Chance encounters on a train arouse the narrator’s small C spot time and again – and after this journey, life will never be the same again.
The coarseness and vulgarity of modern society have deadened the sensitivities of our narrator – also known as Smallsey Conservative – to the point of dreading leaving the house.
But agoraphobia is not an option for a freelance writer, where every commission – even the blandest white paper on Big Data – comes with the instruction to ‘take the readers on a Journey’.
The prospect of today’s interview – with the CEO of a publishing house packed with bien pensant left wing aristocracy – mortified Smallsey, who shuddered at the moral and emotional grandstanding that would take place.
It was after meetings like this that Smallsey’s only pleasure was to slip something dirty into the climactic exchange. Like, “I’ve really endured meeting you.”
But a funny thing happened on the way to the Forum publisher. Unexpected encounters with a lost tribe – well mannered, considerate, polite people, with sensible outlooks and responsible attitudes – would stimulate the small C spot again and again, leaving Smallsey gasping. And yet desperate for more.
The Journey in this narrative was to begin at Surbiton. The nearest thing to excitement would usually be choosing the slow but steady train to Vauxhall, or gambling on an express to Waterloo. Neither event summoned Smallsey’s blood any more. Neither had those sinews been stiffened – not for a long time.
But as the train pulled in, something unexpected happened.
Smallsey will never forget the opening lines from the exotic creature who appeared beside him. “Excuse me, you were here before me. You go first.”
This isn’t real,” Smallsey thought. “Things like this don’t happen to me.” But it was about to get more intense. The doors parted, and Smallsey began fumbling an attempt at entry.
Craning the neck, Smallsey spotted the problem. But there proved to be no need for pushing and shoving. Before thewords “Huff” or “Tut” had been issued – let alone “can you move down the train please?” a raven-haired beauty had considerately effected Smallsey’s entry. Through the heart rending sacrifice of only clinging to one pole, others had been allowed to benefit. This considerate action had been taken, without the subject having to be asked or any self aggrandisement.
An action that would engorge anyone’s small C spot.
But it wasn’t to stop there. Whatever higher power was orchestrating this small C stimulation had incredible technique and sensitivity. They certainly knew how to push all the right small C buttons, and Smallsey was being twanged like a banjo!
Wave after wave of consideration for others was to take place. The driver decided to eschew the usual ear splitting pre-recorded announcements, replacing them with whispered seductive messages that were music to Smallsey’s ears. “You’re all due for a ticket refund,” was the set up, with a climactic punch line of “and I’m going to tell you the easy way to get it.”
A Guardian reader chatted with a Daily Mail reader and didn’t make reference to his own tenuous working class roots. Nor did he use the corny Question Time line about “when my ancestors first came to this country” because, he admitted, his family first came in 1066, with the rest of the Norman aristocracy. The lack of mockney moral posturing made Smallsey convinced that there may be a deity after all. “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,” gushed Smallsey, “Yes, yes, yes.”
When a man gave a lady his seat, and the lady thanked him, Smallsey experienced what must have been euphoria, followed by a period of light headedness. Then a sort of stillness and inner calm.
Could this be what the manuals describe as a Whoregasm – the mythical state of being, where one finds oneself unexpectedly enjoying one’s work?
Smallsey left the train thoroughly satisfied – but the small C spot had been awakened, and soon it would be hungry for more.