Gone are the days when I could sit across from a guy on a subway train and not worry whether he was an undercover vice cop. My seating preference back then used to depend on whether there was an orange or mustard space directly ahead of an older gent -- one not elderly enough to bring out my Elektra complex, but not so young that he could be arrested for sipping my favorite beverage: Port wine. Those days, I'd hike up my plaid skirt subtly the way I first had done in Mrs. Wilmer's class when Etienne saw my Wednesday panties, the ones with pink lace on the hem. If it weren't for my mother's addiction to buying day-of-the-week panties, poor Etienne would've kept on getting demerits for missing Thursday assembly. Luckily, those panty days weren't only lettered; they were numbered. Unfortunately, so were my mother's.
Back when flashing panties on a subway car or bus was still a safe turn-on, I would feel a fluttering in my pelvis and a tingling from my spine to my pink petals at the mere thought of enticing a comfortably older man into spying on my slick vulva. I liked watching him angle his head so that he could see my cum oozing from the darkness beneath my bunched skirt out onto my tan thigh. Those were the days when I could wear stockings without the fear of their elastic top bands rolling down to my knees.
It was like a game. I would count how long from the departure point -- in a tourist-ravaged hub -- to my suburban destination. My favorite memory involved a middle-aged guy with the build of the Portuguese who lived near the New Jersey station where he entered the subway car. He sat directly across from me and aggressively made eye contact. I couldn't believe how forward he was: staring down at my slightly parted legs and then raising his head until his line of sight was even with my buttoned-down bosom. I was his seated striptease. I slowly unbuttoned my brown tweed blazer, then the top buttons of my salmon pink blouse. The entire time we locked gazes.
Then his hand moved to his crotch and rubbed there as if he had an delicious itch -- a ruse for any suspecting or conservative passengers. He went so far as to unzip his fly and flawlessly hide his salient bulge with his jacket. By this time, I was so unbelievably wet, that any small shifting in my seat emitted a sound akin to two Sub-Saharan lips kissing in the rain. I could smell my natural fragrance with each flapping of my thighs. I was so aroused that I didn't realize at first I had my eyes partly shuttered and that my forefinger and index finger were slipping into my newly laundered pink lace panties with a tiny black satin bow on the waistband.
Leaning back now, I could see the man gyrating in his seat and his eyes narrowing with lust. I wanted so badly to moan, but I didn't dare. Then to our twin delight, the last two commuters seated on either side of him departed the subway car, leaving him and me alone in the corner. We had a fifteen-minute ride through a tunnel and then five more minutes until the train would pull up to a platform.
Shedding my blazer, I felt so long and lean. I had lost an amazing 15 pounds in six weeks and sustained it. I sensed that I was swimming in the new lightness of my body. I put fifteen years of modern-dance lessons to good use and splayed my legs so that I could point and flex my toes for his amusement. I kicked off my gold ballet flats as if that corner of the subway car was our boudoir. Apparently the sexy stranger was relaxed, too, because he was brazenly rubbing his shaft up and down, and leaning back just enough so I could glimpse balls as hairy as the chest visible above his white boatneck shirt.
All my graceful stretching, pointing and flexing had turned him to such a degree that his phallic compass was pointing north. I needed direction and followed like an eager driver's ed student willing to do anything to earn my permit. Not wasting any time, I peeled off my lacy pink panties, exaggeratedly stretching the front panel downward so that he could see how effectively my pussy had lubed the crotch under his glare. Exposing my moist nether lips to the air turned me hornier than ever. With dilated pupils, he stared at the panties' long journey as they left behind their viscous trail like slugs unearthed from a downpour. From my dripping pussy to my glistening thighs was an eternity. Slinking their way down my black stockings, from firm knees, past athletic calves, to sturdy ankles that had survived the inevitable sprains of a modern dancer's life, the slimy panties eventually reached my feet.
Leaning forward to step out of the soft, clingy fabric, I heard his sighs growing louder. I felt my gathered skirt rise, exposing the tops of my bare cheeks to him. Mopping the train floor with the damp, dainty pink panties as I languorously picked them up brought groans from his throat and the telltale rhythm of construction boots stomping in time to his intense masturbation. We were only three feet away from each other, with only the imaginary barriers of color -- of fear-based race -- preventing us from acting on our human instincts. If all I saw wrapped in his clumsy flushed fingers was cock, all he saw between my opened thighs was pussy. No White, no Black -- just two sets of aroused genitalia. Yet our resistance fed into the tabooed lust of two people who were a special brand of strangers: the interracial kind.
By now, the forbidden aspect of our interaction -- not to mention the misdemeanor of public exposure -- had me on the edge of orgasm. Cum was pooling beneath my behind on the train seat, and I pretended not to know what a mess I had made in the presence of this Portuguese stranger with enough hair on his face, chest, forearms and groin to compensate for the dark curly head of hair he once had in his youth. He was perspiring profusely now, as was I, and brushed his hand over the sparse waves of gray hair toward the back of his dome. I twirled the sopping-wet, lacy pink panties around my forefinger and then sucked the juice from my fingernail as the garment slid down my arm. That shocked him, as evidenced by his approval in Portuguese and his moaning in the universal language of horniness.
