metro intimacy

he said... "because I did it to the end, as usual. We danced until 5AM :) Now it's time to work again... I'm in a terrific mood : the day after parties I want sex more than usual, and going to the countryside makes it worse, always :) When I have this kind of tireness, I can almost feel my skin without touching it. It's a pity I'm alone :)"

Lola said:
It is a pity! I hope you are able to enjoy some company tonight!! ... The season doesn't help - spring time makes me more randy. For some reason, when I'm sick with a fever it makes me very hungry for sex, as well (sometimes) when I have a hangover, and lately -- well, all the time. I love how you describe it though - feel your skin without touching it. One of the reasons why I love the metro in Paris. People are either horrified when you bump into them, or you can find yourself rubbing an arm, shoulder, back for 20 minutes with a stranger. It's my new intimacy.

I keep forgetting to write this story down, but the other day, I got on the line 2 at Blanche at the back of the car. There was a horrible looking Indian man, although I thought he looked kind of Aborigine with a flat, juicy nose, bad teeth (which I imagined covered bad breath), and a pocked face. He was standing between the 2 poles. The back of the car somewhat emptied out when I got on, and the crowd flowing out revealed this Indian man slightly pressed up against the buttocks of another man. The other man was pasty white with too short, greasy hair like a typical nerd, thick glasses, and a short, badly-fashioned blue jacket. He held a book in front of his face and read, but I could see him coyly lean back against the Indian man's stiff pants. I pretended to read my own book but glanced up slyly now and again. They were somewhat protected from the view of other riders by a few people standing, as well. The Indian man would look nervously side to side occasionally, while the pasty man pretended he was innocent of all affairs, studiously managing the book in his hand with fake concentration. The car doors opened for more people to get on, more people to get off. The car would jerk on the rails and the Indian man would take the opportunity to press his cock further into pasty's jeans. There is about 3 feet between the poles at the back of the car - enough for 2 people to stand comfortably without touching. The cock man had reached his hand behind his back to grab the pole - to steady himself on the ride, and to have leveraging mobility. While the ass man held the opposite pole with one hand and the book with the other, leaning back but with less intensity, less obviousness. I wondered if they were lovers, pretending not to know each other. Maybe life had gotten a bit stale and they wanted to play the game of "let's pretend we don't know each other." Or, maybe they had seen one another's eyes across the street at Clichy and one turned to follow the other. There is such excitement in being pursued (I remember back to the greve when I walked from Blanche to Nation and was followed 2.5 km at the end of the walk by a man and his camera). Or, maybe they answered an ad on Craigslist and had just spent the last two hours fucking in a hotel room with pastel-flower sheets. Or, maybe, they didn't know each other at all, but one push backwards led to one push forward and no one would ever see the other's face. Anonymous rubs, anonymous tingles, anonymous panting while trying to conceal the hard-on, the heart racing, the thrill of remaining calm, the quiver of a buttock, the painfully confined cock. Again, the car door's flew open, and more people got on and off. Some glared with furrowed brows and tsk-tsk mouths when they were forced to move around the engaged men, who refused to move, looking away - or deeper into his book. I was jealous for a while. Jealous when a woman sitting opposite the coupling noticed something out of ordinary and studied them curiously. Even when children sat down near us, they didn't stop their dance. I was starting to feel what they were feeling. And I made up more stories of their passionate game. I remembered being on the metro during the greve when I thought a big man was pressing his cock up against my ass. I felt simultaneously insulted, used, and turned on. The car doors opened at Barbes and suddenly the pasty man half-bolted, half-brisked his way off the car. I waited two seconds for the Indian man to jump after him. He didn't. He didn't know where to go or where to turn. He was exposed. The doors closed. I could feel his emptiness - like when I beg lovers to not pull out quickly after they cum. It's not nicer to do it like a band-aid. It's too sensitive to tear away from me then. He moved forward and stood in front of the door and got off at the next stop.