Wet City Nights

One dark evening, way back in my early twenties, I was returning home on the public transit bus to my small apartment where I lived alone when it happened. I can't say that I was a stand out from the crowd attractive woman as far as being a "pretty face", although some suggested I had an exotic look for a Caucasian, and my grandmother always used to scold me for not converting to contact lenses. "Men don't make passes, at women who wear glasses," she would lecture, failing to realize that Dorothy Parker, the feminist whose words these are, concluded that oft quoted epithet with the phrase "and those men are asses." But I did have a "hot" body: bust, waist, and hips perfectly proportioned; slender; great legs; perfect ass thanks to lots of walking; and so on. And a passionate, seize the moment attitude toward life which many have stated is a bigger turn on than anything. Of course, under the circumstances, it may not have mattered to him what I looked like, only that I happened to be in the right place at the right time, and had the right body parts for what he was after.

The night, as I said, was dark and the rain was coming down in sheets smearing the city lights into a wash of artificial colour. The inside of the bus was not well lit, and I made my way to the very back of it for the convenience of being near the exit door although most of the seats were empty and the hour was late. The vinyl upholstery was cold on my nylon stockinged legs and my short coat was dripping wet: I sat leaning against the window, listening to the rhythm of the tires as they splashed through puddles and groaned over cats' eyes and curbs, vaguely wondering what I would make myself for a very late dinner, alone, when he sat down beside me. I shifted slightly, a little surprised that someone would take the seat immediately to my right as the social convention on public transit was to always occupy all the unused bench seats on the bus before invading the personal space of others.

Nevertheless, I ignored, as much as I could, the heat radiating off this stranger's body, and continued to lose myself in my own thoughts, lulled by the whoosh of the wiper blades, the metallic wheeze of the doors opening and closing, and the increasing silence of the bus, emptying, rather than filling with passengers. Eventually, I pulled the cord to signal my exit was coming in a few blocks and half stood in the way one does when wanting to edge sideways out of a bench seat. Instead of pivoting his legs out of the way to allow me an easier exit, the man beside me kept his knees and eyes pointed straight at the back of the seat in front of us. I felt awkward, more than annoyed, as this meant I would have to "climb" over him, so to speak, with my ass in his face and my legs spread wide in order to access the exit.

I wish I could say that when I took a quick look at his face I saw he was a creepy old man and that I loudly protested his behavior, but he wasn't and I did not. I wish I could say that when I took a quick look at this face I saw a George Clooney look alike - or, hell, George Clooney himself - and that a swoon of lust overcame me which would explain my following behavior, but I didn't and he was not. Instead, I must confess that the man I quickly glimpsed was just an ordinary 40 something guy in a business suit and overcoat with a bit of 5 o'clock shadow and the appearance of someone not really looking forward to going home to a squalling baby and a frumpy wife after a long day at work. I might even say I wish we had met time and time again after this one encounter, so that I didn't sound like such a slut, but no, the incident was a "one off" with a stranger on a bus, in the middle of a city, not a word spoken, not even a kiss, nor a knowing wink or nod. Maybe I might even say I wished that I hadn't had that premonition which told me when I lifted my leg - nyloned and gartered (pantyhose were not quite as common then) under my short pleated skirt and high heel clad foot - to climb over his lap and out into the aisle, he would reach up and place his hand, his fingers on my pussy. But I did. And he did.

Although it wasn't, like you might expect, a quick grab and go.

For, no, I froze like that, legs spread wide above his lap, the tent of his erection nudging open his overcoat beneath me. I froze not with shock or annoyance or even, as a good girl might, embarrassment. No, I froze because I liked it.

There, after all these years, I've confessed it. Whatever it says about me, I no longer care. I liked it. I liked the feeling of a completely random man reaching up between my legs, uninvited, and touching that oh so private and oh so sensitive place, clad, as it was, in the barest of filmy silk panties. And I stayed like that, legs spread, ass bent slightly out inches from his face, hoping the bus driver would not look in his rear view mirror and discern what was going on or that no passenger would abruptly arise and prepare to exit, glancing back toward us, comprehending with shock the tableau of a man with his hand up a younger woman's skirt, she frozen in place. I did not want those things to happen and yet the idea that either could increased the trickle of excitement between my legs.

I felt the heat of his fingers pressing a little less lightly on my pussy, slowly parting my labia under my panties and heard the quickening of his breath. I am sure he had hoped for but not expected the unspoken invitation to do more when he first reached up to stroke underneath my skirt and I'm sure he was as surprised as I was when the bus, with a sudden lurch through a pothole, jarred his fingers harder against my swollen and increasingly wet cunt. I stumbled a little and he placed his other hand on my ass to steady me spreading his legs further apart which, of course meant I was practically "spread eagle" across his lap my short skirt rumpling up toward my waist and my legs open oh so wide. We hesitated, me holding my breath for a heartbeat, he seeming to wonder how far he could go with what had started to be a quick "cop a feel" moment, before he skillfully slipped his hand inside the crotch of my panties and began to nudge, with his index finger, my labia apart.

Again the motion of the bus worked in our favor and the rocking of the vehicle as it negotiated the city streets worked its way into the rhythm of his fingers. Back and forth, a little harder, then a little softer, a lot wetter and a lot slurpier: his rubbing, my wetness, the bus' movements and the exhibitionism of the moment fed into each other so that, without warning, and without precedent in my experience, I was suddenly gushing all over this stranger's pant leg. Innocent as I was, I had no idea that squirting was part of the repertoire of a female sexual response and I was horrified, thinking I had lost bladder control so I quickly scrambled the rest of the way over his lap and bolted out the wheezing bus door into the cold, rainy night.

I'm not sure how or why I have thought to tell you of this incident at this moment although I know the cellular memory of it loops through any sexual response I have to a man's hands on my cunt and each time I gush, it is a pleasurable reminder of that first, oh so innocent experience. Perhaps I have recalled it and told you about it because all my sexual encounters at this stage in my life are nuanced, not always productively so, with the trappings of a mind filled with convoluted narratives about what should be and what shouldn't be and what isn't. Then, that day on the bus, was a simpler time in my life when sexuality was simply the intensely focused pleasure of an erotic touch. But I will tell you I think he must have been glad that it was pouring with rain that day, else, I'm not sure how he might have explained, when he arrived home, the very large wet patch on the knee of his pants.