Old City Hall Station

The new guy at work was utterly too chummy. When he'd show up in the morning, he'd slap me on the shoulder to startle me out of my deep concentration on accounting figures on the screen. "Hey buddy," he'd say with a warm jovial tone that made me feel like I was inside a teenager football locker room - or at least how I imagine the jocks would huddle around each other. My fingers slipped two keys to the right and started typing gibberish on the keyboard.

I felt a mixture of panic to figure out what to do, a pound of grumpiness because winter had been harsh and I had the blues, and there was a tiny hint of me actually enjoying this because I had never experienced this kind of warm male bonding attention. I tried to mumble "good morning, sir", squeeze a smile on my face, and disappear back into my accounting figures where I felt comfortable.

NYC winters can be grim. The sunlight simply disappears into a weak faded shine that can't even penetrate the clouds and already disappears in the middle of the afternoon. I try to ignore it, but when my packed lunch sandwich on rye bread tastes like nothing and looking at hot women doesn't bring me joy anymore, I know that I have the winter blues. Somewhere, I want to throw myself of a bridge. Brooklyn Bridge seems more classic but is run over by tourists. Manhattan Bridge has more privacy. Then I tell myself that all this bland feeling and outlook on life is not a reflection of life but simply my serotonin and endorphins being off.

So I get up and get myself a coffee in the office kitchen. I pour it out because caffeine is bad for you. I switch over to decaf. I pour it out because decaf only has some caffeine removed but still caffeine. I pour myself a cup of water and start sipping. I think about the kale and spinach salad for lunch because I want to become healthy, skinny, and as hot as Brad Pitt. I feel like crying as I imagine the bitter taste of kale and spinach. My saliva retreating because it hates the food as well until I'm left with a dry ball of leaves in my mouth that takes way too long to chew until I can swallow it. I want to curl up under a desk and cry, but it probably won't help to get a promotion. So I stick with sipping water.

Two big arms grab my shoulders from behind and shake my whole buddy. The new guy's warm and upbeat voice talks into my ear: "Buddy, we gotta get you laid. You look sadder than a fall leaf. When did you get some the last time?"

I stumble mentally to answer that question. Where did he come from? He's been three days on the team. He's kind of like the male friend I always wanted when I dreamt about being a little kid, spitting in my hand, and shaking his to seal the deal of lifelong friendship. But thinking about the penis in my slacks and the meager history of female companionship are two rather stark topics on this early morning.

"Well, it's been a few months," I confess. My face blushes because he's outgoing and confident attitude makes the impression that his dry spells are counted in days.

Next, he hooks his arm underneath mine and pulls me forward. I feel like we are sailors on land leave - extremely bonded, already drunk, and wreaking havoc on the port city. He pushed me down on the nearest office chair. Hey, this is Jessica's chair! She wouldn't appreciate me sitting down here. He plops down in the next chair. Matt hates having people change the settings on his chair. He pulls me so close to him that my knees are in between his. He puts his hand behind my neck to pull me forward into his face.

I stare into his strong, handsome face. He has red hair. His skin has the complexion of a fair skinned person. His body has all the contours and right shapes of an athlete. His shirt is dapper like he's one of those proud people. His green eyes have a piercing kindness. His cologne smells of manly sandalwood. I don't doubt that women melt in his presence.

"Do you know the old City Hall station?" he asked me.

"Oh, yeah, it's the last stop on the six train," I tell him.

"Nope, buddy. Not City Hall but the old City Hall that's shut down," he insists with an urgency and importance that I feel about getting my accounting figures done right now. I've been utterly too long on break already.

"Oh, yeah, I saw the documentary about the history City Hall station with all the glamor, chandeliers, stained colored glass ceiling..." I happily remember and want to tell him the facts that I learned.

"Right! It's a sex hookup place. The old station is closed to the public. But to turn around the train and the terminal new city hall station, they drive the train through it. You get to see the beauty of the station while you rip of the cobwebs on your dick," he had a whisper at the volume of a football coach giving instructions.

My mind froze. I tried to picture the rat infested subway, a homeless taking a dump on a subway seat, and me trying to do flirty eyes at girls that roll their eyes in response. I did have a burning desire for sex though.

"It's pretty simple," he continued. You sit in front of a woman you fancy. You take your coat off and wrap it over both arms. Then you wait. If she parts her knees, that's a yes. But you need confirmation. So you get up and move three seats down. If she gets up and sits down in front of you, it's almost on. You get up again and move to the original seat. If she follows, it's definitely not a random coincidence. Then as soon as the train is out of public service, you two bang away."

"Yes, thank you. I'll try that some time," I said and got up.

My penis had shriveled up in social awkwardness and fear of getting in trouble on the subway. But the whole morning, while I crunched the numbers for a can manufacturing plant, I thought about all the women that I had seen on the subway. I remembered the longing feeling to reach out to them. I remembered the titillation that their faces, bare knees, and fancy lace stockings woke up in me. Because of the boner in my slacks, I didn't get up all morning. I had a ravishing hunger burning in my heart with all the imaginations that woke up creativity and enthusiasm in me. The creative accounting ideas to snip off a few tax dollars here and there kept coming. And when I submitted the can manufacturers tax report, I even snipped my fingers in celebration. Catching myself to be so flippant scared me a little. Who was I?

Then lunchtime came along. I went back to the kitchen. I poured myself another water. I opened the box of spinach and kale. I starred at it for a while. My morning had been going so well. It was like music had been playing in my head, which came to a screeching stop. With premonition of the taste of those greens on my mouth, I had become unable to move my hands. I was literally scared stiff by the kale and spinach. "You want to become hot and get a girlfriend. You must get rid of that belly fat hiding your abs. You must eat that spinach." Sometimes, I'm too smart for my own good and can see the flaws in my reasoning. "No girl is going to know that you ate that stuff today. There won't be panties falling down long legs as you walk past the women. They'll keep ignoring you as usual."

"What the fuck!" the new guy Josh roared into my ears. "I told you to get some pussy on your dick for lunch today!"

I was startled. I was terrified about HR or anyone else overhearing us. I was going to get fired without saying a word, simply for being a bystander. I was going to get fired for not speaking up to protect women from sexual harassment. When I'd try to get another job, I'd have to check the box that I was fired before for reason. Nobody would hire me. I'd have to live out my life living on the street.

Josh grabbed my water cup and poured it into the sink. He filled it with Guatemalan coffee. Then he grabbed a flask out of his back pocket and poured an ounce of dark brown liquid into it. He put it into my hand. "Drink!" he commanded while he threw out my salad. I took a ginger sip. He promptly lifted the bottom of the cup. I started gobbling whiskey coffee to keep it from spilling onto my baby blue dress shirt and striped tie.

"I got a private 1:1 with the boss in a few minutes. So we have to do this quickly," he said.

He pulled my by the hand through the office. He grabbed my coat from the backrest and threw it over my shoulder. He walked me down eleven flights of stairs. "Elevators are for pussies," he said. The cold winter wind blew into me and threw my clothes. My coat was still on my shoulders, but Josh wouldn't let up pulling me at a fast pace. Our feet were flying down the stairs into the subterranean world. He even swiped me through like I was his best friend, but he stayed on the other side of the turnstile.

"Get the fuck on it already! You are going to have a great time!" he said with a warm smile. I felt like I was holding a baseball bat, wearing a baseball hat, and the coach had just slapped me on the butt to walk onto the pitcher's mound to save the game. There was such confidence in my ability and warm support like I could exceed myself. Like I was the kid that nobody believed in, but the coach had seen my true talent and was making me step up to the world and awe the entire school. I rushed into the six train before the door closed.

The orange hard plastic seats were familiar. Advertising for a rental web site covered this train car. The train rattled as the wheels jumped over the uneven tracks. And then an eerie scream of steel echoed as the train went into a subtle turn. I held onto the pole looking around the train car. It was only a quarter empty. My eyes caught the ad for "her", a contraceptive. I saw the men in his fifties with gray hair, sharp suit, delicate glasses, and super professional suitcase. I saw the chubby woman with her baby strollers. I saw the two Asian grandmas chattering with each other. There was a Jewish woman with round cheeks in her mid-twenties with a big round rack. She was wearing blue pants and heels with only a half inch stiletto, training high heels I call them. She was holding her backpack in front of her and had ear pods in.

I figured banging her would be pretty cool. I sat down in front of her. I placed my coat over my left arm and then folded my right arm under so that I could hug the coat in front of my chest. I sat down in front of her. I felt silly. I glanced at her. I looked at her face. Was that the face the expression of a woman ready to bear her pussy because she is so horny to fuck a stranger? She wasn't super-hot. So I could see that she might have to resort to a random stranger. But she had youth in her cheeks and those amazing round boobs. Would she explain this to her friends: "Yeah, I like a hard cock without any hassle. It's just a quick convenient midday pick me up to get through the day."

She rolled her eyes and gave me the signal that I was a creep staring at her. I looked elsewhere in the train car. It was pretty empty. The middle aged tourist guy with a red "I love NY" hat wasn't quite on my menu for sex. There was a twenty year old gal who seemed like an NYU student. She looked like she was fresh from China and not acclimated to America yet. It was something about the clothes she wore and how she held herself. She really didn't seem like she'd be into random hookups on a subway. I decided to get up to make it less awkward to sit down in front of the next woman.

The train stopped at Spring Street, which is below the heart of SoHo, a hip fashion district where the models strut around. A black woman entered the subway. She was tall and extremely slim. Her black skin on her face had an entrancing shine to it. It was super moisturized. There was red rough to accentuate her facial features. She was slim, way slim. Her feet were in black high heels that were very high. The black pants were some kind of slick material that almost seemed wet and reflective. They were so tight that they stretched over her contours. I could see her calve muscles, the knee cap, and the definition of her calves. My eyes grazed up her body to the top of her hair, which was straightened, texturized with product, and then build into a delicate structure. There was a big half turn in her hair. Then on the side, it went flat back. Half on the side and half on the top was a big fabric red flower with a silver pearl in the center stuck to it. Everything screamed sex on her, even her fingers were long. The skin looked so healthy, I wanted to lick it. Her nails were tastefully painted with green, white, and red lines that formed a geometric art piece. She was wearing an oversized red ruby ring.

And then I got stuck on her décolleté. She wore a black faux fur jacket that looked like from Mad Men. It was parted wide open. Her top was actually an extension of her pants. It was a pantsuit. The collard was completely without button and reached all the way down to her navel button. The front was parted open to reveal her center boob, delicately round apple sized breasts. She painted Egyptian symbols in gold with a makeup brush in between her boobs. It was a pyramid, the head of a falcon, and a Egyptian royal coffin case.

I felt breathless. My mouth was dry and my saliva was shooting out of my glands at the same time. I started shaking. I felt like reality was shimmering as it tried to disappear. I I'd get to have sex with her, it would be like going to heaven and back. The feeling that she would awake in me were beyond what I could imagine. She was some kind of goddess and sorceress.

I shuffled my feet swiftly. I sat down opposite to her. I crossed my arms under my coat. I couldn't believe that I could ask her for sex without any risk with such a simple gesture.

The subway rattled. There was no reaction to anything on her face. She was like a statue frozen. Everyone else on the subway car didn't seem to be in her reality. The door opened again for Canal Street. She startled, jumped up, and hustled outside. I watched that shiny black, liquid fake leather ass disappearing. The butt chicks jiggled left to right because of the high heels.

We were on the way to the last stop, City Hall. Because the train didn't go anywhere from here, there were only four people left. The Midwestern tourist man with the red hat was still there. He was probably on the way to the statue of liberty. There was an older Latina in leopard print tights that stretched over a huge butt. She was pushing a cart with groceries. She didn't seem like the midday office worker out for a quickie. She seemed like she was simply trying to make a living and watch some soap operas in the evening. There was a young Wall Street type with a suit about to go to his office. He kind of seemed a bit like he might be on the prowl like me. His face looked a bid dejected. And I had missed her, way on the other end in the corner was a woman in her forties.

There are girls and women - and I don't mean kids and adults. I usually go for the girl types. They seem like the females that I grew up with. They seem fun. They love. They seem approachable. And then as I turned thirty, I started noticing more the type that I call women. They don't have any of those young and free attributes. They have something severe about them. You can't mess with them anymore. They are in charge. They handle things in their lives. They dress differently. They don't try to be useful. They have style that is definitely sexual but nothing in a girl way. They make me feel like I have to stand in attention. It'll be red lipstick. It'll be a tight skirt that says that she knows what the fuck she is doing and wants. And it says that she knows how to have sex. There are bras that hold her breasts in a way that equally instills respect and even terror, but also hints that whoever is allowed to see them uncovered is in for a delight - not a girly delight, but real breast, real nipples, sensitivity that will make her go crazy, but only if she is touched by a skilled man in the right way. Touch them any other way, and you'll get tossed out. Heck, you don't even get a first chance to touch them because her eyes can see through you and her eyes demand nothing less but a real man.

I walk down the entire length of the train car. It's very awkward because there is nobody else. As I get closer, I'm right. She is that type. She is wearing a petite trench coat with buttons, belt, and little gold highlights that express her being a grown woman. She is wearing elegant black pantyhose and red high heels. I can see her knees past the coat. Her black hair is put together very professionally and held in place with spray. She has lips with a thick red lip stick, but delicately painted like she is an elegant woman at a benefit gala. There are gold earrings that probably cost a few hundred dollars if not more. I've never even hit on a woman in her class.

I sit down in front of her. I feel terrified because it's only us in a near empty car, and I definitely moved to get her attention. I wrap my coat around both arms and hold it in front of me like a shield. Her legs open. I have a Moses parting the sea moment. He must have been shocked out of his mind that it actually worked. I see in between her legs higher up her coat. I see the top band of the pantyhose right under the hemline of her coat. There are garters holding them in place. She definitely is a refined woman. And there is such raw sexuality to catch a glimpse of her bar skin in the almost darkness underneath her coat.

My chest starts trepidating with excitement. I get up and move to the chair on the other side of the door. I watch to see what she does. She puts her knees back together. She twists her knees to the side like someone who has become habitually for years to cover her modesty underneath skirts from people getting a peek up. So she gets up with her knees sideways. Her hands trail from pole to pole as she struts to the seat opposite me and sits down.

She moves slowly, yet very determined. There is no shadow of a doubt that she knows what she is doing. And she has done it before. And there is nothing sleazy about it. Her life philosophy is completely aligned with the rite of having sex. I feel scared about her level of experience about sex, social interactions, and probably life in its entirety. She probably makes at least 200K and has a very responsible job that puts her into a power position.

I get up again and go back to my original seat. She does the same side pivot with pressed together knees before getting up. She sits down in front of me. And there is a sense in her body language that says, "That's it. It's a done deal." I feel certainty that I'm going to fuck her. She also stars straight into my face unabashed. I feel the urge to make small talk, but her face says to shut up. She doesn't want to make pointless conversation to defuse tension. She is purposeful and doesn't have time for it. She is used to holding a lot more tension.

I feel squeamish like I want to avert myself because good things like this never happen to me. They always only seem and then terribly disappoint me and break me. But I'm also excited. Everything feels like a definite thing. I imagine her butt naked. She is pretty tall. She works out a bit, but she doesn't have a hard body. It's probably a fine ass. She also already seems forty. That will probably show. It'll be not a feminine girl butt yet a very womanly with class butt.

Her chest is pretty flat. I imagine my hands gliding under her clothes soon to feel them. I feel happy. I feel happy perhaps for the first time in my life in a way that says everything will be good.

I imagine launching my boner into her and holding that body of a woman so refined in my hands. I feel like a shy boy, but I'll get to grasp in my warms and feel what a real woman feels like.

Her eyes tell me that she is playing out a story as well. She looks a little bit at me in the way that a mother looks at a kid. She has this expression like she'll deal with me but she'll have to take care of me to make sure I'll do it right. It's not the kind of submission that she'd have if a manly man were burning a gaze into her eyes. I'm okay with that. I'll accept her guidance and do my best to learn from such an experienced woman.