There you were on the train, sitting across from me, churlishly digesting your dog-eared copy of Anna Karenina--your anger palpable. Uncomfortably across from you I stirred about in my molded plastic seat trying in every way possible to avoid making eye contact with you.
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You shuffled your feet a few times and the movement distracted my eyes toward them. Not so much for the magnificence of the saggy stocking on your left leg--or the support bandage on your right--although both were equally frightening--but rather for the fear that you would spring out of your seat--ululating maniacally as your stripped off your clothes whilst brandishing two gold-plated .44magnum pistols in a generous attempt to help your fellow passengers make a collect call to their makers.
Instead there you sat, peaceful yet fuming, and I just couldn't help it--I had to do it. My eyes started to slowly move upward. Your mouth-breathing drawing my gaze ever upward--past the scabs on your dirty knees, past your smock with the three missing buttons, up over your dirt-encrusted fingernails and past your whiskered chin and the white spittle in the corners of your mouth to behold your eyes. Like a taxi-passenger staring off into the crash on the side of the freeway I became momentarily transfixed by your Medusan visage. Your wheezing deepened and your nose hairs began to sway back and forth like follicular hula dancers heralding the arrival of a mighty typhoon.
And there we stayed--a stalemate of stares--you were intrigued and I was frozen in terror--and then the unthinkible happened. Your chapped and bleeding lips slowly rolled back to reveal your mossy, tea-stained teeth and jaundiced gums. I believe it was a smile (or a disturbing sneer--I can't be sure) Like a man careening into a brick wall at 70 MPH I couldn't turn away even though I desperately wanted to do just that. Your mouth began to open and just as you were about to say something to me the automated voice of the loudspeaker interrupted us proclaiming that, "Doors open on the right at Grand"
I quickly jumped to my feet and ran from the car. I never looked back, sprinting at a brisk pace--much like a little piggy--I ran all the way home and didn't rest until the deadbolt and chain on my door were thrown and I was in the safety of my Sanctum Sanctorum.
I had a little dinner, drank two beers, and flipped on the tube and within an hour or two I was back to my old self. So much so that I decided to rub one out for old time's sake. I tried to conjure up a tasty morsel in my mind...Helena Christensen (hmmm, not doing it) Heidi Klum (hmmm, not doing it) Natalie from the "Facts of Life" (hmmm, not doing it) and then, in the frustration of a deflated protuberance the mind went to the dirtiest place possible. Spittle Girl from the Red Line. My manhood sprang to attention and in no time at all I was reclining with a post-masturbatory cognac and wondering whatever happened to my dilapidated fantasy girl.
I realize now that my initial reaction was the wrong one. For that I'm sorry. Oh dirty beaver. Shall we get together and impact our naughty parts. It's a long shot that you read the MC on CL but I thought 'Hey, what the heck! You never know."
I'm sure that you won't read this but I just want you to know that I'll be looking for you. Looking for your love on the Red Line. You never know. Someday I may get on a Howard bound train to the North Side, and catch a whiff of your particular brand of funk....
....ah, a man can dream. Can't he?