SUBWAY SEX

The best I could safely get - does not do him justice!

INTENSE
DANGEROUS
FERAL
If sex was a stick, he'd be a California Redwood
If sex was a machine, he'd be Chernobyl
Phéromones pour off him like water flows over Niagara
HE KNOWS IT

I entered the subway car and was drawn to him like a shark is to blood in the water but I'm not the shark, just the hopeful victim. It was several stops before I summoned the courage to take his pic. I was desperate, he could get off at the next stop but if he saw me I'd be dead, not eaten and ravaged the way I was picturing in my mind - just slaughtered, bloodied pieces left for the scavengers.

After I completed my death wish, my feet began working their way through the crowd, closer to HIM.

They stopped close enough to drink him, far enough to make it seem casual, not seduced. He smelled good. Great. Sweet, salty, musky. I could see a drop of sweat running down his temple, along the nape of his neck and disappear into the dark fur under his shirt. He works outside, you can tell by the darkness of his tan around his neck and biceps.

We've gone two more stops and more people have gotten off then on. He steps away from the pole and grabs the overhead bar with both hands, like he's about to do a pull-up or maybe be tied-up. Yes, tied-up. He's been tied-up many times. He repositions himself. Now he is facing me, feet spread. It's not a natural position but a position better suited for things other then standing on a moving subway car.

He's not looking at me but he knows I am looking at him He senses it. It's instinctual and in that instant before, I can avert my eyes and pretend like anything else but him exists in the universe, he begins to pull on the bar. Not a pull-up. Just a slight flex of his arms and thighs. It's powerful, controlling and demonstrative. I grab the pole behind me for support. My mind yells to look away before it's too late - I don't. I can't.

His right hand relaxes it's grip on the bar and runs down his chest to the top of his jeans. He scratches just there and relaxes his hand at his side. It's not enough. His hand moves again to satisfy the itch but he can't get at it. He pulls at his shirt and lifts it with his thumb leaving his fingers free to run through his treasure trail.

He is not handsome, maybe not even attractive. There are thousands of men in NYC who have a much better body but he is built for sex. Every inch, every pore screams raw, enduring, explosive sex. Every movement, every glance, every curl of his lips beckons you. Dares you. You will never forget him but for him you are but a breath. Taken in, used and discarded - one of many, no different from the rest but essential.

My hand is reaching for my phone, I'm about to ask him if I can take his pic - a thousand reasons run through my mind, none of them good but it doesn't matter. The words would never pass my lips. They couldn't.

The train begins to slow, another stop. He moves towards the doors and waits. They open. As he steps out he turns, looks back and disappears into the mass of people.