A Secret Mission

    I boarded the crowded rush hour tube train at Sloane Square. Managed to slip into a seat just vacated by an exiting passenger. At the next station three young men got on and stood in the doorway opposite me. They were builders, fresh from work, wearing plaster-spattered work clothes. Two were quite nice looking; the third was an absolute blinder. Shaggy black hair, coal black eyes, a three day growth. I wondered if he could be Irish. This was later confirmed when at the next station he turned to one of the others and spoke in an Irish accent. In fact they were all Irish. His companions were clearly straight, but his eyes gave him away completely as they flicked and darted over the men sitting on the seats, or entering the train at each station. From my seated position I watched him rapidly gauge and appraise. Several times early on in the journey his eyes met mine and in the manner of such gay transactions we held each other's gaze fractionally longer than necessary - just long enough to confirm to each other we were brothers, and as our glances slid off each other's face we both gave the slightest hint of a smile to confirm it. At one point he dropped to a crouching position, the better to rest his legs, I assume, although this added the extra fillip of positioning his head at crotch height, of which he was also undoubtedly aware. And all of this was undertaken as his heterosexual colleagues stood on either side of him, blissfully unaware of the primal play being conducted under their noses.

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