[kiasusam]

That afternoon passed smoothly. Our valued customers weren't so grouchy, the salesmen and saleswomen weren't so frustrated. Punctuated as it was by our monthly team brief (Joyce managed to contain her chest whilst briefing us), I sailed through it.

Glad to be out in the open, wishing the air was a sweet as it had been in Ambleside, I made my way to Keighley railway station, smiling as I arrived on Platform 1. The station has four platforms. Two of them are on the main line, connecting places like Leeds and Bradford with places like Skipton, Morecambe and Carlisle. The other two are the terminus of a heritage railway that runs authentic steam trains between Keighley and Oxenhope (via the capital of Bronte country, Haworth).

Please don't put me down as a train spotter or rail buff, but I love the contrast between the modern platforms and the old ones. The modern ones are spartan, with no avoidable expense ever having been spent. The heritage ones are majestic, well-maintained and feature floral displays worthy of awards at the Chelsea Flower Show. Period films and TV shows have often featured them. And, of course, the heritage line itself starred in the 1970 version of The Railway Children (admittedly before my time, but regularly shown on the box, even now).

My train arrived shortly after I did. It was a brand-new one, but I wished it was powered by steam.

Two stops and a short walk later I was in the fish and chip shop, buying my evening meal. Two minutes after that I was home, washing it down with the remains of yesterday's wine. Then, feeling sweaty and grubby, I decided a shower was in order.

Warts time again. I masturbated under the jetting water, concentrating on my clit and hood, thinking about Dave all the while. Taking my time about it, I built and built and built until I finally went off like a volcano. Then, towelling myself dry, I retired to the bedroom to continue my research.

Men, I thought. Can I even touch myself while thinking about men?

I couldn't. I could when thinking about girls, though. Gently stroking as I pictured the bubbly blonde. Easing in a couple of fingers into my pussy as I drooled over Debs. And frantically frigging myself imaging Becky on top of me, her pneumatic tits crushing mine . . .

Cumming even more volcanically.

Okay, I concluded, recalling a definition I'd seen of "lesbian". I'm in love with Dave but I'm also capable of lusting after other women. I definitely qualify as lezzie on that score. But men . . .

Can I conclusively say men are ancient history?

I opened my bedside drawer and fished out my one and only sex toy. A fellow bar worker, Sue, had given me it as a twenty-third birthday present. She'd gift-wrapped it in a large box, using padding to make it rattle-proof.

'Here you go, maid,' she'd said in her Cornish way. 'I'd open it in private if I were you, mind. And let me know if you need showing how it works.'

I wonder if she was disappointed when I didn't ask for a demonstration. Perhaps she'd hoped for a threesome with me and the toy. Perhaps she thinks of me as "one of they tight northern cows with no spirit of adventure".

Sue's present is a dildo in tasteful green. I've used it many times, always successfully. Up until that Tuesday evening I had not, however, used it when thinking about men. So . . .

Purely in the interests of scientific research, I pushed my toy against me. It slid in easily but I hesitated. Who to think about? Not either of my two (pathetic) male lovers. So who, then? The canteen manager? No thanks. A film star or sporting hero? No, not in the least bit realistic. So who?