On The A Train

It was one of those warm and somewhat humid days in early summer. Everyone in New York who could was wearing as little clothing as they could. No jackets except for the men in suits who worked in law offices and similar places downtown. I got on the "A" train at Dyckman station. I usually take the express when heading to New York University on McDougal, where I teach psychology, but today, I had to stop midway and it takes longer to change trains than to take a regular at the beginning.

I was lucky and found an open seat. The train pulled into xx and the doors opened. Among the entering passengers was an attractive older woman carrying a violin case. She looked around for a seat, but by now there weren't any available, so she came over and grabbed a strap-hanger near me. She was one of those people who just exuded a kind of gentle sexual energy. Forty years past her teens, she was captivating, even elegant, physically and the violin suggested that she was a fascinating woman mentally and emotionally. She was wearing a light dress that triggered the imagination. Not that she was blatant at all, but when she reached up to hold the strap, the curve of her breasts pushed against the blouse. They were not large but they were well-shaped.

It was hard not to stare. As she placed her instrument on the shelf, she had to stretch even further. The train lurched and she grabbed the edge of the shelf for stability and just held on. I noticed that I was not the only one starring. Across the aisle was another man who could not take his eyes off of her.

As the train steadied, he let go of his strap and crossed the aisle to stand just behind her. He touched her shoulder. I had not seen him enter so I thought that perhaps they had gotten on together. I prepared myself to intervene but, especially since she didn't pull away from his touch, I decided to just watch. A moment later, he reached down and put a hand on her waist. I could see a faint smile on her face in reaction to this.

She dropped her strap, reached across and grabbed his hand. I expected that she was going to remove it but she instead moved his hand to discreetly touch her breast. Lucky guy, I thought, as she very gently pressed it down against her.

At the next station, more people got on, shielding the action from the view of others, but thanks to my vantage point, I had the right perspective. She had been holding on to the shelf with one hand, now she moved the other hand to the shelf edge, exposing the underside of her arms. He gently touched the underside of her upper arm. Her sleeveless dress had quite large armholes. Taking advantage of that, he moved down and through, and began massaging her breasts. It was very discreet. Only because of my position could I see it.

Gradually he went under her bra and touched her nipples ever so gently. The smile on her face let me know that their pleasure was mutual. She was giving herself over to the feeling.

Eventually, the man went further to massage her body as much as he could with the small area available through the armhole. She reached down then to a small zipper on the side of the dress, and unzipped it so he could enter there. When the train jostled all the passengers, he took advantage of that and put his other had though this new opening. Now, he had one hand fondling her breast and the other gently touching her thigh and her stomach.

My viewpoint was momentarily obscured. That was a break I needed to catch my own breath and handle my own feelings. What were those feelings? As I remember it, they were first of all the sexual excitement that this couple was transmitting. I could understand the pleasure that a voyeur feels. After all, was I not a voyeur here? I could hardly deny what was going on in my limbic system.

Fortunately, the person who got in the way of my view, moved and I could see again what was going on in my own personal X-rated experience. It was clear that these two were enjoying themselves. I think they were wishing there were more openings in that dress, but they were taking advantage of the ones that were there. By now his hands were exploring more and more of her body and she was certainly encouraging.

Even from my privileged vantage point, I could not see all that was happening, but I got the impression that her legs had parted a bit and that his hand had managed to descend into whatever space was there. Her face was somewhat contorted, but very pleasurably.

Two more stops went by and as the train slowed down for the third one, I could see that the man was extricating himself. He gave her nipple one more gentle touch and removed his hand from the armhole. The he pulled his other hand out of the zipper and gently zipped it back up.

As the train was coming to a stop, he kissed the back of her neck and gently caressed her buttocks. He stepped back and vanished through the door to the platform. I watched carefully to see her reaction. Her face registered a sense of pleasure and self-satisfaction.

Two stops later, at Penn Station, very calmly, as though nothing special had happened, except for a slight knowing smile, she too got off the train. As the doors closed I kept pondering what I had seen and felt. It took me all the way to my West 4th St. station to remember.

What I remembered was Erica Jong's expression, "the zipless fuck".

Walking into an elevator, locking eyes with a woman (or man) and without further ado proceeding to engage in hot, passionate sex between the 5th and 45th floors. You finish, compose yourselves, and go your separate ways, never to meet again. The zipless fuck is absolutely pure. It is free of ulterior motives. There is no power game. The man is not "taking" and the woman is not "giving." No one is attempting to cuckold a husband or humiliate a wife. No one is trying to prove anything or get anything out of anyone. The zipless fuck is the purest thing there is. And it is rarer than the unicorn. And I have never had one." (Jong, Fear of Flying)