Take Back The Night!
I'm sitting in my seat in a crowded subway and he's standing in front of me, crotch to mouth, reading The New Yorker. This boy's a tall drink of water in five o'clock shadow. He has bad shoes but I'd consider forgiving him. He probably looks great without any clothes on.
The matter of him standing over me like this with a perma-come-hither look directed at no one in particular, paired with the fact that I haven't had any heavy petting in longer than I can't help but think about, simply forced me to imagine what his face might look like while I'm going down on him. It's not my fault.
See, boys aren't the only ones who undress lookers with their eyes or imagine sexual acts with strangers. There are plenty of women who do doubletakes for that hot denim clad ass passing by. We just tend to do it with more class. ...Or not.
So I'm thinking about giving head to my stranger on a train until a) I start to feel secretly foolish (or foolishly secret?), and b) I realize that if I continue to think about it I'll just work myself into an unnecessary tizzy and then i'll go to work all in heat and everyone will be able to smell it on me. I'll start humping the copier or I'll climb up on top of my desk, curl into the fetal position and howl.
So I press stop on the porno playing in my head and I think about other stuff sitting there on the train. Like the fact that when I looked up at him just then I realized that he's the best friend of an old boyfriend.
This friend of an OB always fancied himself an activist with a capital A. If there ever was a protest going on anywhere on the planet, like against Kathy Lee's alleged use of child labor in the manufacturing of her clothing line, or cruelty to animals in Rob Schneider movies, this guy was front and center and leading the "what do we want/when do we want it" chants like Fellow Activist David Hasselhoff rallied the crowds at the Berlin Wall in '89. (I totally made that Rob Schneider thing up, but if there was such a demo you-know-who'd probably organize it.)
Don't misunderstand. It's not like I won't get behind a good cause. At my first pro-choice rally I had a sign that said "Keep Uncle Sam out of my pants" and got in to an argument with the stupid pro-life marcher-woman who told me that if she'd done what my sign said, her children wouldn't be here. (My side of the argument was basically about how her argument didn't even make any sense.) But as ready as he is to take down corporate America, our activist friend still gets his daily to-go doppios at Starbuck's. I remember once, the OB and I were having drinks with him and he was reminiscing about a recent Mumia rally he'd been too. He actually started chanting "Free! Mumia! Abdul! Jabar!" like it was one of the songs he'd just put a quarter into the jukebox for.
So here I was imagining our democratic defender and myself engaging in active participation on the MTA, as it turns out. Not knowing whether I'm recognizable or not has got me feeling ill at ease. But I'm wearing sunglasses and my hair was short when I knew him so maybe he hasn't placed me.
I'm thinking as my stop approaches that I'm going to have to stand up in front of him and excuse myself. There's no way around it. But as the train pulls in to Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall, he's already stepped aside because he's getting off too. Luckily I lose him in the crowd. I can't imagine what he's doing down here until I discover that a block down from my office, folks are gathering for a demonstration. Typical.
Listen. I just want some of the sex. I'll protest this fucking dry spell until my demands are met. Maybe I'll start wearing a T-shirt that says ACTIVIST and I'll make a sign that says NO SEX NO PEACE! and just carry it around with me wherever I go.
