The Train to Somewhere

San Francisco was scary! It's funny how you can live so close to a place all your life and never visit, but I had to go for a week of training for my new job.

The train ride from my little town in the Central Valley was fun, though I admit that traveling without my husband was a little scary. People just walk around on the train. Every time a man walked past I was afraid he was going to ask if he could sit down, so I put my bag in the empty seat on the aisle. I felt kind of silly afterward. Everybody kept to themselves.

When we finally got to San Francisco it was just so huge and busy: people and cars everywhere, and the buildings! I couldn't get over how tall some of them were. I walked from the station to my hotel, which had to be 50 stories tall. The lobby looked like a palace, with its marble floors and fancy furniture. The fanciest hotel I ever stayed in before that was a Holiday Inn.

"Can you put me on the highest floor?" I asked the desk clerk.

He typed for a little while, then he said, "I can't get you all the way to the top, but I'll get you as high as I can."

He did, too! The elevator ride to 28 took forever. After the 21st floor there were just two of us left on the elevator: me and a man in a nice suit. He looked harmless enough, but it was still scary being stuck like that. I breathed a little easier when the doors finally opened.

My room was incredible, much nicer than our boring old house. You probably wouldn't think it was anything fancy-just a bed, a bathroom, and a big TV-but it was my first time traveling alone and my first time in the city.

Everything seemed so glamorous, especially the view. Being up high like that was like something out of a movie, with all the lights. I could hear the traffic way down below, and if I pressed my forehead against the glass I could see the tiny cars. And just across the street was another hotel that was as tall as mine. It was kind of strange being so high yet still being at eye level with the people across the street. I don't know, I can't really explain it.

Going to dinner by myself was intimidating, but my new boss told me that I had to try this seafood restaurant and I didn't want to make a bad first impression. I changed clothes, packed my book and went downstairs for a taxi.

Did you know that in San Francisco they have cameras in all of the cabs? They are for the drivers' safety, but it made me feel a little better knowing that he was being watched, too. And then I got to thinking about all the things that can happen in the back of a taxi, and I wondered whether some pervert was sitting in a room full of monitors somewhere getting a free show.

***

When I got back to my room I slipped out of my bra and my skirt. It's funny, when you're married you get so used to doing things a certain way. I was alone in my hotel room, but I was still tiptoeing around like I was going to wake up my husband. It took me a second, but when I realized what I was doing I had to laugh. It was almost like I'd forgotten what it was like to be alone.

I turned on the radio and danced along, all by myself. How wonderful it felt to move around and not worry about what anybody else thought. That song from that one movie came on, the one where the lady strips for her boyfriend. I can't remember the name, but I love that song. It's so sexy. The movie is, too, the way that the actress pushes her right hip up in time with the music. I watched myself in the mirror behind the desk until I got it just right.

I felt so sexy, alone in my hotel room-just me and the music. I slowly unbuttoned my blouse in time with the song, rocking my hips just like she did. I ran my hands across my tummy, cupped my breasts, teased the waistband of my panties with my fingertips.

And then I remembered the window. I'd forgotten to close the curtains. A man was watching me from the hotel across the street. He was dressed, but he was hidden from the waist down behind the wall. I can't say for sure, but it was pretty obvious from the look on his face and the way his shoulder was moving what he was doing.

I clinched my blouse closed and tried to curl up so that he couldn't see my underwear while I looked frantically for the stupid cord that closes the curtains. Oh my god, it was so embarrassing. No, it was more than that. I felt violated, angry. It was my mistake for leaving the curtains open, but what kind of man does that? I thought about calling his hotel and reporting him, but I didn't know what room he was in. For a minute I considered calling my husband, but then he'd just worry about me or get angry.

So I just went to bed and tried not to think about it, but I couldn't stop. I liked finally having some time alone. I liked feeling sexy in front of the mirror. I liked the adrenaline rush of getting caught, and the way he looked at me. He was so close, but at the same time he wasn't. Honestly? I liked being a little bad but in the safety of my own room.

That night I couldn't stop touching. It's not something I get to do very often, and honestly I probably wouldn't anyway. But alone in my hotel bedroom with nobody to bother me and that scared/excited feeling still pumping through my veins, I just couldn't stop. I turned over onto my tummy and slipped my hand inside of my panties and rocked against my fingers, replaying the look on the stranger's face, like an animal, like he'd eat my alive. I imagined him crashing into my room and ripping the duvet from the bed, tearing my panties off and taking me from behind. When I came I screamed so loudly into my pillow that I started laughing.

***

The next night I sat at the little desk in my hotel room and pretended to work. His light never came on. Maybe he checked out. I stood by the window and looked into the rooms across the street. It was kind of like that old game show, Hollywood Squares I think it was called, but instead of celebrities I was peeking into people's private spaces.

What I realized is that most people are pretty boring, but there was one room. All I could see was the man's legs from the knees down, lying on his bed, and his television. He was watching pornography. On the screen a woman had the man in her mouth, and then she turned around and got on her hands and knees on the bed. The camera man moved in really close so you could see everything. She held her cheeks open with her hands and the man licked her bottom, then he penetrated her.

My husband has asked me to do that a few times, and I've always thought there's just no way that can be pleasurable. But the woman on the screen looked like she was enjoying it, and there was something so dirty about watching a stranger's pornography. The owner of those feet picked this. Of all the things he could've watched, this was what turned him on.

When I crawled into bed I couldn't get the image out of my mind: The actress being stretched open, the stranger's legs on top of the bedspread. I felt between my legs. My fingers were drenched. I reached behind me and pressed my wet finger against my bottom. It was so tight, but my finger slid in easily. I squeezed my muscles, and my bottom clinched around my finger; I pushed against my hand and let it slide deeper. The sensation was fine, but I could see where my husband would get a lot out of it. Mostly it was just a turn on doing something so forbidden.

At first, at least, but the longer I played the better it started to feel. I closed my eyes and imagined the stranger with the legs watching me take it from behind like that. I turned over and rose up onto my knees, shoulders on the bed, one hand on my clitoris and the other fingering my ass.

***

Every night that week was something different. I saw a nice looking man change out of his work clothes into a bra and panties, then lie on his bed and masturbate. I watched another man sucking on a rubber penis while he watched television. He didn't seem terribly turned on, more like a baby with a pacifier or something. In one room an older couple had sex. They weren't very hot, but they were enthusiastic and that made up for it.

But what I really wanted was to be seen, like on that first night. I wanted that rush of fear, excitement, and adrenaline. So when I got home from work on my last night in San Francisco, I turned on the radio and danced a little bit as I took off my shoes and jewelry. I untucked my blouse and removed my belt, and then I danced over to the dresser and put it away.

I unbuttoned my cuffs, and I turned toward the window and slowly opened my blouse. Standing there exposed like that in just my bra and slacks, I was shaking. I walked over to the desk and leaned over so that I looked like I was reading something on my computer, my palms on the desk. With one hand I unbuttoned my slacks, then I shimmied my hips until they slid to the floor.

And there I stood, bent over my desk with my pantied bottom sticking out, pretending I was engrossed in what I was reading, too scared to look toward the window to see if anyone was watching. I don't know how long I stayed there, but then I casually walked toward the bathroom, unfastening my bra as I went.

My nipples were so erect, my whole body covered in goose pimples. The face that stared back at me from the bathroom mirror was one I hadn't seen in years: flushed, sleepy-eyed. I didn't even have to touch to know how wet I was.

I came back out and laid on the bed. I chewed on my fingernail and tried to look bored while I flipped through the television stations. I ran my fingertips along my tummy, my ribcage, under my breasts, over my areolae, down into my panties. My fingertip slid between my lips and found my clit.

Were they looking? I didn't know, I didn't care. That's not true: I cared a lot. I wanted them to see me. I wanted to turn them on. I turned and looked. An attractive man leaned against the edge of his window, smiling at me. I smiled back, then I closed my eyes and kept touching.

My juice was all over me. There was so much that my fingers slipped in easily, first two, then three. I even squeezed my pinky in, I was so open. I rubbed my wet hand on my mound, felt the sweet juice clinging to my hair. I rubbed my soaking fingers along my labia until everything down there was covered in me.

When I opened my eyes again he was still there, but now his shirt was unbuttoned and his hand was moving just below the windowsill. The look on his face was exactly what I'd seen in my mirror. He motioned to me with his other hand, but I couldn't understand what he was trying to tell me—just one finger stirring the air.

I took a guess and scooted my hips around so that my crotch was facing the window, and then I propped myself up on some pillows. I spread my knees and looked between them. He was now pumping fast, his jaw clinched tightly. I rubbed until I couldn't hold back anymore, and then I closed my eyes and let it happen. The orgasm shook me so hard I wanted to cry. When I opened them he was gone.

***

The next morning I was back on the train on my way home: back to my husband, back to my little town in the Central Valley. Back to my quiet little house where nothing happens. We stopped at a station and more passengers boarded. A tall man who looked to be about my age stopped in the aisle beside me. "Is this seat taken?" he asked.

"No, it isn't," I said, and I moved my purse so that he could sit beside me, our bare arms bumping against each other's, my skirt climbing above my knee when I crossed my legs. Moving, climbing, all the way to somewhere.