Sweet Spot
SAMUEL SHENOVA
The 5 train is always packed in the morning. Had I been ten minutes earlier or later, I would've hit the sweet spot right in front of the doors and underneath the pounding air conditioner. I missed it today but caught some new sugar.
As we all piled in, a tall, preppy man in a clean white shirt stood in front of me. Our bodies were pushed closer and closer by the incoming commuters until his back brushed against my chest. The doors finally closed and we were on our way.
I looked down and saw he was wearing grey dress pants that clung to the high curves of his ass like skin on fruit. As the train reared sided to side, he gently grazed my crotch without recoil. I shuffled forward a bit so he could feel me press against him with some purpose. He didn't pull away. He pushed back, aligning the smooth valley of his cheeks with my bulge.
We rode each other like that for the next few minutes. Occasionally I'd look up to see his dewy neck and brown tussled hair. "This station stop is, Grand Central Station." I had to get off. I slid by him with one last meaningful nudge. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn to look at me but I never saw his face. I adjusted myself and followed the crowds into the city.