Something I wrote a while ago. It’s rather long for a tumblr post, but the story it’s from won a prize.

You’re sitting there, dead tired from the long day at school. The guy next to you is a rather obese man and is taking up almost two seats, so there’s practically no room between him and you; a feather could fit between the two of you, and that’s a maybe. It’s going to be an enjoyable ride. No one is going to be leaning on you, invading your personal space. You have leg-room today.

It’s Grand Central and the usual rush of people get on. They scramble for the few remaining seats and the lucky ones wear a smirk of victory on their faces. Don’t worry, no one’s going to sit next to you. Fatty over there is snoring.

All of a sudden a woman squeezes in between you and the big man. Tight mini-skirt, black pantyhose, red hair in a bun. She looks like she’s some sort of professional, like an investment banker or a corporate lawyer. You keep eyeing her, distracted by her full red lips and perfectly shaped nose.

Her right thigh is rubbing up against your leg, back and forth, a slow, sexual waltz that pauses at each stop. This is due neither to the rocking of the train car nor the cramped conditions. This has to be a sign. She wants you. You have to do something and take advantage of this opportunity. Don’t screw this up. Make a move.

You start to open your legs wider. Not too much, or she might think you’re arrogant, like the assholes who spread their legs as wide as they can and take up two seats because they think their dicks are so huge. Be modest, or else she’ll think you took an overdose of growth hormone and your testicles are swollen. Remember: according to Entertainment Tonight, Brad Pitt is apparently hung like a hamster and he’s been People Magazine’s sexiest man alive twice. He was also married to Rachel from Friends (what’s her name again?), but more importantly, he was engaged to Gwyneth Paltrow. She won an Academy Award.

You’ve reached 45th Road-Courthouse Square. Time is running out and all you’ve accomplished is keeping up with the constant thigh-to-thigh contact. Doubt overcomes you. So what if you’re fifteen and haven’t even had your first kiss yet? So what if that’s a wedding ring on her finger? So what if she looks like she’s forty? GQ says forty is the new thirty. Remember that thing you had for Judge Judy? She could be a cougar, waiting for young prey to cross her path. That’s you. Cross her path. Walk that fine line between crazy and cool.

You clear your throat. Say something like “Hey, I’m fifteen and inexperienced in the art of love,” and she’ll grab you and sex you up in between the train cars. Or say “I think you’re pretty,” and she’ll kiss you and give you her card. She might set you up in an apartment, hiding you away from her husband and children, like in Goodfellas, except the opposite. She could be your sugar momma.

She gets up to leave at Woodside. You ruined it, missed your chance, and you curse at yourself as her thigh peels away from yours. “I love you,” you whisper just as she reaches the door, only loud enough so that the fat man snorts in his dreams.