LADIES: Why You Don't Get My Seat on Metro
I buy your drinks, check your coat, fix your toilet. I take your car to be washed, carry your dog to the vet, sit through your favorite musical. I buy you the best dinner, at the best table, in the best restaurant downtown. I take you to Saks and Neimans and Cartier. I express interest in your friends, your mother and your job.
The list goes on and on but I draw the line with the metro seat because . . .
I'm sniffing your pussy. That's right, right there, nose to twat. 8:04 AM and I'm right there, 9 inches from the honey pot just sniffing away. Oh, you might think I'm deep into paragraph 4 of page 3 of that deposition but I'm not at all. I'm inhaling deep and exhaling sloooow.
I'm guessing if you bathed that babe last night or this morning. How did you soap it. How deep your fingers went. How long you spent in the shower working it. How wet is it now? Is it sweating under that black suit? Is that thong rubbing it softly as you shift on your feet with the movement of the train? Is it getting wetter the angrier you get with me while I sit there seemingly oblivious to your discomfort? How soon until those cramps signal the onset of that first delicious flow?
As for that goodlooking gay guy next to me reading the self-help book? Well, he's eyeing me too but for different reason. I'm half erect under those papers and he knows it. He knows it and I'm aware he's looking.
Then comes the moment. He and I are collecting our things and you are standing there wishing you had worn those fucking flip flops instead of those damned heels that are ageing your feet moment by moment.
Sadly, we are getting off the train and you are not. Then comes the decision. Do I follow him up and into that empty office on the 6th floor of International Square where I know he'll give me 4 minute head better than you could ever possibly muster? Or, do I wait until 6:00 tonight and just happen into the happy hour I saw you at near Connecticut and M last week knowing you'll say yes when I ask you to dinner next week. Hmmmmm . . .