Subscribers Only Literary Fiction
I'm on the Metro, the yellow line, somewhere under the Potomac, thinking of how much I don't need sex. There's a girl. I'm sitting. She's standing, her soft short-fingered right hand curled around a pole. Her ass is right in my face. It's big. Gorgeous. I stare at the two twin curves of her hips bulging over the waist of her black miniskirt. I imagine a subterranean breeze sweeping beneath. Is her underwear too small? Is it creeping up her crack? I could slip my hands under her skirt and squeeze. She would be soft and warm. I could lose myself inside of her.
I don't need sex at all.
She shifts her weight as the train shudders. The curves under her skirt shift too. The train lurches again. Her soft hand on the pole squeezes; her fingers must taste like dull steel.
Suddenly there's a guy. I smell him before I see him. He's stumbling along. Panhandling. I'm safe behind her panoramic ass. He approaches her.
Heyugoddadahla, he says, one low mumbled word. Her head turns. She does a thing...