what an asshole.
He continued, "I've got to get up to the bridge, it's a straight shot from here." He must have meant the George Washington, and Valerie vowed that with her next set of prayers she would call for disaster to befall the Garden State. She heaved the door open and got out on the cold street corner. When she closed the door he accelerated rapidly through the intersection and she glimpsed the New Jersey plate on the back. Johns always seemed to make a fast getaway as if they were fleeing something, maybe their own bad consciences.
********
There was one consolation about the four long blocks up to Columbus Circle and its subway stations. There was a diner halfway there at Ninth, and she went in and sat in a booth because her behind was too sore to perch on a counter stool. In there she ordered about every breakfast item she could think of although at the last minute she canceled the waffles. Now she had warmth and food and best of all, some release from the tension of being out on the street.
She thought about Walter and remembered other customers who wanted the opposite; they wanted her to punish and dominate
them.
That was something she was actually glad to do and it almost didn't seem like work at all. Some of them went over her knee in their cars, others went to rooms where they bent over chairs and tables. Some of them had supplied their own implements. They removed the belts from their pants or brought along rulers, thick eighteen-inch wooden school ones.
Various issues were bothering them, often sexual guilt about masturbation, visits to porn theaters or their patronage of prostitutes. They usually wanted her to verbally chastise them too, and she happily made up lines that would fit such situations - lines like,
you worthless maggot jerk-off, I'm going to beat you black and blue, you won't sit for a week.
She was impressed at how stoic they mostly were, how much of a beating they could endure. She would try to break them, reduce them to crying or begging for mercy, but she was only able to accomplish that once in a while.
As she ate she pondered what it would take to become a real dominatrix, one who did only that and didn't have to deal with sticky things like blowjobs. Maybe they were paid well and she would have time for her writing. Sometimes, she had heard, the clients were professional men, executives would needed a break from the pressures of power. She could imagine her own studio, one side her writing area and the other side for her naughty clients. A skylight: her place had to have one of those.
She considered that she might not be quite the physical type for dominance; she imagined them as tall and statuesque, the kind of lady who would look good in leather outfits or whatever else they wore. Maybe she could invent a persona that would suit her, maybe like a strict English professor she had known at the University of Minnesota. As Professor Solanas she would say,
Johnny, you didn't read your Emily Dickinson, now you are going to take the consequences.
That would be the classroom cane on his bare buttocks.
Afterwards Johnny would be standing there with his embarrassingly erect cock and she would take some pity on him.
Yes, Johnny, you've got two hands, you may whack off while I watch. Show your teacher what a nice big wad you can shoot for her.
During this reverie Valerie conked out while sitting upright and then she startled herself awake. The apartment she shared with her friend Stevie was on 15th Street. As meager as that place was it was better than this booth. It was getting lighter outside, it was time to go. Her ass hurt somewhat but maybe that's what asses were for. She had money now, not as much as she had hoped for, but it was better than being broke. Perhaps she would make some inquiries about getting into the domination trade.
NYC Transit Authority car 467, American Car and Foundry, 1933
When she got down to the platform at Columbus Circle it was evident that something was wrong with the downtown trains. It was now 7:30 AM, rush hour was starting, and a huge number of people crowded the platform. She wanted a local, an AA or CC train, but nothing came in on either track. Finally a D express came in on the local side and a lot of the waiting passengers boarded it. It was standing room only but a transit worker announced that it was running as an Eighth Avenue local. Valerie got on and hung onto a strap in the middle of the car.
It was one of the old pre-war trains and it was noisy. Valerie stood there in the glare of the bare lights bulbs and listened to the sounds it made. She felt she might fall asleep on her feet and she tried to focus to keep that from happening. The train's motors and gears made a distinctive whining noise as it accelerated and it seemed like it took just seconds to reach the next station. She knew she had probably lost consciousness briefly.
The doors hissed and clattered open, a compressor throbbed under the floor and then the doors closed and the whining sequence repeated itself. At 42nd Street a lot of people left, jostling her as they passed. At the next one, 34th, even more left and she spotted a seat. It was the first car and the spot was next to the front bulkhead. She eased her sore bottom against the hard rattan seat surface. There were only two more stops before home. Without intending it, she almost instantly fell asleep.
When she awoke the car was empty and the train was outdoors with winter sunlight shining through the windows. Her first thought was,
oh shit, Brooklyn.
She stood at the front window and saw that the train was moving at a good clip along the express track in an open cut. At intervals concrete arches carried cross streets above the tracks. The train seemed to be moving faster than she had experienced them before and she wondered if this was an illusion caused by fatigue.
She kept calm as she saw the approach to an express station. Then the train whistle blew several times, a high-pitched, shrill sound, and she knew that this station was going to be bypassed. As it sped past the platform without slowing down she started banging on the door to the motorman's cab. "Hey, man, when are we stopping? What's the next station?" No voice responded to her pleas.
She paced back into the car's interior. The first roll-sign said "FF" train, which she knew wasn't presently used as a route designation. Some kid must have cranked the sign as a prank. The two destinations listed above it made no sense either. She stalked up to the cab door and started kicking it. "Come on you fucker, I know you're in there; I'm stuck here, let me off." The doors were usually locked but she tried it anyway. Now the driver was really unlikely to come out to confront whatever crazy woman was on the other side.
There was nothing to do now except stare out the window. Valerie guessed that that train had been taken out of service and somebody had missed her when it was cleared. It was now likely she'd wind up in the huge storage and maintenance yard at Coney Island. She'd have to climb down between cars and pick her way out of there while a cold wind blew in from the Atlantic.
It wasn't the worst thing that could happen to her with the kind of life she had been living, but she was tired and her nerves were frayed this morning. Sometimes it was the smaller annoyances like this stupid train ride that bothered her more than anything else. Some part of her wanted to deny the really serious consequences that could befall her out in the street.
On the outbound local platforms a few commuters noticed the train zooming by on the express track. They had no idea that every minute it was taking a young woman on board further from where she wanted to go. In a few seconds it was gone from their sight.
*******
It was nearly noon when Valerie got back to 15th Street; Stevie was out somewhere. She had been lucky perhaps because the train had stopped at Brighton Beach station and the doors had been opened. She rode back to Manhattan, sleeping again on the train, but her internal clock woke her before she needed to get off.
The coming night was not going to be one on the street for her. She needed the money but she needed more to recover her physical and mental energies. Just before she fell asleep she hoped she wouldn't dream of being trapped on trains, but she was lucky again and no such images troubled her mind that afternoon.
******
