by Stephen L. Slatter
Dear God, I’m sorry, but leaving the Red Line at Wheaton, there’s a guy’s rear plumb in front of me I’m gonna have to fondle. Make him turn round, surprised eyes looking dirty down at me. Read him thinking: Jesus, what’s a hot chick like you doing squeezing men’s asses on subway escalators?
Then he’ll laugh, understanding I’m not in the habit. It’s a one-off just for him being so – special. He’ll drink me in for a moment and then turn back to face the exit. There ain’t no hurry: we’re both going all the way. He’s got plenty of time yet to polish whatever line he’s going to shoot me, though my answer’s already a yes. We both know that.
He’s totally dominating my view now. So close, I’m gonna be forced to glide my fingers down his right thigh and back up the left, stopping just below the most important place. Make him wonder: she actually gonna touch it, or not? Tease him wild.
Deep breath. Should I do it? After all, we’re gonna do way more than just touching later. But I decide to wait: there’s still miles of up escalator left. You ever get off at Wheaton, Lord? You’ll know what I mean. It just goes on forever.
In fact, as you read this, I’ll still be here, ogling that backside, living my impossible dream, never getting any nearer the top of this ride, or farther from the bottom.
Just like in life, Lord. Just like.