textfiles/sex/EROTICA/R/rails.txt

As Hard as Rails

Something explodes against the window near Jeff's head, but the
glass shards and foamy streams slide off the Immacu-Lex pane
before he sees the shattered beer bottle. Even in his alarm, he
admires the product's efficiency: Immacu-Lex--the membrane-
thin, disaster-proof glass substitute. Effective against dirt
and death. Jeff was on the team that designed it.

He closes his PowerBook and looks at a woman clutching her
crotch and screaming at the train. Except for a yellow t-shirt
and a pair of high-top sneakers, she is naked. The men in front
of Jeff laugh and elbow each other. The woman's face is blue.
She staggers backward as she hurls another bottle.

Along the tracks lie empty boxes. Jeff once saw a man and a
woman, half-joined, easing themselves into a Kenmore
refrigerator box. He saw a boy, pulling up his pants, emerge
from another box, making Jeff wonder what dazed transaction had
taken place inside.

The men in front of him nudge each other hard. A woman, coming
out of the bushes, buttons a sweater over her full, bare
breasts. The woman jolts him, frightens him. She faces the
train as she struggles with the tight sweater. Jeff sees the
dark thrust of her nipples underneath the wool. She tosses her
hair, its gold strands heavy with oil, and leaves fall out.
Jeff notes the grimy streaks on her throat, the astonishing
perfection of her face.

Her beauty, smoke-stained and ill-fed, insults the fragrant
women on the train.

After that he rides the train with his eyes fixed on the bushes
and his body poised to see her again. He imagines her gazing
through the train as she steps out, nude, from the vegetation.
He pictures her, in her dreamy exhibitionism, weighing her
breasts with her hands, squeezing them. She lets one hand fall
and explores her crotch with dirty fingers. Her head drops to
one side, then the other, as she considers the sensations she
is provoking in her body. He plays out a conversation with her,
how he would approach her, conquer her suspicion. He would have
to offer her something. Maybe cigarettes, or a bottle of
whiskey. What if she wanted drugs? He would have no idea where
to find them.

But there's no beginning or end to this fantasy, only a middle:
the approach and the awkward bartering. He can't imagine
finding her in the dense vegetation along the tracks, or
coupling with her in a box. He gets achingly hard when he
thinks about her, but the fantasy won't let him climax, though
he strokes his cock until his body is hot and sore from
flailing in the sheets.

He's been thinking about asking someone to marry him. Cynthia.
Sometimes the thought excites him, gives him the feeling of
control he gets when making a major purchase. Other times, on a
warm evening on the train, it's a narrowing black circle. He
pictures going home to Cynthia in the commuter burrow where
she'd be kicking off her pumps and relaxing with a bottle of
Evian after a strenuous day at the consulting firm. They'd go
for a jog in a prefabricated neighborhood, full of sickly young
trees and minivans.  Sometimes their virtuous sleep would be
interrupted by gunshots, and they'd call the security company
that patrolled their complex of townhomes.

And one Saturday, when he's contrite and hungover from a night
of partying with other men, he finds himself in a jewelry
store, listening to a sexy teenager chirp about payment plans.

"Which one would you choose?" he asks her. She stares at him,
bewildered, enchanted. With a black fingernail, she points out
rock heavy enough to give a woman bursitis. He picks out its
opposite, a small stone on a chaste band.

Cynthia accepts his proposal with satisfaction. They'll need to
start budgeting for a condo and a family car. While she talks,
he admires the metallic perfection of her hair. Her efficiency
comforts him. If he works hard, they will be happy together;
they will have security and peace. He sits there enjoying the
rich, calm feeling that he is doing something right.

Some of the engineers at Jeff's company are being paid to
leave. Everyone is wondering who will be offered this
incentive--old blood or new. The old blood ends up getting it;
Jeff can tell when he sees the glassy excitement in the older
scientists' eyes. Jeff is twenty-nine, with a doctorate from
MIT. He gets promoted to project manager. Cynthia buys him an
Ironman watch to celebrate. She shows him a newspaper page with
red circles on it--ads for townhouses.

He keeps looking for the woman on the train tracks, but the
search has gotten so automatic that he forgets what he's
seeking. When he does remember her, the memory is violent and
frantic, like the realization that you've left something
valuable in an unsafe section of town.

This is how I will find her, he reasons. I first saw her at the
intersection of Second and Alexander. By everything that is
logical, reasonable or predictable in my life, I will see her
there again. By all the patterns I rely on, I will see her
there again, If everything I know and understand is right, I
will see her again, and I will have her.

It's Indian summer now, the season that sinks as soon as it
ripens. In October, Jeff and Cynthia will get married. October,
she informs him, is actually a more popular month for weddings
than June. As he rides the train, Jeff feels cradled by its
vibration; the back-and-forth movement makes him feel safe and
satisfied. While he's riding, ideas come to him faster than he
can record them on his PowerBook. He works late most nights and
comes home in darkness. The post-rush-hour trains are quiet and
mostly empty; he gets a lot of work done.

And one night, when he boards the train, he sees her sitting at
the back of a vacant car. She's reclining with her head thrown
back against the seat, her neck arching, her mouth partially
open. Asleep. Her blue-and-gray flannel shirt is buttoned to
the collar bone, but he can see the heavy sway of her breasts
underneath. Something dry catches in his throat, and he coughs.
She awakens and slowly lifts her head. Throwing himself into
the nearest seat, Jeff opens his briefcase and pretends to
inspect the papers inside.

After a few minutes, his heart regains its usual rhythm. He
inhales, holds the oxygen, and looks over his shoulder. The
woman is watching him. She isn't as gorgeous as he remembers--
her cheekbones aren't sky-high, and her mouth is too broad--but
she's sexier. Her blond hair, decorated by a brown leaf, sticks
out everywhere in long loops and spirals. She is watching him
with a blank, steady indifference that makes his cock leap. As
he watches back, she opens her lips and moistens them with the
tip of her tongue. She shifts and settles into her seat. With
gritty fingers she tugs at her collar.

Then she smiles. It's a wide, buttery smile, nothing coy about
it. He reads it as an invitation, and his mind quakes. The
conductor comes through, and Jeff has to conceal his swollen
crotch with his right hand as he digs into his pocket for money
with his left. As soon as he's bought his ticket, he turns
around again. The woman is disappearing into the bathroom. The
conductor leaves. Jeff gets up and walks to the back of the
car.

For a second or two he stands in front of the bathroom door,
preparing to knock. In a wild, stupid moment, he wonders what
etiquette demands, then he enters. The woman is standing with
her body pressed into the space between the toilet and the
wall. She looks only slightly surprised. Then she smiles again.

"I was hiding from the conductor," she explains. She shovels a
skein of hair off her forehead. "I don't have any money."

"I would have bought your ticket," says Jeff, in a burst of
gallantry.

The woman laughs.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you," he blurts. "I didn't know the
bathroom was occupied."

"Yes, you did," she says, amused. "You followed me."

"I've seen you before. I saw you one morning while I was riding
the train. You were standing outside, by the tracks," he
babbles. "I thought you were the best-looking woman I'd ever
seen. You need money? I can give you money. I have lots of it--
more than I know what to do with."

"You don't have to give me money," she says softly. "What makes
you think I need anything?"

The open door rattles behind them as the train halts. Without
thinking, Jeff closes it, and the closetlike space suddenly
narrows into nothing but breathing distance between him and the
woman. There's no air in the tiny facility. He smells her
sweat, a hint of fermentation that might be beer or whiskey,
and a trace of dust. The train moves again. She surges up
against him, possibly by accident, and he gets the full, lush
impact of her breasts. He groans. Six inches away from him, her
face looms like a beautiful omen.

"I'd bet anything that I'm happier than you," she murmurs,
nudging his groin with her crotch. She glides her fingers along
the rigid crest of his cock, then lowers his zipper. He can't
breathe at all. She tells him to unbutton her shirt, but he's
shaking too much, so she does it for him. Like a baby, he
whimpers--his words are gone. Her breasts swing with the side-
to-side motion of the train. Under her tangled strands of hair,
her nipples stiffen. She plays him like a flute, her fingers
flying up and down his shaft. He can't stand the light-speed
touch.

"Jerk me," he hisses. She grips him and pulls hard and fast. He
pushes her to her knees and shoves himself between her breasts,
encasing his cock in their heat. He grabs himself and sprays
over her chest, shouting. As he's descending, he massages his
come into her skin.

"Now you do me," she says.

He pulls her to her feet and unbuttons her frayed jeans. She's
wet, so wet that his fingers slip as they search for her clit.
While he plays with it, her face slackens. She moves her hips
to demonstrate the pace she likes. With his free hand he takes
one of her breasts and tongues the hard nipple. His head bangs
against he door when she comes, bucking up against him. He
watches her eyelids flutter feverishly.

"What makes you think you're happier than me?" he asks.
Awkwardly he tries to collect himself. They grope their
way out of the bathroom. His hands are sticky; he will go home
smelling of her. The train is stopping again.

"I don't know," she says. "Maybe because I don't have to carry
a briefcase around. Neither do you, now." She laughs as she
runs for the door, her hair floating over her dirty flannel
shirttail.

She's right--the seat where Jeff had left his computer and
briefcase is empty. He sits down, letting the world settle
around him. The loss makes him dizzy, light, almost ecstatic.