Mohican part 2

Inspired by yesterday’s archive story I wrote a part 2. Part 1 is here.

He’d seen the contempt in her eyes as she’d looked down at him, appraised him, dismissed him for what she thought he was not for who he was. Typical fucking upper-middle behaviour, judging a book by its cover, sticking to their own. Every time he saw her stare at him like that he wanted to … wanted to what? With her aristocratic roots and her public school education she’d be first up against the wall come the revolution. She was the enemy, but he knew, god he knew that every time he saw her stare at him like that he wanted to kiss her, touch her, cherish her. He wanted to breath her in, explore her, satisfy her. Not that she’d want him to, god no. Sure posh ones like her probably fantasised about the gardener’s prowess but in reality they always hooked up with Tarquin, their second cousin once removed. He looked at her and unfurled his middle finger and enjoyed the look on her boyfriend’s face as he did so. He hated that floppy hipster hairstyle and those skinny jeans, what a wanker. But again Tony knew that that deep down that hatred was mostly jealousy. Jealous that that weed had managed to get the most beautiful girl in Uni.

That was unfair. Kirsty was just as beautiful, and Tony loved her. But that posh girl was so sexy whereas sometimes Kirsty forgot she was a woman. Everything was so ‘right-on’ with her that she had managed to almost desexualise herself. She had the curves and she had the looks and boy under the bed clothes she had the moves but to get to them you had to strip off the metaphorical layers of ideology and the literal layers of baggy, shapeless clothes. Tony was conflicted, he knew the sexualisation of women was the exploitation of women - but he loved to admire those posh stocking clad legs in those black high-heels.

God what would this crowd of raggle-taggles and hangers on think if they could read his thoughts? They’d disown him, send him to Coventry, call him a traitor. It was stupid really, him and his group rallied against sexism, racism, homophobia but they were quite willing to discriminate on the grounds of class. Bloody hypocrites they were. 

Tony ran his hand through his Mohican and returned his thoughts to the conversation going on around him. The posh girl was just a pipe dream, a fantasy, she’d never give him the time of day. She’d made up her mind about him long ago. Let’s face it was never going to happen and, he smiled at Kirsty, he didn’t really want it to.