The transit van man

It wasn’t one of my proudest moments (but then how many proud moments do normal people actually have in their lives?), but I cannot pretend it didn’t happen.

Here I was, standing in the back of a transit van, knickers and fishnet tights around one ankle and removed altogether from the other leg, wearing a Morticia Adams dress and wig.

I hadn’t even fancied him – he had had a sort of hard-faced look and the clothes and hair of a roadie to a rock band like Iron Maiden or Metallica – probably a dreamboat for some girls, but certainly not a boat I wanted to sail in. I was, though, a little lost in my life, out of uni, out of work and out of self-esteem. I seemed to be going through an odd phase with men where I didn’t necessarily fancy people, but was just curious about how they would perform.

Lu had invited me to her fancy dress party and it was a good excuse to escape the monotony of living back with my parents. My dole money covered my train fare to her city with a little extra for drinks, so that was it.

Lu shared a house with two guys, one, a slightly geeky, quiet type and the other, a van driver with long, dark blonde hair, wiry build and the face of someone who had been in a few fights. He was pleasant enough, but spoke his mind and always eyed me suspiciously, like he thought I was going to take off in the night with their TV and stereo system. But I was Lu’s friend so he had no choice other than to accept me and tolerate my company.

So, the fancy dress party – the reason for it escapes me, so I cannot say whether it was Halloween or a birthday. There was the usual crate-full of beer, cider and spirits. (I don’t remember any of my peers drinking wine in the mid-1990s.)

The van driver and the geek seemed to do most of the work, tidying, cleaning and acquiring the booze supplies while Lu just concentrated on getting her hair done and hiring a costume – a 17th century style dress complete with large hooped skirt and petticoats. I had just grabbed my Morticia costume at the last minute from a cheap hire shop.

So, party time arrived. I coped with not knowing anyone, other than the three hosts, in my usual way: copious amounts of cider.  And, as Lu spent most of her time either mingling or snogging her new boyfriend, I was forced to hang out with the geek and the van driver – neither to which I would gravitate in a normal situation.

Conversation with the van driver, after all the cider seemed to switch from dull small talk and his ramblings about music to a more flirtatious direction. His eyes seemed to wander to my cleavage and his hands had sneakily moved from his sides to my hips. I was so fuzzy-headed at this point that I had not noticed their advancement. The metre between us seemed to have shrunk to a few inches.

Then he whispered in my ear: “Do you want to come outside?” Still confused, I nodded, not quite sure what was happening. Maybe we were going to buy some more booze.

I followed him meekly, not even thinking much was going to happen, when he pulled out his keys and opened the back of his blue van. He ushered me inside to the dark space, only dimly lit by a nearby street lamp. It smelt of engine oil and there was a tool box and a dirty-looking blanket on the floor. We had to stand in a half-squatting position to avoid hitting our heads on the roof.

He grabbed my waist and kissed me very quickly, only staying on my lips for a few seconds, swiftly moving down to my neck, shoulders, breast, like a stopwatch had been set and if he didn’t beat it, something would explode. He hurriedly clawed at my dress, pushing it up, yanking my tights and knickers down. I could feel his impatience burning into me as I drunkenly fiddled with my lace-up boots to get one off so I could free a leg from its hosiery/knicker restraints.

The wall of the van banged and clanked as he shoved me against it, inserting a finger inside me and I made a grab for his member. Bang, clank, clink – the van, must have been visibly rocking at this point. He entered me and thrust a few times. I was too drunk to know whether it was a good or bad effort and he quickly zipped up and reluctantly waited while I adjusted myself and fumbled around with my boots.

We tried to go back into the house discreetly, but with my wig slightly wonky and my dark lipstick smeared completely off, it was obvious that I had either been riding a bucking bronco or bonking a man in a van.

The van driver resumed his aloof manner and barely spoke to me for the rest of my stay. He made it blatantly obvious that this hadn’t been one of his proudest moments, either.

 

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