My name is John and my wife's name is Jane. We are the quintessential example of a normal married couple. So much so, that I'll use Doe as our surname for the purposes of this monologue. We've been married for almost seven years after meeting in high school, dating for four years and a fourteen-month engagement.
Our sex lives parallel what I believe is typical for most marriages. We had the thrill of young love with the appropriate excitement of pre-marital sex and the exuberance of post wedding sex. Over time, we've settled into routine sex tapering off until now we screw on weekends and occasionally during the week.
Both of us graduated college with solid C average grades. I work as an Associate Creative Director of Art in an advertising firm uptown and Jane teaches at a nearby private school. We've managed to save a little money, buy a house with a substantial mortgage and own one car. We have no children and no investments.
In other words, we're typical, normal Americans.
I also don't put much stock in conspiracy theories or any other attempt to interpret events in any personal or meaningful way. I'm convinced that things just happen, not for a reason. They are either coincidence or random, isolated events and attempts to rationalize them or give them meaning are just imaginative musings or acquiescence to the human attempt to find patterns everywhere. Jane doesn't subscribe to this philosophy. She's more inclined to find a conspiracy behind every tree and it sometimes leads to interesting discussions.
That's why the events of the last few weeks have been so disturbing.
We live in the Bedford Stuyvesant area of Brooklyn. I walk to the Utica Avenue subway station on the IRT line and, daily, I take the roughly forty minute ride on the A train from there to 59th street in Manhattan, which is a short walk to my office. During rush hour, my usual commuting time of day, the train is usually over full; standing room only and more people crowded into the space that is neither safe nor comfortable. Therefore, the concept of personal space is non-existent and bodies frequently rub against each other, sometimes in inappropriate ways.
About a month ago, during the trip home, a woman pushed her breasts against my back when the train shifted. I've been poked by a woman's breasts in the subway hundreds of times. Usually, someone, most likely the woman, shifts her position to avoid a second occurrence. It was different this time. She poked me a second time. That was unusual, but it's happened before. The third time I was sure it wasn't accidental and the fourth time, when she pressed into me and rubbed her breasts side to side on my back, I was convinced it was intentional.
By the time I managed to turn around in the crowd to see who she was, she was gone, pushing her way through the mob toward the door. All I could see was a shock of long brown hair, if I was looking at the right woman. She exited the train at Nostrand Avenue and I was left wondering who she was and what her game was.
I mentioned it over dinner with Jane. She listened for a while and then suggested I was exaggerating. After all "who would do such a thing?" She couldn't conceive of a woman, any woman, deliberately and repeatedly pushing her breasts into a stranger, let alone me. I had to be over emphasizing her actions. Maybe it was a manifestation of something deeply buried inside me. Her solution was to take me to bed for a "special occasion" round of sex, including a rare blowjob, to take my mind off it.
Her efforts were mostly successful. I didn't think about it and had almost forgotten it completely, until it happened again. I was standing, holding my usual pole as the A Train headed south under 8th Avenue. There was the usual throng of people although they were unusually active as they jockeyed for position. Soon after the 42nd Street stop, I felt a body close behind me. Almost immediately, rather large breasts were pressing into my back. I pushed back against them, a move that usually causes someone who accidently leans into you to back off. Instead, she pushed even harder and rubbed her hips against my backside as well. That was enough. I started to turn to catch her in the act. This time in the opposite direction as the last time hoping to see her moving toward the door. She wasn't there and by the time I turned further to check the opposite direction, I couldn't find her in the crowd. I thought I caught sight of her as she exited the train at Nostrand Avenue again but it could have been any woman with shoulder length brown hair.
Jane and I discussed it at dinner again. In an unusual reversal of positions, Jane thought it was just coincidence and I maintained it was deliberate and part of something larger. We couldn't agree on the motivations or lack of them, on the part of the unknown woman but could agree on a supplemental sex session. Not only did Jane provide another blowjob, she strongly encouraged me to orally stimulate her clitoris and nearby vaginal features. I wondered if the image of a mysterious woman coming on to her husband was somehow affecting her libido. I couldn't decide if she was reacting defensively, improving our sexual bonds to decrease the possibility that the mysterious woman was indeed making a move on me and I might consider it or if it was just a reaction to increased sexual desire hearing about it. Either way, I was quite happy with the result and wondered, silently, if it would happen again and I could tell Jane about it. Only time would tell.
I didn't have to wait long. About a week later, someone moved up close behind me after the 42nd Street stop and almost immediately pressed her breasts into my back. I pushed back against her. Not hard enough to discourage her. Just the opposite. I wanted to encourage her to go further. I was interested, and maybe a little excited, to see how far she was willing to go.
She surprised me with her willingness to test the limits. She pushed her breasts harder into my back and began to rub her lower body against my thigh again. When I didn't respond negatively or attempt to turn around, she used her hands to pat and rub small circles on my ass. I moved my backside with her, hopefully communicating my pleasure and encouraging her to go further before we got to Nostrand Avenue.
She went further. She reached between my legs and moved her hand up my trousers intent on finding the parts that uniquely identify me as a male. She easily found the family jewels and she was on her way to confirming my erection when I, without warning, reached down and grabbed her hand between my legs.
The result was a uniquely comical, and somewhat embarrassing, position, even on the New York City subway. I was half bent over with my hand between my legs. However, the woman behind me and the cause of my dilemma was standing there with her other arm at her side as if nothing was amiss. I looked up and at least six men were looking at me and two of them were trying to give me, and themselves, some room.
Behind me, the woman began to laugh. I knew that laugh. I let go of her hand and turned around. This time the woman was there, waiting for me and still laughing. "Emma," I said, "what the hell are you doing?"
"Just having a little fun. "I've always wanted to do that and when I saw you I couldn't resist. If you're determined to be inappropriate, who better than with someone you know?"
"And it was you the last time?" I asked.
"The last time?" she replied.
"Yeah. This is the third time someone has done something like this to me on the train in the last few weeks. Tell me it was you all three times," I pleaded.
She stood there looking as if I had lost my mind and she had nothing to do with it. I couldn't read her expression and began to worry. After a suitably pregnant pause, she said, "Of course it was. Who else?"
I breathed a sigh of relief. "You could have confessed more quickly. I was beginning to get worried."
"That just added to the fun," she offered.
"You're a hard woman," I said.
"Not as hard as you," she retorted.
The conversation was going downhill fast, at least for me. Emma seemed quite comfortable with the direction as she smiled at me and waited to hear what I might say. I changed the topic. "What are you doing on the subway?" I asked.
"I'm working with a group in midtown, near the bus terminal and the subway is convenient and fast from Brooklyn. How about you?"
"I work uptown and I've been using the train for years."
The Nostrand Avenue stop was next and she moved toward the door. I followed her and got off the train with her to continue the conversation. I discovered that she lived, with her husband, Oscar, not far from us in Brooklyn. We exchanged contact information, committed to getting together as a foursome. As she turned to leave, she reached up, put her had behind my neck, pulled me toward her and planted a glorious kiss on my lips. I took the next train to Utica Avenue.
On the walk home, I debated whether to tell Jane about Emma. Based on her previous response, I'd be foolish not to. However, I couldn't predict her reaction if I told her how far Emma had gone and that I had not objected. By the time I reached our brownstone, I had decided to keep mum.
If Jane noticed I was later than usual, she didn't mention it. However, I failed to fully consider the strength of a woman's intuition and Jane's intuition was exceptionally strong. At dinner she asked it anything unusual had happened today.
"Unusual?" I asked.
"You know. Did any women tease your backside with their tits?"
Busted. No way could I avoid telling her. "I met Emma on the train on the way home."
