My mind brightens considerably though as it comes to me — with a force like shock — that I've now told more than a couple of stories on myself without so much as hinting at the secret New York life-form I discovered in the early 1960s: the subway system as a movable orgy.
Old SybaRight goes out of his way to live out of synch with other people. I shop at odd hours. I fish, sleep, eat ... while others work. If another boat has my favorite fishing spot ahead of me, I go somewhere less favorite: out of sight. Young SybaRight was like that to a much lesser extent. Young SybaRight loved the city, the bustle and turmoil. 1956's SybaRight would ride the subway at rush hour just for the pleasure of being in a press of people. I did not yet hold these people in contempt or blame them for the world in any way. A theater full of people enjoying the movie was a pleasure for me: not an annoying distraction. I'd get crushed and buffeted, shoved and mauled. Oh, hip, man. New York! Big time crowds! At no point was I particularly aware whether the flesh pressing against me was male or female, young or old, attractive or repulsive: socially safe or taboo ...
I was twenty-three before that modified. Once modified by more than two details, my perceptions were revolutionized. I discovered that many, many people, thousands upon thousands, both male and female, young and old, enjoy a secret erotic life during New York's many rush hours. In the much enjoyed film Risky Business, Tom Cruise's spoiled teenager is taken aboard the Chicago subway by Rebecca deMornay's demographically selective whore for a screw. The audience responds to the sex-stars' getting off by locating something normally associated with privacy in public. But that's not the kind of sex I'm talking about. Neither am I talking about the unsolicited gropes one may be helpless to avoid in public. I'm talking about the welcomed contact: the ass settling-in to the anonymous hand, the breast luxuriating against the shoulder that doesn't move out of its way. Before taxonomizing the subway population according to family, genus, or species of participation in anonymous group groping, I narrate my first experience of erotic contact that might possibly have had a non-accidental element.
SybaRight: First Subway Sex
I'm riding the subway. It isn't rush hour. There are plenty of seats. Nevertheless I stand. I'm twenty-three. I love to enjoy my youth, my strong legs. I'm a dancer, a miler, a long distance runner, soon to become a bash-the-mountain-all-day downhill skier. I love not only my leg strength but my rhythm, my balance. I like to let the subway throw me around without staggering or falling: without having to grab a strap or to find a seat and hang on.
I no longer have the youthful sneer of my teens: perfected by imitation, among others, of Marlon Brando (James Dean and Elvis Presley looking to me like arrivistes once they arrived). But I don't doubt that some of that sneer is still there: the sneer that I shocked myself once suddenly discovering in an unexpected mirror at the Fantasy movie theater in Rockville Centre, Long Island: God! is that jerk with the cigarette stuck insolently to his lower lip me? One thing about young men you will notice: they don't have to have much stuff to strut in order to strut anyway. So I'm strutting. Sallow cheeks, sunken chest, cigarette breath, obscene pelvis, good legs ... Man! Look at me. Riding the ride. Absorbing the bumps and rattles of Empire State Big Apple mechanization with super-swivelled ankles, knees, and hips. Look, ma—no hands!
A young woman gets on this local train. Five foot five or six. Smooth, regular features. Silken blond hair longer than shoulder length. A summer dress not at all binding but nevertheless showing off very well this and that female shape as the dress moves one way with or against the subway and her flesh moves another: nice limbs, nice flank: a fine female breast, a ripe female buttock. She too stands, but holds a strap. The car rocks her too. Anyone with eyes can see her thigh beneath the material, her bottom, her bosom. (Anyone can see that the sneering, strutting punk is common: a jerk. At sixty-three I am still not old enough to see that the smooth-featured girl may also be common, perhaps be also a jerk.)
Local trains make lots of stops. Then rattle on again. Lots of changes of motion, of momentum. Lots of opportunities to change position, change straps, change seats. But suddenly SybaRight is aware of himself as a master mind. I've been thinking What if I'm a genius? since way before I was twelve. This time I think: What if I have ESP? Telekinesis? Psychokinesis? I have to laugh at the Steve Allen gag of years before where the guy says he's improved his power over heat to the point where he can raise the thermal energy of a glass of water to room temperature. But a good gag isn't a disproof. What if I, by the power of my mind alone, could bring that girl from her end of the car, behind me to my left, toward my middle of the car? What if I could bring her closer until she's standing right next to me?
These several decades later I cannot be certain whether or not her moving toward the center preceded my thought of moving her, but I swear to you, bit by bit, both of those things happened: I thought Move the girl this way and the girl moved: this way. First she'd gotten on and taken a strap toward the car's tail end. Then she moved inwards of the doors she'd entered. Within a few more stops, she was within a half-dozen straps of me albeit on the other side of the aisle. I couldn't believe what was happening. I was riveted, certain that she was going to touch me somehow. Just brushing arm against arm would be fine. I certainly didn't expect her to reach inside my pants and start yanking.
I prepared myself. The area through which I jounced with the subway was by now well defined. I held my arms with a loose tension so that my hands were no more than an inch further away from my hips than normal. Then I compromised that. Taking the strap with my right hand, positioned my left hand perhaps an extra inch further to my left rear. That's it. That's my perimeter. Now she will come tangent. She will cross that perimeter. I know she will. All I have to do is hold my ground.
The train jolted through a curve before pulling into the next station. Just as the trainman hit the brakes, she twisted toward me. Her momentum pinned her against me. Wouldn't you know it: her buttock, her cheek and the space between her cheeks came right against the back of my left hand: and stayed there throughout the braking. The car lurched to a stop: and she was around me: and out the doors to my front right: the direction I was looking the whole time. She sure looked nice, walking away down the platform, jockeying to the stairs ascending to street level. I could still feel her dress against my knuckles, on the backs of my fingers. I could feel her panties through her dress and her flesh through her panties. From those couple of seconds of contact I felt I could do a mental probe of the pH of her pussy juice. Clean. Clean and fragrant. I knew her ass was clean: her "ass" was all pussy.
What I felt no contact with was her mind. Her sag against me sure felt "deliberate" to me physically: how conscious had she been of it? Had I really manipulated her? That there was contact was unambiguous. That I enjoyed it was unambiguous. Whether her mind played any part in our coming together cannot be known by me. Her contribution, for me, remains ambiguous.
What if she thought she was manipulating me? Stay right there, Freckles. You're awfully skinny, but I can feel the testosterone leaking through your shoes. I need at least the idea of your male fluids coating my female the way I need air and water. The puddle around my pussy can almost sop up your lubricants from here. Hold still, and I'll have our delicious accident against you.
Incident #2: SybaRight the Passive Mastermind becomes SybaRight the Covert Aggressor
That experiment in tele-hypnosis was my only such. I took it as partial evidence that females as well as males could enjoy casual erotic contact under the mask of accident, under the full glare of public anonymity. My next experiment with erotic accidents occurred later that year: after this pacifist had been drafted by the US Army. My Basic Training request to be used as a Chaplain's Assistant was ignored: Whitehall Street Induction Station, the very perpetrator of the most recent grievous crime against SybaRight, wanted college graduates in English, Ivy League preferred, for its lower Manhattan typing pool. The Apple had been my preferred home since i was old enough to have a choice, but no one can live in New York City on the amount the Army budgets. In general, the Army is obliged to feed and house its troops. Sometimes, as in the front trenches of a foreign war, that's difficult. But there's no excuse for not feeding and housing conscripts within a mile of First Army Headquarters. The Army needs no excuse: it's the Army: more derelict than Lily Tomlin's "Phone Company." The Army declined to house its Manhattan soldiers, deciding, in the wisdom of its infinite distance from experience, that once you abandon a soldier on the street, $50 for an apartment plus transportation and $70 for food, ought to keep the soldier fit for duty month by month. No inspector general accompanies the private making sure that banks cash the check, that the private doesn't get mugged, that hotels in fact come up with a room with whatever change is left over after a months subway fare is subtracted, the restaurants guarantee the soldier healthy calories, three times a day, seven days a week, for four weeks plus in exchange for the $70. Whitehall Street privates had all run away, gone AWOL, faced the stockade, dishonorable discharge, and loss of citizenship ... all to escape Whitehall Street. Rather than provide for the soldiers, the Army's solution was to draft guys with degrees from Columbia or Cornell, knowing that they neither had to pay them nor feed them, neither to house them nor promote them ... the guy's families would continue to subsidize them. The Army was right: none of us went AWOL: no matter the provocation. None of us saw a dishonorable discharge as the cheapest fare to pay: as had the majority of our non-Ivy League predecessors. (If I had it to do over again, I'd take the five years in jail: repudiate my citizenship at the beginning rather than at the end.) (No one notices: either way.)
Well, those points are overdue in my army stories folder: here I've got to get on with the sex. I can't write the sex without giving the reader at least some opportunity to see the ironies and such in the setting: but I think I can streamline the setting from here: Once she thought she was rid of the kids, my mother sold the house she could never afford and drastically reduced her circumstances. There was room for either my sister Beth or me to visit: one or the other: not both together: and no room for anyone to move back in. But I spent some army time camped at "home": the rest I camped uptown with my girl friend. (Hilary wasn't even a US citizen. She wasn't even employed. Why should she be expected to co-subsidize the maintenance of a Manhattan soldier?) (How did the US ever win a war? By imposing sacrifice here, there, and lots of where; distributing rewards just here and there.)
At first I commuted to Whitehall Street—most often in uniform—more often from Long Island and my mother's. The LIRR goes either to Brooklyn or to Manhattan. The subway seemed faster to Whitehall Street from Borough Hall than from Penn Station. The Brooklyn subways tended to be older and more rattly than Manhattan's IRT, but there were just as many nubile girls commuting to Manhattan from Brooklyn as there were from anywhere.
On the morning in question I was standing with my right hand on the pilar that reinforced ceiling with floor at three paired points in the older cars. A crowd around this rearward pillar vied for hand holds. A young and well groomed blond was to my left. Once again it was my left land, prone toward my thigh, that is, palm-inward, that was free. I decided to test how receptive the blond would be toward an "accidental" brush by my left knuckles on her right rump. Within a stop or two I'd brushed her all right but couldn't tell her reaction. Read that as a plus. I tried slightly prolonged contact. I read that non reaction as a plus. By the time Whitehall Street approached I had my hand suppinated enough to be making prolonged contact between her right buttock and my left palm. Her only reaction was to turn slightly: slightly so that both her buttocks "faced" me. As I lurched for the door, I gave her full bottom a loving pat. I offered her a chance at eye contact as I exited. She ignored it.
Come to think of it though, I've had full blown fucks, both buttocks gripped hard by both hands throughtout, that lasted no longer than the time my left palm cupped and caressed her right buttock.
After that I felt like I was battlng 1000. One girl, possibly even the one mentioned above, the Brooklyn blond, sighed at one point. It was a sigh more like she was bored than that she was annoyed. I don't care how crowded the subway is: there's always room for someone to reangle their ass if they don't like the caress: get a purse, an umbrella, a fist in the way. No, the girl was making her ass fully explorable to me. Maybe she was tired of my hand and wanted my dick there. Maybe she was enjoying herself but felt she ought to make some sign of discomfort or disapproval: just in case somebody seated, with their eyes at the level of her ass, could see through the crowd what was going on.
After that I accepted more occasions than had been my habit to take a seat when available. I viewed my fellow passengers with new eyes. What I saw amazed me. Now that I was alert for it, I saw gropings galore. I saw women who sought the gropers. I saw others who merely accepted what gropes came. It amazed me to see few to no instances of unwelcome gropes: the "volunteers" found each other with extraordinary efficiency.
(That latter relates to a perception I had at around that same period of my life: fist fighters found fist fights, knife fighters found knife fights, gun fighters found gun fights. When the DEK house jocks bruised into the West End, fist fights followed. ... Larry, my violin-playing Jewish dorm-neighbor from Texas, with his switchblade always just out of sight, was routinely getting gang-clicked by Puerto Ricans: always left them bleeding. How was that? I never got drawn on by a lone Puerto Rican, let alone by a gang of them. No DEK ever launched a punch at my nose. I was in my forties before I was ever shot at. I know that there have been cases where somebody draws a knife and somebody else shoots him between the eyes with a .38: it can happen, it does happen; but isn't it far more common that predator and prey fit hand in glove? go together like ham and eggs?) (Notice that it wasn't Bali or Tahiti or Katmandu that got its World Trade Center creamed.)
(Does the study of rape, a terrible crime, include a study of mutuality? Please: I am not a lawyer. I am not trying to get any rapist off. I am not trying to blame the victim. It so happens that I am a believer that society would be better off if we dispensed with proof and merely executed suspects of certain crimes. Executed them on the spot! He was Einstein? He was Jesus? Too bad. We won't tolerate so much as the thought of rape here. If we off the wrong guy occasionally, so what?) (I also hope you're aware that I bent over backwards to determine that my own little accidents were accepted before I indulged in any bigger accidents with the same subject.)
Taking my turn as observer during those couple of years in which I joined the unnumbered ranks of public ass-bumpers, I was astonished at how cautious I was in the role compared to some other roaming predators I saw. One young black guy was a master. I saw him again and again. I don't think he was commuting anywhere: I think he just spent a lot of time hunting: enough time that I ran into him repeatedly: a credit to me since he moved fast. Speedy would blitz through a subway car, careening from caressee to caressee. This woman's behind got the back of his arm; that woman's breast was grabbed openly by his right hand: but he was gone, on and into another car within seconds. How shall the police arrest the speeder going at eight-tenths the velocity of light while the cops operate only at subsonic velocities?
be back when I can. One thing I want to expand on is my feeling that the number of willing erotic encounters on the subway far outnumber the unwilling: technically, rape, by the slightest extension. I never discussed it with a partner afterward: anonymity was very much the point on both sides. But: I'm reminded of fights. The knife fighter I knew always got into knife fights. No one that I know of ever pulled a gun on him. No one punched him and then he stabbed them. Fist fighters found fist fights. Guys packing find others: also packing. I don't mean always: but more than one might guess. Something is going on there that ought to be studied.
2005 05 31 Whoops! See?
Stars do it too! Christian Slater was arrested for goosing a girl in a store.
Notes
The Puerto Rican girl I mentioned online but in a non-blog file had the face of a Hispano-Indian angel and as great an ass as I've ever touched. So round, so firm, so fully packed. And she was a size or two bigger that the petite girls I normally favored: so the bar of her heinie was carried almost at the same height as the jump of my dick.
What I didn't and don't understand is why she turned on me: she'd been accepting my caresses for many stops before she squealed, "What are you doing?" and lashed out.
I don't know. But here's a possibility. She was enjoying it: but saw witnesses noticing: that she was enjoying it. After all, her magnificent ass would have been right at the eye level of those seated.
Girls can bluff too.
(Hmm. It never occurred to me to try bumping my dick against the face of a seated beauty when the car lurched. That would have been a little bit much perhaps.)
Oh: and there's a sequel: she starts squealing and scratching at me just as the train rumbles into 116th Street at Broadway: the boy-baby blue Columbia station. A minute later I enter my girl friend's apartment on the corner by the river. How come I'm bleeding, she wants to know.
I don't remember what I said.
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