"Hello," says the strange man (I think) who is about to sit down on the bench beside me at the bus stop. I am not in a mood to be polite, but I don't see that I have a choice. Both of us look shapeless in down-filled hooded jackets, heavy pants, boots, mitts, with scarves partly covering our faces. The season is winter and the locale is a university town
on the Canadian prairie. I bet the stranger has no clue what he has interrupted.

My clit is awake, not fully aroused, from the echoes of shivering metal. I have been kicking the middle foot of the bench directly under me, and the cold iron has sent vibrations into the wooden seat through my pants and into the warm lips of my cunt. Shifting my ass-cheeks on the bench almost brought my clit into contact with something
solid, but not quite. The teasing and tickling are a moistening experience, and I will continue to feel warm between the legs until the wind from the Arctic finds my wet panties. I hope I look like the demure coed I am supposed to be. Who would ever guess
that my lower mouth is silently singing the themesong from the musical TOMMY: "See me! Feel me! Touch me!"

"Cold day," says the man, not really expecting an answer. "You going to the university?" Duh. Which bus does he think I'm waiting for on the university route?

" Yes," I try to say as crisply as possible, but it comes out with a little breathy hiss and a puff of steam. He looks at me intently. It is so hard for us to read each other in these clothes that any sign of individuality seems as valuable as a fingerprint to a private dick. I am not sniffing out his, and the state of my muff is none of his business.

"You ever go to Pub Nite?" he demands. Shit. He is looking for a date. I am not ready to accept an invitation from an almost-invisible man who is wrapped up like a mummy, who is probably a starving student like me, who is very likely several years younger and no more responsible than my ex-boyfriend. No no no. My clit is not fussy at
all, but it can't be allowed to make the decisions here.

"Not very often," I tell him in as monotone a voice as I can manage. "I'm usually too busy." But if we met in summer, I would be tempted to add: I can only spend half an hour fooling around with you in the bushes.

The bus arrives and he lets me get on first, apparently still trying to make an impression. I stomp up the steps, trying to shake the snow off my boots and incidentally maintaining the buzz in my swollen button.

The bus is crowded, and I can only find room at the back, crammed in beside other padded bodies. As I hoped, the ride is bumpy.

The bus stops. I jostle my way out the door amongst the herd that heads toward the overheated stuffiness of the closest building. I know where the nearest women's can is, and that is my goal. I don't want to lose the momentum before I can enjoy the luxury of a private cubicle, where my fingers can comfort my hot, wet, bare snatch.

He is definitely following me. Can't he recognize a brushoff, or is he the stalking type? I smile to myself: see if you can follow me to the place I'm going, bud.

My mittened hand is on the door marked "Women," when a cheerfully low female voice hails me. Phyllis, known as "Phil," is clearly the brightest light in my Medieval History class - or second brightest after me. I have so few friends these days that I don't want to discourage her attention.

She is large without being fat; I know she is athletic. She pulls off her toque and ruffles her short brown hair with one hand in a way that reminds me of a Saint Bernard puppy romping in the snow. "It looks like we're going to the same place," she grins at
me.

"It's popular," I answer. What else can I say?

I rush into a cubicle as though the cold had given me such a desperate need to pee that I couldn't wait. I unzip my jacket, then my pants, and expose my damp, curly bush to the air. Slowly, quietly, the middle finger of my left hand approaches nirvana.

"So how's your daughter?" asks Phil heartily from the adjoining cubicle. Jesus! She expects a conversation! Has she no shame?

"Fine," I mutter, hoping this will satisfy her. One of us should be satisfied.

I hear a long, healthy, unabashed stream of piss splashing into the bowl next-door." So how's it going otherwise?" she persists. "Do you get enough time for yourself while you're raising a child in your parents' house?" This closeted dyke is a snoop from hell, and I have told her far too much.

Phil has heard the story of how I arrived on my parents' doorstep, my baby in my arms, after my last fight with her father. She knows that my own father, who teaches in the Political Science Department, and my mother in the English Department offered to send me back to school for the two years it will take to get my degree.

What Phil hasn't heard is my dad's warning: "Maybe now you'll buckle down and stop thinking about men." I am the Prodigal Daughter, and chastity is the price of my education: my salvation from a sordid life. I can only fuck myself, and then only with great discretion. Or not at all.

"No I don't," I snarl, hoping she catches my drift. "I have no privacy." Why doesn't she leave?

She has left her cubicle. Good. If she leaves the room, I might have a chance to start up again where I left off. I slide one hand under my sweater to cup the opposite breast, squeezing it through my bra. How sad that no one else gets to see or feel these tits, not even little Emma since she weaned herself. My nipple loves the attention of my fingers.
I don't hear anything.

The feeling has come back to my warm pussy. I feel irresistible. How I would love to be stroked like this by an ardent admirer - who wouldn't have to be a man, just a hot and willing human. No point in upsetting my parents more than necessary.

I'm rubbing a ticklish place inside myself, and I'm about to come. I don't think I can stay absolutely silent. This is dangerous, but it will be okay if I finish before anyone else comes in. What if I get found out? Oh Christ, I'm losing it. Don't let that thought scare
me off, let it push me over the edge. An audience, what a turn-on.

"Jen? Are you all right in there?" No! She's still here, but I can't stop now or I'll never finish before my first class. I have to be quiet, but I have to let go. I have to find a way to pull this off.

Her boots are coming closer, and the floor is shaking slightly. The door of the cubicle is out of alignment, and the bolt doesn't fit into its groove very well. It pops out like a clit swelling out of its hood.

The door opens. "Don't!" I scream. Realizing it is too late for words, I add, "open the door." Here is Phil in my face, larger than life. I have just jerked two fingers out of my cunt, but the situation is obvious. I am in shock.

She grins from ear to ear. "Well, well," she snickers. "Carpe diem," she tells me. " Seize the day" was a popular saying at a time when life was nasty, brutish and short. Some things don't change enough.

I can't speak, but I can pull my pants up. My right hand reaches for my zipper, but she grabs my wrist and pulls it toward her. When she kisses my hand, I am tempted to start laughing hysterically. "It's all right," she soothes me, looking into my eyes with sympathy. "Let me help you," she suggests. My clit is still throbbing, and it is driving
me berserk.

Without removing any of her own clothes, Phil pulls me upright and pushes me against the wall of the cubicle, my pants bunched around my knees. Without further ado, she slides two long fingers into my heat and gently seeks out sensitive nerve endings." Like this?" she teases. She finds a very receptive spot, and I moan loudly.

She reaches down with her other hand to hold me in place by one ass-cheek. She kisses me with her full lips and slides her hot tongue into my mouth. I try not to shriek.

She withdraws from my mouth as she fucks me harder. "Don't you need to come, baby?" she prods. I feel as if I can't, then suddenly my clit is erupting and my whole cunt is rhythmically clutching her fingers like a rescued prisoner gulping water for the first time in days. I don't want her to leave me yet, and she doesn't. Stay, stay, stay, says my
wet snatch. I can feel Phil's lungs heaving as she laughs quietly.

The air on my bush is cool. I feel relieved, but there is still a greedy and rebellious twinge of lust in my depths, wanting to make up for the famine of the past few months. Phil reluctantly slides her fingers out of me and sucks them, one by one, looking me in the eyes.

I am embarrassed, but I feel as if I should return the favor. After all, we are both Canadian women, raised to be polite. I awkwardly reach for the top button on her coat, knowing that finding her skin will be like digging for precious oil many feet under the surface. "No," she stops me in a motherly voice. "We don't have time now. Wait until later." She is grinning. I am reminded that we have to go to class. Medieval history will never be the same.

Phil kisses me sweetly, like a courtly suitor. "I've got my own place," she tells me. "It's small, but we can be alone." I know that she also has a car. The possibilities are almost too exciting to think about.

"Oh, Phil," I sigh, thinking that her name reminds me of the Latin word for "lover of," and of a cast of literary characters from Philomela to Astrophil. She seems to understand me.

Three young women burst into the washroom, all talking and giggling at once. They seem very young.

When Phil and I emerge from our cubicle, two of the bimbettes have disappeared while one is reapplying her lipstick in the mirror. She stares, but who is she to us?

We both wash our hands at different sinks, and Phil is so thorough that I suspect she wants our witness to guess how her talented fingers have been occupied. Phil chivalrously hands me a paper towel, and grabs one for herself. We dry ourselves as though sharing an inside joke, and leave the washroom together.

I feel calm enough to focus on Professor Mindbender's lecture, my first of the day. I'm really glad that my parents encouraged me to go back to university and discouraged me from dating men. I must be their child after all. The life of the mind suits me.

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