My Private Rebellion

It started as a minor annoyance. It was just another normal morning, maybe six months ago. I've been taking the same train to work for years, five days a week. It's always the same. The unspoken rule on the subway is you mind your own business. You don't talk to people, you don't look at people, you read or listen to music or a podcast in your earbuds or headphones or maybe nap or meditate or just close your eyes and daydream. If you see somebody you know on the platform it is good manners to pretend you don't see them, so you don't have to sit together and spend your time talking, ruining what could have been a perfectly enjoyable hour or so alone with your own mind. The ride is too long to be trapped in a conversation with someone you really don't care about.

Of course for some women the ride to work is a fucking fashion show. You got the cleavage, the heels, the outfits, the makeup. Mostly the men on the subway have learned to deal with this, it is okay to casually check out the ladies on the platform if you're cool about it but once you're on the train staring and gawking is just creepy and you see the occasional side-eye glance but not much more. Everyone knows that actually flirting or hitting on women on the train is forbidden, in fact I have never seen it happen. You just don't.

I don't get into the fashion-show thing. I think I'm an all right looking girl but work is work. I dress sensibly. I don't have a boyfriend or anything and I'm not really looking for one. I will wear a dress from Target or Kohl's, they look good enough, the price is right, guys don't hassle me. I go to work, earn my pay, and get the fuck out of there. That's already enough bullshit for me, you know what I mean?

It had been years since anybody on the subway had paid any attention to me. Which is fine, I am happier without the attention. But like I say, about six months ago I was going to work on a Wednesday morning. I was reading that silly little paper they hand out in the stations, it has the news but in a kind of humorous tone, something you can absorb on your way to work without fucking up your day. I had the front seat of the rear section, on the aisle, and I held the paper up in front of my face and tuned out the world.

You know that feeling when you think somebody is looking at you? Yeah, I felt that, and almost without thinking about it, I began lowering the newspaper, still reading but watching for eyes on me in the crowd. The car was pretty full, but there was one guy sitting in the middle section facing back towards me, who seemed to be looking me over. People were standing but there was a gap where he could see me from head to toe, and his eyes were running up and down. As soon as my eyes met his he looked away, but I was sure what he was doing.

Oh well. I went back to reading, and after a few minutes I had the same feeling and once again confirmed that the guy was looking me over.

Maybe I should excuse him. He looked like he might have been a tourist. In a subway full of suits he wore a t-shirt and jeans. He was about my age, kind of broad in the shoulders, a little bit of a beard. I figured he was a Midwesterner here on vacation, probably a farmer. I caught him looking at my body, and since he was not looking at my eyes he did not realize I had seen him. And then I did something.

I can't tell you why this happened. I would never in a million years think of doing something like this. I was halfway pissed at this dumb tourist, and as he was looking at me I shifted toward him and opened my legs. It was a slight movement, anybody on the train could see me but none of them would have thought anything of it. Just a girl getting comfortable. Except I was shooting a view of my panties right at this one farm-boy.

I looked at the news but kept him in my sights over the top of the page. You could see him visibly jolt when I shifted. His jaw dropped and his eyes popped open. He looked at the person beside him and glanced around the car to see if anyone saw what he saw but of course the show was only for him. My legs formed a sort of tunnel view that was aimed at one person.

I was wearing my three-for-a-dollar polyester Wal-Mart panties with the hibiscus print pattern: he wasn't really seeing anything. Though he was just a face in the crowd it was as if there was a connection between us, his eyes were glued to the gap between my legs and actually, to tell you the truth, my panties were growing moist. Not that he could tell. After about a minute I shifted again and brought my knees together. I buried myself in the paper and when I looked up later that tourist had gotten off the train.

Interestingly, the incident left a kind of buzz that reverberated all day long, and which I totally enjoyed. I did not act any differently at work, but that day had a different feel to it. I felt secretly powerful. And this was a delicious thing. I had successfully created an image of myself in the office as someone who works and is pleasant enough, doesn't flirt, doesn't make risque jokes or even understand them most of the time. I was just a name and a job title and that was the way I liked it. That's not an identity, being just like everybody else. Ah, just-like-everybody-else but with your pussy on fire: that's an identity. That was me, that day. I was somebody. I was a real person under it all.

About a week later we had a seminar at work, a lecturer came in to talk about "the difficult employee." Coming into the room I saw the speaker on the stage, small-talking with the event hosts. He was in a suit, rather young for speaking on a nuanced human-resources topic but he seemed to have his act together. All of middle management was required to take this course; they had us coming in in groups of fifteen, and as soon as I came into the room I knew what I was going to do.

I am trying to make it clear that this is not a kind of thing I ever fantasized about or planned to do. But as soon as I saw this young man in his off-the-shelf suit and color-uncoordinated tie I knew I was going to try to rattle him. I sat in the front row, near the center aisle, with my spiral notebook on my lap. Lucia Defillipi sat next to me and we chatted about some weirdness that had happened last week, the cops had to come to our building over a guy gone nuts with a hammer and yelling a lot and breaking stuff. Lucia knew him, in fact she used to go out with him, and so she had some background for me. She was a little sympathetic to his situation, aren't there times all of us would like to go crazy with a hammer at work? Most of us hold it in but sometimes you just can't any more. I was pleased that Lucia trusted me enough to tell me that she knew how the guy felt sometimes.

The seminar was just what you'd expect. The company hires these contractors and they have some kind of script they follow. They're all the same, well whatever, you have to talk about some things and this is better than nothing. The speaker had Powerpoint and talked about conduct and performance issues, and then I had to show him my panties. I mean, I felt my legs separate and point at him, almost like I didn't do it. No one noticed, not Lucia, not the two host managers who were sitting on the stage, only the speaker. And man, did he notice. He was talking to the back of the room, rambling basically, and then he made a gesture and his eyes swept over the group and I put my feet up on tippy-toes to give him a little better view and the poor guy stopped talking for several seconds. I almost broke out laughing, so I picked up my notebook and wrote something in it, concentrating intensely, showing him my lavender cotton Dress Barn boy-shorts.

I held that pose and the speaker broke into a sweat. He would glance around the room and back at my panties, then try to look away, and it was getting difficult for him to remember what he was saying. He was pitiful. And the more he lost track, the more I loved it. There was no doubt my pussy was getting wet -- not that it would show, but I am saying that the situation was arousing to me. And I don't even know why. I think it was the secrecy of it. I was exercising total power in this big conference room and nobody suspected it. I was in control of the entire seminar but nobody knew that fact. The lecturer could not know I was teasing him on purpose, he most likely just thought I was not paying attention to how I was sitting. At one point Lucia leaned over and whispered, "This guy is not a very good speaker. He seems like he's distracted."

I gave him a few minutes of a show and then casually closed up shop, drawing my knees together, but he never fully recovered. His eyes kept returning to the scene of the crime and his sentences never did come out all in one breath, they would stutter and stop and restart. The seminar accomplished its goal, a roomful of employees received some handouts and got some legal information and checked this off their list of mandatory training, and we shuffled out of the room to meetings or whatever gloomy thing faced us next.

My legs were wobbly when I stood up, and I could literally feel a little drop of fluid run down the inside of my thigh. Lucia was complaining about something to do with her computer and we split up at the elevator. I went back to my desk and broke out in laughter, standing behind my door. It seemed like forever since I had had this much fun.

As I worked at my desk that afternoon I realized I had to take control of my new hobby. This had happened twice and I knew I would do it more. But what did I get out of it? It seemed like such an irrational and silly thing to do. I was doing something bad, I'm sure, but what? A girl can wear a fucking thong at the beach, I can't let anybody see my panties? It was too easy. The thrill that I felt was sexual, obviously, my wet pussy was proof of that, but this was different from mere horniness. I didn't feel like having an orgasm after these incidents, I felt like laughing at people. I definitely did not want to meet these losers or have sex with them. I had a sense of power, and that feeling was erotic. While I worked at my desk I considered the connection between my sexuality and power. Women have to keep their sexuality bottled up and also, coincidentally -- or is it? -- they are expected to be subservient, listen while men talk, we get paid less. Even if you try to get ahead, men end up with the power in every situation. They take credit for our accomplishments. It gets old.

It seemed obvious to me that the two things were two sides of a coin; stifling women's sexuality also undercut the power we could have in any situation. The worst reputation a woman could ever have at work is a sexual one. As soon as they peg you a slut or even somebody who is a little bawdy, you're finished. You will never get ahead. And actually it is the women who will hold you back. They are the ones who don't want you to be sexual, just watch. Why that happens, I have no idea. But it doesn't really bother me, I have no desire to get ahead. My bills are paid, I don't need the headaches. Someday I'll retire and I'll have insurance and a pension and that's all I need. Men who stare or flirt or brag are looked upon as leaders and go-getters, their sexuality and their power are the same thing. Well, that works both ways, it turns out, the technique is just a little different.

A few days later I decided to up the ante and try an experiment. In my studio apartment in the morning I got dressed, thought about it, and threw my panties into my purse.. It was a moment of private revolution, of liberation. I mean, why not? Think about this -- how often does anybody accidentally see your panties? When was the last time you fell down and your feet flew up in the air and your panties were exposed? When was the last time the wind blew your skirt up over your waist? Never. Never. And never. You do not need panties. They don't really do anything. I pulled on a dark blue shift that came nearly to my knees, a normal thing from T.J. Maxx, I think, and I left my panties in my handbag.

It was strange driving to the subway station. My pussy was a little damp with apprehension and I pulled up my skirt in the car so I would not leave a dark spot on it. There was no fabric between my bottom and the car seat, which felt a little strange. But it was only different, it was not exhilarating or exciting. It was just something I could do, I could choose to drive with my bare ass on the car seat and it would never occur to anyone that this amazing thing was happening in the car next to theirs.

The station platform was different, too. I was very aware of a feeling of risk which I had learned as a girl but knew was illusory. Above and beyond that I was aware of the fact that it does not fucking matter if you wear panties or not. It was a private rebellion. Looking around I realized that the same people I saw every morning ignored me in the same way they always did. In my imagination this had to be something everyone would know about, they should be able to tell something was different. It seemed like there would be neon arrows blinking, pointing at my bare crotch. But everybody there had seen this dress before, had seen me before, they didn't give me any more thought than I gave them.

I got the front seat again but honestly I was scared to death. I literally imagined being taken to jail if someone caught a glimpse of my bare cunt, and by the way I didn't used to use that word but I like it now. Cunt: it's the opposite of can't. Out in front of me there were dozens of people, men and women, how could they not be watching for my legs to open? They must be able to sense my covert nakedness. Maybe they can smell me, I thought, and I sniffed the air but there were many other smells on the train, burning brakes, ozone, somebody's last night's beer, a smoker a few rows away, some cologne. I held my knees clenched together and tried to read the paper but I kept looking over the top, watching for someone to show that they were onto me. There was a man directly across from me and I wondered if he was going to try to look up my dress, but he never did. It never occurred to him. I was nonexistent to him, and to all the others. Just the way I like it.

I admit my pussy was quite wet on this ride, and I was glad I had worn a dark color dress. Note to self on that. I was sexually excited by my secret act of assertion. This pussy, people, it's right here. Sexy, dripping pussy, right here, and you're missing it.

This ride also brought up a new thought, which I have all the time now. What if the other people on the train were practicing their own private rebellions? Maybe they are gazing out the window and dreaming about some terrible, taboo thing. Maybe they do something dark and bizarre before they leave the house in the morning. Maybe there are other ladies without panties. It brightened the world in a subtle way, looking around imagining that these bored-looking people were up to some secret mischief.

I was afraid to show anyone. My knees remained glued together all the way into the city. Walking was nice, the air up between my legs was nice, and it was different to see people in the office and talk to them and to know something amazing and present -- the flagrant presence of my inflamed pussy was the whole thing -- that they did not know. My pussy. I was coming to appreciate my own cunt. It seemed so deeply erotic and powerful. I had no desire to have sex with anyone, it wasn't like that, I felt like a goddess. I could not be bothered with having simple sex with mere mortals.

At my desk I felt safe and I conducted a kind of exercise. I sit facing the door, with my computer monitor facing me. My desk is an oak one that I was quick enough to get when Laurie Bergman retired, I rolled it down the hall myself. It's a big imposing thing that comes down in the front, meaning that no one can see my legs. The very first thing I did when I sat down to log in in the morning was to spread my legs as far apart as I could. I let the dress ride up and let my pubic hair come peeping out from under the hem. Nobody knew, nobody saw.

I reached down to touch myself with a feeling of disbelief that liberation was so easy. My labia were moist with light juices, and I played with myself for a minute, my hand innocuously in my lap, just because I could. It felt good. I thought about finishing myself off but that was not the point. Oh if I wanted to do that I might, maybe when I got home, but I did not feel any need to have an orgasm or get myself worked up. I was satisfied to sit at my desk facing an open door and touch my very sensitive pubic area while I scrolled through my inbox.

Lucia stopped by to chat in the middle of the morning. She has a turbulent personal life, you might say, she is a fiery one and a lot of fun but I let her have all the adventures, that sort of thing is not for me. While she was telling me about her weekend I spread my legs under the desk. She didn't know. She was wrapped up in the argument she had had with her date. I spread further. The story went on and on and she was telling it wonderfully, exaggerating details so her viewpoint was the obviously correct and morally superior one, as usual, and it was great fun. I was grinning at her happily. I lay my hand in my lap and discretely put a finger on my clitoris and rubbed it while Lucia was talking, gripping it lightly between my thumb and fingers and pulling on it rhythmically. She never noticed. Now I could smell the warm aroma coming up, and it was nice. After a minute or so I returned my hand to the desk. Lucia and I agreed to have lunch together and she took off to her meeting.

My boss, David, came by, and this was even better. He is quite sure of himself, and I am not going to be the one to spoil that. He plopped down and started telling stories about himself, his career, his big ideas. He was not trying to impress me, so much, he does the same thing all the time. I doubt that he realizes it, he goes from door to door telling his staff the same stories. But today while he was talking and I was smiling compliantly at him, my middle finger found the moist opening of my vagina, and I got it in up to the second knuckle. I stroked the sensitive inner lining with my fingertip, discreetly, looking him in the eyes. He talked on, bragging and explaining, and I sat up close to my big oak desk where he could not see what I was doing and plunged my left middle finger in and out of myself. I knew I would never wear panties again.

Playing with myself when David was in my office was not sexual. In fact, to me it was a rejection of sex. It was like, fuck you David, taking yourself so seriously over there bragging, you know what I'm doing? I'm ignoring you. I'm playing with my cunt while you're talking. It felt just perfect to sit with my legs apart behind the desk, my finger tweaking my clitoris and penetrating my vagina. The smell filled my nose and even that was perfect. It is a beautiful smell and if David were to notice it he wouldn't know what it was. Or maybe it would affect him in some primitive way, like a pheromone awakening dark animalistic urges, but... no, it wouldn't. He might think I had brought in some weird cheese that geeky chicks like, or some kind of vegetable stuff. But mostly, I was pretty sure he did not smell it. I was playing with myself under the desk and he was oblivious and vain.

I felt like I was high after he left. I had never thought of my pussy in this way. Of course as a child I had not been aware really that there was anything there. Then they have to tell you about it when you're going to start your periods, but they don't tell you much. They tell you it's where babies come out, and there is something called sperm that gets in there and it is all very vague. Then boys want to touch it and you realize that this thing between your legs is very valuable. Everybody wants it all of a sudden and so you have to hide it and lock it up. And now and then there are lucky moments where someone makes it feel extremely good, under a bleacher or in a back seat, somewhere secret and dirty, and then later in a regular bed. My cunt to me had always been a dirty mystery, something somebody else owned and knew about, and enjoyed, if I let them. I never actually looked at it until I was in my late twenties and some girls were talking and I suddenly wondered what it looked like, maybe six or seven years ago.