When I went to school up in San Jose, I was introduced to the light rail system and a whole new fantasy: frottage. Most of the time I was able to obtain a seat, but the days when I had to stand…well, I was always on the look out for someone to play a starring role in my own private little theater of debauchery. Much as I wanted to, the chance never arose. As long as you don’t count the come-ons from old lecherous men I had no interest in. They say it takes one to know one, but they’re so obvious, we all know. I, at least, was subtle and young, though as thorough a degenerate as they were. I felt I had the edge. The most that I ever did was tip my hips toward my nearest neighbor, not quite daring to actually press the cleft of my thighs up against any of his or her angles. But oh, how I wanted to.
After less than a year, I left SJ a thoroughly humbled sophomore and returned home, the light rail quickly forgotten as I once again immersed myself in the seamier side of Los Angeles. Until more than ten years later, I had a chance to catch a ride on our own new light rail, the Gold Line. A few friends and I had been traipsing around the Downtown L.A. Art District, catching one exhibition and a few stray perverts. Rather than take a cab back to my place as we’d planned, we thought it’d be fun to take the new rail system, so we caught a ride to Union Station. Memories flooded back as we boarded, and looking around the sparsely populated car, I automatically tried to designate this evening’s protagonist. I was disappointed until we reached the next station. Two men entered our car and I pinpointed my man. He and his buddy were still standing as the train started moving. Completely ignoring my friends and their muted blather as they, too, surveyed the scene, I scrabbled through my mental rolodex of opening lines, yanked out the first marginally plausible one, and advanced on them.
“Excuse me, can you tell me what stop you got on at? I wasn’t paying attention,” I asked them anxiously, directing my query at the shorter of the two. I could tell that he’d fit nicely against me.
“Downtown, I think, right?” he asked of his pal. Oh no, I groaned internally. He was gay, or pretending to be. I looked hopefully at his friend.
“Chinatown,” his likewise gay friend told me.
I sighed and thanked them, then headed back to give my friends the disappointing news. At this time of night, I didn’t hope for another chance, but I got one a few stops later: a busty little latina and two asian girls. I could hear the porn music already. I slouched down in my seat and regarded them appraisingly, wondering which I should choose, or if I should let my mind take off on another tangent. Deciding against the wild public-transit orgy, I settled on one of the asians. I knew better than to approach her, particularly after my recent mistake. “Never mistake the artist for the art,” Alfred Bester had once said, or something close enough. Taking that wisdom to heart, I watched my girl through my half-closed lids, posing her in the aisle, myself beside her in a crowded car. I’d stumble as the train lurched, half-turned toward her, my knee slipping between the two of hers and deftly spreading them to either side. Our eyes would meet, our bodies frozen in a moment of uncertainty-then I’d feel her lean in toward me, her skirt sliding up slightly. I’d shiver a little as the dampness of her panties pressed against the bare skin of my thigh. I’d shift my stance, letting her do the same to me, and we’d stand there, cleft to thigh, moving with the sway of the car, every jostling body grinding us together.
I came awake with a sharp elbow to my ribs. My chicky was gone, and we were at our stop. I was silent on the subsequent cab ride home, musing over the daydream. It’s been so long since I’ve felt that *uNF* of two bodies fitting perfectly together. I wasn’t sated yet, but I knew I would be soon.
And so I was. Several times, in fact. In accordance with my plan to chart my orgasms, the numbers are as follows:
In the cab: 3
Back at home: 7
In the shower: 6
Not bad for a night’s work.