going
somewhere — parties in flats or houses,
drinks in bars or restaurants, meet ups on street corners across
London. For me, it was Mrs. Criddle’s party, and maybe a kiss from
Phillip later, once he’d had a few drinks. I gave my glasses a
quick clean, then lifted my briefcase and walked briskly out the
door. I had a train to catch.

Chapter
2
    New Year’s Eve
in London gets a little crazy. Everyone is either drinking or going
drinking, the tubes and trains are packed, and people are all
dressed up in their Saturday evening party outfits. It was standing
room only on the District Line to Chiswick. I was sandwiched in
between a young man wearing a scruffy suit and a trio of ditzy
blondes who’d already made a start on the evening’s
festivities.
    One of the
disadvantages of being short was that even average sized men
towered over me. I was about half an inch shy of five foot, though
whenever anyone asked I said I was 5’ 1”. My short stature meant
that men were always looking down at me on trains, and tonight was
no exception. I was trying to read my book, but the suit guy kept
jostling me as the train lurched from side to side, taking bends at
speed as if it too were on the way to a party of some kind.
    “Sorry,” he
mumbled. I smelled alcohol on his breadth and said nothing,
contenting myself with a brief smile in his direction. Talking to
drunken men on trains never led to anything good — best to just smile and look non-threatening, or take
out a phone and pretend to be texting someone. He was looking down
at me and disguising it with a vacant expression, as if his head
were simply pointing in my direction for no reason, but I knew that
he was staring down my blouse, trying to catch a glimpse of my
boobs.
    I usually wore
a pant suit to work, but today I’d worn a black skirt and matching
jacket from Dorothy Perkins — I really didn’t
want to change before going to the party, and I thought a skirt was
more feminine. Unfortunately, it seemed that my lecherous train
companion thought so too. As we pulled out of Earl’s Court station,
the influx of new passengers forced us both into a corner, and he
was pressed up against my back, moving against me in synch with the
train’s movements. It wasn’t long before I felt the growing
presence of his cock. Great, I thought, here we go again.
    Men are dogs.
I learned this at an early age, when I used to catch a bus to
school every day as a teenager. I’d be standing at the bus stop in
my school uniform, just minding my own business, and every second
male driver would stare at me as if he wanted to do things to me.
It was disgusting. I don’t have the figure of the Parkers of the
world today, but back then I was like a stick insect, short and
slim, with nothing to look at, tiny tits barely visible, hardly any
hips to speak of. When I was fifteen I looked twelve, but that
didn’t stop them — perverts one and
all — and many of them would have their own
kids in the back of the car, on the way to school.
    Lecherous suit
guy’s behavior was not a surprise