Yes.
It was clear from her determined reserve and the equally determined grip she somehow maintained on her resolved poise- a poise that had doubtless endured hundreds of hits from all sides- that she was the final, street regal trophy this dilapidated drug crew desperately clung to with no small amount of battered if not quite beaten pride.
Like so many a dedicated junkie she had a certain ageless, vampiric quality to her pale, peaked yet still taut flesh that was pulled tight across her Vogue cover cheekbones, making it more than somewhat difficult to guess her age.
She could've been 21-going-on-41 or 41-going-on-forever but she had somehow managed to remain a chic presence still undoubtedly ready for her close-up, if not perhaps at that exact moment of her illustrious career.
Her legs were long, toned and very easy to appreciate wrapped snugly, as they were, in a pair of grey perfectly fitted denims and tucked into stylish, smart and just-this-side-of-cute rainboots that didn't look discount and didn't give a fuck if they did. The hips were more women than model and as She crossed those long denimed stems and took her reserved seat I, for one, was grateful for the display.
On top she'd chosen a black, scooped tee, covered by a grey hoodie that was unzipped more than halfway with the hood snapped smartly over her self-induced blondeness to discourage, of course, any undue attention from the paparazzi should the gauntlet of her addled entourage fail to sufficiently beat them back.
The bulge of her peachy bosom was clearly visible and clearly the reason she'd let her zipper stray south.
Her face, however, was her real prize and it was her one real treasure that she still somehow, someway guarded jealously even if she herself seemed fully aware that it had suffered through a bad measure of plunder and privation.
The sharpness of her pale flesh seemed to reveal the sharpness of her mind with the hardened if hollow emptiness of her grey/blue cat's eyes carefully concealed behind an oversize pair of knock-off Chanel's so popular with Brooklyn girls of a certain age. The lips were her only nod to the world of men. A world in which she'd surely logged an extensive history.
The femme fatale mouth was a petite delight of a tease with the lips only slightly plump and only slightly pouty but she'd accented both with a slash of blood red that pulled your eyes to the very closed opening, making you dream dreams of storming her castle. The blast of this one splash of color against her facade of grey/black camouflage was echoed only by her matching manicure, trimmed talons that she nervously clicked along her thigh, the only hint of the turmoil roiling inside her druggy volcano.
The collection of her facial features was a perfection of symmetry and feminine grace topped off by her straight, shoulder-length suicide blonde tendrils slithering out from the hoodie, shot through with bolts of black that framed the perfection with a polished perversity that promised something much better and much more real than any painted pose.
It was a scorched blackened blondeness that purred-
"I'm bad, bad news and I'm working really easy to stay that way..."
All in all, she was certainly not in the mood, but her cleverly arranged look- that undoubtedly had taken some effort to achieve- very subtly advertised that she just might be open to certain negotiations if some generous offer happened to come along at the right time.
But an addict's life is very strictly regulated by their own junkie clock- that runs 24/7/365- and hers looked like it had just begun a slow clicking tick down to alarm time.
See around Bergen there's a methadone clinic that's received a bit of community attention due to the occasional proliferation of drug vultures that tend to circle its doors waiting to pick off the near dead corpses of the dopesick fiends huddled within and without. The Stooges and their Queen gave every outward indication that they'd just gotten a good dose of the clown-wig orange juice that junkies so desperately crave/despise in equal measure (the neon liquid saves them from the throes of their most desperate sickness yet offers no real solace and absolutely no stairway to the heroin heaven that they truly desire).
They, and She, were OK. Just ok, just barely ok...
For now.
But that clock was ticking and her rapidly draining grey/blue cat's eyes were grimly staring into a very near future that was on the tracks to a certain cliff edge drop into a much too familiar abyss.
And she understood that somehow, someway she'd have to jump off that barreling train before it hit the end of the line.
A good, soft landing was what she really needed and her junkie crew gave every indication that they would be of little real help finding one for themselves, let alone her.
For me, my own stop was next and it was leisure time all day, all the way.
But I hovered next to her, peering down, as I stationed myself at the doors then the "G" jerked to a stop as I indulged myself in a hungry peek.
The tops of a frilly pink bra underneath her scooped black tee were barely but plainly visible from my hawk-eyed perch and the generous scoops of her creamy breasts were poking through the barriers, still ripe and inviting, even if they'd doubtless seen better days. So she was properly dressed for soft landings if not hard falls.
What she had might not have been what it once was, but she definitely still knew how to wrap it for presentation and that meant she'd surely remembered how to use it.
The doors popped and I headed straight for the stairways up and out of the stale underground and straight for whatever sunlight might be remaining in my day.
I hoped she might get a little bit too as she rolled on into the darkness.
She sure looked ready for it.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Saturday, September 12, 2015
The Junkie Queen and her "G" Train Court
Like most men I have a weakness for scarred souls.
And like most good men this weakness does not always take into account the circumstances of the scars.
Some wounds of course are the gruesome evidence, however temporary, of the very worst trick of luck that can occur to our instantly frail flesh, yet these fresh and visibly grisly tokens of our common human frailty hold a grim fascination to even the most casual of observers.
Some wounds have been buried so long ago that even a keen observer may only ever be able to sense their latent effects in a frightened glint of the eyes, a nervous tick of the limbs, a halting catch in the speech that releases just a drop of their deep reservoir of still fresh pain.
Some wounds have been buried so long ago that even a keen observer may only ever be able to sense their latent effects in a frightened glint of the eyes, a nervous tick of the limbs, a halting catch in the speech that releases just a drop of their deep reservoir of still fresh pain.
Other wounds are self-inflicted and because of this absolute fact, these are the very scars that the victim most jealously conceals from an ever suspicious world that, for them, is a treacherous daily obstacle course filled with trap doors dropping straight into their own darkness.
And don't we all have our own little dings and dents, scratches and nicks, inside and out?
On a cloudy August day that was promising rain and squeezing all its fetid humidity into the dank subway tunnel system I hopped on the "G" for what would be my first stop in a hopefully productive schedule of Brooklyn gear and grocery shopping. I was primed for action and open to visual adventure as is my usual subway/shopping outlook. It was late morning, after the rush, and everything was ahead of me on the just about three-quarters full train slowly winding its way toward the City.
At Bergen there was a brief delay as a trio of fixed junkies stumbled through the doors just as they were closing, causing the conductor to loudly and pointedly announce over the PA-
"PLEASE DO NOT HOLD THE DOORS OPEN...AND PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS!"
To which the final straggler/door holder, who resembled a dessicated, dead-eyed Joey Ramone without the leather jacket promptly, loudly and eloquently replied to no one and everyone-
"Yea, go fuck yer Mutha..."
before he lurched through the aisle, banging his fellow passengers with a shoulder-strapped, overstuffed, beat-up soft leather satchel, doubtlessly containing all the vital paraphernalia that his desperate lifestyle required.
before he lurched through the aisle, banging his fellow passengers with a shoulder-strapped, overstuffed, beat-up soft leather satchel, doubtlessly containing all the vital paraphernalia that his desperate lifestyle required.
His apologies upon his missteps, however, were a product of the genuine compassion shared by lifetime straphangers who understand the daily, teeth-gritting indignities they all have to endure together-
"I'm sorry Sir..."
"Excuse me, Ma'm...I'm sorry..."
"I'm so sorry..."
And so on, each one positively dripping with an almost comic amount of concern for his startled but tolerant victims.
His two male companions, both equally drawn and disheveled but without luggage, quickly wormed through the aisle and cadged seats opposite me across the doorway then immediately flipped open the free local newspapers they were both seriously clutching and dove in, blankly studying the giveaway pages with all the remaining conviction they could muster as if on their way to a test or just cramming in all the important facts in the few minutes they could spare before their arrival at their busy Manhattan offices. Their Ramone brother hovered over them in a wobbly state of turmoil, fumbling with his bulging satchel along with an uncooperative umbrella that stubbornly threatened to overwhelm him.
The Three Stooges themselves could not have done it any better.
Then She emerged from behind the shabby wall of their well-rehearsed front and Joey gallantly steered her to the only remaining seat available.
Taken on the hoof, the Stooges were a painfully wasted account of the toll of heroin commitment and as a collection of potential male potency, their ravaged attractions were such that only a Mother could possibly love. They all of them maintained a uniform yet mish-mash street fashion sense that suggested unplanned dumpster diving embellished with occasional laundromat snatches.
But, although she was most definitely a member of their doomed cadre, she stood apart if not obviously above them as she carefully accepted the seat they were holding for her, a seat she surely expected to be waiting for her unhurried arrival no matter the destination.
NEXT TIME- The Queen Holds Court
His two male companions, both equally drawn and disheveled but without luggage, quickly wormed through the aisle and cadged seats opposite me across the doorway then immediately flipped open the free local newspapers they were both seriously clutching and dove in, blankly studying the giveaway pages with all the remaining conviction they could muster as if on their way to a test or just cramming in all the important facts in the few minutes they could spare before their arrival at their busy Manhattan offices. Their Ramone brother hovered over them in a wobbly state of turmoil, fumbling with his bulging satchel along with an uncooperative umbrella that stubbornly threatened to overwhelm him.
The Three Stooges themselves could not have done it any better.
Then She emerged from behind the shabby wall of their well-rehearsed front and Joey gallantly steered her to the only remaining seat available.
Taken on the hoof, the Stooges were a painfully wasted account of the toll of heroin commitment and as a collection of potential male potency, their ravaged attractions were such that only a Mother could possibly love. They all of them maintained a uniform yet mish-mash street fashion sense that suggested unplanned dumpster diving embellished with occasional laundromat snatches.
But, although she was most definitely a member of their doomed cadre, she stood apart if not obviously above them as she carefully accepted the seat they were holding for her, a seat she surely expected to be waiting for her unhurried arrival no matter the destination.
NEXT TIME- The Queen Holds Court
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
The Hip-Hop, K-Pop Sucking on a Lollipop
Do you wanna know what it feels like to be a dirty old man?
Didn't think so...
Just understand that the absolutely irreversible condition does have its soul nourishing epiphanies despite the sickening cotton candy stickiness those moments would actually taste like if given a tentative lick or three.
So a safe distance and a purposely dulled remove is the salve for the complete deficit of regard that I enjoy less and less. But these are the sad, battered gifts that raw experience drops at your door.
Yes...
To finally have a treasure of knowledge to match your hunger for soulful connection and a mature, unhurried ease, a true appreciation, some small amount of quiet confidence to move forward into the subtle dance of something like love...yet...to be about as desirable as the casually tossed aside newspapers that litter the subway seats like worthless artifacts leftover from a bygone age.
Trash not worthy of walking the few steps it might take to drop into the can.
What are all these inksheets of my youth still doing here anyway?
Because we all know they're hanging on yet continually losing value through their stubborn refusal to just fade away in favor of the brightly lit, hi-def, attention grabbing screens that hook both beautiful Youth and sagging Middle-age with equal ease.
My paper-thin prospects...spread all over every grimy corner of the car.
But light and life erupt through the grit and I'm so much more than glad.
This was the "7" on the way to Queens.
It was the winter that never died but this day was miraculously not freezing, raining or otherwise miserable so...
The errand involved food and its retrieval and was not without its excitement regarding same.
It was a Saturday so the train was crowded for sure but I was safely traveling against the flow of weekend excitement. The crowds were busting out to break into the City while I was heading straight back into the dingy allure of Queens proper which, for most that day, was the decidely wrong direction.
But I popped in at Court Sq. and snagged a seat in the corner on my way to the end of the line, she was already aboard.
Yea, that 7 train was almost crowded but one of the slightly unusual features of regular MTA travelers is that they don't always head straight for any available seat, especially if their hop is a short one or they don't appreciate the specifics of the close-quarter company. Instead they grab a pole and strike a pose.
She was one of those.
She was tall for a Korean girl, going maybe 5'9" in her trendy, white leather, hi-top retro kicks that looked like the 80's but were likely made in a sweatshop last summer for quick sale in NYC. The kicks were spotlessly maintained as if they mattered. This was a bit unusual because the remainder of her wardrobe might've come from the "what-the-f**k-you-lookin-at" section of her closet.
The long legs were a feature but she didn't care to share.
Instead she wrapped them in grey D&G sweatpants that looked like they fell off a Chinatown truck, one of the legs of which was hiked up to her knee gangsta-style.
The revealed calf was slender and hinted at the absolute perfection of the rest of her flawlessly trim shanks.
She might've tipped the scales at a buck fifteen or so, if that, and that's if she ever bothered with scales, which seemed unlikely. She had the completely natural whip-thin build of a purebred racing filly and looked like she could outrun one if she wanted.
The legs led to hips that she accented with a slim, dark blue down vest cut off just above them. The vest might've been "boys" size but it looked almost too cute if you could tear your eyes away from the flesh that peeked out between the low-slung sweats and her undersized hoodie top that I was sure she threw on in a hurry. The flesh was caramel.
The trimness of her top displayed the contours of her curves just enough so they could be clocked by the observant eye but not enough to draw any undue attention.
I was feeling most observant.
Tits?
She had just enough and they were peaches. I was guessing she was packing them with a push-up but I didn't think I'd ever get to check even if I asked nicely.
But the face was a story.
Like many an Asian girl you might rush to describe it as "inscrutable" or a "mystery" or maybe just a blank slate devoid of emotion if you didn't happen to give a shit.
But hers was a challenge. It was a sweet slap. It was a swift kick and it hit me just right.
Her hard looks were a soft, inviting heart-shaped frame filled with flawless light caramel to match her hips. Her lips were a full, chocolate covered pucker of insouciant youth mixed with a slather of rattlesnake.
Either they were growling- "Don't F**K WITH ME!"
Or they were purring- "Come f**K me reaaalllll gooooood..."
She was on the very young side so it was impossible for me to tell.
And those chocolate slathered lips were aggressively wrapped around the long straw of one of those giant, sugary, whipped cream-filled, iced coffee concoctions you can get for cheap at the Dunkins and she was sucking away although there appeared to be plenty left for her to suck on.
Those lips were working it though with flashes of perfectly even, sparkly little teeth taking nibbles out of that straw as she worked it.
Her high, sharp cheekbones set off her black almond eyes that were all Pro all the way- hard, bored and ready for action if the price was right.
How young was she?
I considered it for awhile until I decided on something like the 22-24 range.
A tough twenty-something who was maybe done with school for good or maybe just dipping in and out as she pleased. The tiny pack she had slung over one shoulder was more stylish than functional and the red Beats she had covering her ears looked like they were permanent and unrelated to any paying profession. Wherever she was going it was no place important and wherever she came from hadn't cared much when she left.
Her blownout blonde mane of hair was cascading all over her shoulders and back with rich, deep veins of her original black crackling through the length of it like dark lightning. If it wasn't the most luxurious of looks, her beautiful, sassy scowl announced that it was not possible in this particular universe for her to care any less.
What would it take to make her smile?
That's what I thought as I sat there drinking her in slowly and deeply.
Maybe a pile of money might do it.
Maybe a fat, chunk of a diamond.
Maybe a big bag of weed might or a Plus-one at a club she wanted to hit but hadn't quite figured out how to breach yet.
Maybe a test score that insured her step to the next level with some breathing room to spare.
Maybe her own place where she could do whatever the fuck she wanted with whoever the fuck she wanted to without tripping over anybody's toes.
Maybe a career instead of a job.
Or maybe just a sharp young man with a plan and some bright light in his dark eyes might be all she needed for that smile to break open. Maybe that might do the trick.
But whatever it was...it sure as hell wasn't sitting on that 7 train that day.
So I just sat there and enjoyed the ride to her future, and it was all hers...
Next Time- Spring, when a young man's fancy turns to...
Do you wanna know what it feels like to be a dirty old man?
Didn't think so...
Just understand that the absolutely irreversible condition does have its soul nourishing epiphanies despite the sickening cotton candy stickiness those moments would actually taste like if given a tentative lick or three.
So a safe distance and a purposely dulled remove is the salve for the complete deficit of regard that I enjoy less and less. But these are the sad, battered gifts that raw experience drops at your door.
Yes...
To finally have a treasure of knowledge to match your hunger for soulful connection and a mature, unhurried ease, a true appreciation, some small amount of quiet confidence to move forward into the subtle dance of something like love...yet...to be about as desirable as the casually tossed aside newspapers that litter the subway seats like worthless artifacts leftover from a bygone age.
Trash not worthy of walking the few steps it might take to drop into the can.
What are all these inksheets of my youth still doing here anyway?
Because we all know they're hanging on yet continually losing value through their stubborn refusal to just fade away in favor of the brightly lit, hi-def, attention grabbing screens that hook both beautiful Youth and sagging Middle-age with equal ease.
My paper-thin prospects...spread all over every grimy corner of the car.
But light and life erupt through the grit and I'm so much more than glad.
This was the "7" on the way to Queens.
It was the winter that never died but this day was miraculously not freezing, raining or otherwise miserable so...
The errand involved food and its retrieval and was not without its excitement regarding same.
It was a Saturday so the train was crowded for sure but I was safely traveling against the flow of weekend excitement. The crowds were busting out to break into the City while I was heading straight back into the dingy allure of Queens proper which, for most that day, was the decidely wrong direction.
But I popped in at Court Sq. and snagged a seat in the corner on my way to the end of the line, she was already aboard.
Yea, that 7 train was almost crowded but one of the slightly unusual features of regular MTA travelers is that they don't always head straight for any available seat, especially if their hop is a short one or they don't appreciate the specifics of the close-quarter company. Instead they grab a pole and strike a pose.
She was one of those.
She was tall for a Korean girl, going maybe 5'9" in her trendy, white leather, hi-top retro kicks that looked like the 80's but were likely made in a sweatshop last summer for quick sale in NYC. The kicks were spotlessly maintained as if they mattered. This was a bit unusual because the remainder of her wardrobe might've come from the "what-the-f**k-you-lookin-at" section of her closet.
The long legs were a feature but she didn't care to share.
Instead she wrapped them in grey D&G sweatpants that looked like they fell off a Chinatown truck, one of the legs of which was hiked up to her knee gangsta-style.
The revealed calf was slender and hinted at the absolute perfection of the rest of her flawlessly trim shanks.
She might've tipped the scales at a buck fifteen or so, if that, and that's if she ever bothered with scales, which seemed unlikely. She had the completely natural whip-thin build of a purebred racing filly and looked like she could outrun one if she wanted.
The legs led to hips that she accented with a slim, dark blue down vest cut off just above them. The vest might've been "boys" size but it looked almost too cute if you could tear your eyes away from the flesh that peeked out between the low-slung sweats and her undersized hoodie top that I was sure she threw on in a hurry. The flesh was caramel.
The trimness of her top displayed the contours of her curves just enough so they could be clocked by the observant eye but not enough to draw any undue attention.
I was feeling most observant.
Tits?
She had just enough and they were peaches. I was guessing she was packing them with a push-up but I didn't think I'd ever get to check even if I asked nicely.
But the face was a story.
Like many an Asian girl you might rush to describe it as "inscrutable" or a "mystery" or maybe just a blank slate devoid of emotion if you didn't happen to give a shit.
But hers was a challenge. It was a sweet slap. It was a swift kick and it hit me just right.
Her hard looks were a soft, inviting heart-shaped frame filled with flawless light caramel to match her hips. Her lips were a full, chocolate covered pucker of insouciant youth mixed with a slather of rattlesnake.
Either they were growling- "Don't F**K WITH ME!"
Or they were purring- "Come f**K me reaaalllll gooooood..."
She was on the very young side so it was impossible for me to tell.
And those chocolate slathered lips were aggressively wrapped around the long straw of one of those giant, sugary, whipped cream-filled, iced coffee concoctions you can get for cheap at the Dunkins and she was sucking away although there appeared to be plenty left for her to suck on.
Those lips were working it though with flashes of perfectly even, sparkly little teeth taking nibbles out of that straw as she worked it.
Her high, sharp cheekbones set off her black almond eyes that were all Pro all the way- hard, bored and ready for action if the price was right.
How young was she?
I considered it for awhile until I decided on something like the 22-24 range.
A tough twenty-something who was maybe done with school for good or maybe just dipping in and out as she pleased. The tiny pack she had slung over one shoulder was more stylish than functional and the red Beats she had covering her ears looked like they were permanent and unrelated to any paying profession. Wherever she was going it was no place important and wherever she came from hadn't cared much when she left.
Her blownout blonde mane of hair was cascading all over her shoulders and back with rich, deep veins of her original black crackling through the length of it like dark lightning. If it wasn't the most luxurious of looks, her beautiful, sassy scowl announced that it was not possible in this particular universe for her to care any less.
What would it take to make her smile?
That's what I thought as I sat there drinking her in slowly and deeply.
Maybe a pile of money might do it.
Maybe a fat, chunk of a diamond.
Maybe a big bag of weed might or a Plus-one at a club she wanted to hit but hadn't quite figured out how to breach yet.
Maybe a test score that insured her step to the next level with some breathing room to spare.
Maybe her own place where she could do whatever the fuck she wanted with whoever the fuck she wanted to without tripping over anybody's toes.
Maybe a career instead of a job.
Or maybe just a sharp young man with a plan and some bright light in his dark eyes might be all she needed for that smile to break open. Maybe that might do the trick.
But whatever it was...it sure as hell wasn't sitting on that 7 train that day.
So I just sat there and enjoyed the ride to her future, and it was all hers...
Next Time- Spring, when a young man's fancy turns to...
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Audrey Hepburn with Curves
I don't play with my phone on the train.
Don't look at it, don't hold it, don't play games with it or listen to music on it. I don't flip, don't fiddle, don't send, don't swipe, don't type, don't text, don't even check it. I just zip it into my pocket and leave it there and that's the way- uh-huh, uh-huh- I like it.
In fact I like keeping my head up and looking around and while I may not always enjoy it, the blasting cacophony of subway platforms, tunnels and trains and the crackling PA babble of indecipherable announcements along with the frequent in-car spiels from the seemingly endless stream of panhandlers looking to make an honest buck-"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen...god bless you and I'd just like to say that I'm not a drug user or drunk..."- almost never bores me and I'm almost always charged with a very welcome anticipation of one form or another as I clock the action or lack thereof.
Guess you could say I like to watch.
And I don't mind listening.
Somewhat strangely I am almost always alone in this anticipatory glee.
Now we all know that everybody likes to watch but when it comes to the pedestrian spectacle of NYC public transportation, it would appear that this universal tendency towards voyeurism is not endemic to these huddled masses.
Or maybe every one's just afraid to make any kind of direct eye contact with the offhand lunatics roaming our seedy underworld labyrinth.
So what you generally get instead is a lot of grown men playing video games, a lot of grown woman working their keyboards and cameras, a lot of teenagers jacked in to whatever is currently trending them into the future and almost everyone over the age of five with their faces buried deeply and stubbornly in their screens.
This vaguely disturbing apathy towards your fellow Man- and your own personal safety- does not, however, hinder my own enjoyment in any way and actually allows for an even greater freedom to observe, to evaluate, to appreciate and to imagine.
Because that's one of my favorite little games that I play to entertain myself on the cheap ride to everywhere.
I look at people and I imagine...
Where is she coming from?
Where is she going?
What does she do?
Who is she?
Of course men are included in this curious pastime but they always seem uncomfortably much like myself with their uneven appearances and harried attitudes coordinated to their surrendered spirits so they tend to come across as borderline comatose and that's just not quite as interesting.
Or to put it more bluntly- How could anyone be interested in a grown man in his forties playing World of Warcraft?
But NYC woman...now they clearly put all of their best effort into their public appearances, no matter the audience, and all praise to the subway gods for that most scintillating of gifts that comes with a price tag so cheap it almost embarrasses me to enjoy the show.
Almost.
Case in point-
3ish on a fairly typical summer afternoon.
I hop on the "R" after a round of grocery shopping looking only slightly better, I hope, than a homeless bag man riding the subway rails. I got a large, loaded courier strapped over one shoulder, I'm hauling an even larger vinyl luggage sack crisscrossed over the other and I'm toting a cloth bag stuffed full of fruits & veggies in one hand to balance myself out, leaving me one hand free for self-defense maneuvers. As an urban man of a certain age (that age being- Old) I'm something of an anomaly.
Most men of my station in life strictly use automobiles or woman for this sort of duty but I myself relish handling grocery errands with an almost childish joy that might be embarrassing if I ever got around to giving it any real thought.
Suffice to say, I am not the picture of a prosperous gentleman of my generation as I carefully, along with my cargo, hover in and over then slowly descend my overloaded frame into an open seat of a half-full car of old ladies slowly working their way to the relative safety of home along with jailbreak high-schoolers preparing for take-off into their totally unknown.
Then Audrey Hepburn glides straight into our mundane, mutually disinterested arrangement and splashes some sparkle to the washed-out grey of our commuter setting.
Of course I wasn't hallucinating, this was not the actress/icon from the 60's. No, this was a real woman in the very real flesh and she was working it like a waitress on a Friday night in the trendiest set in town- All seamless hustle, concentrated business and all flow, all the time.
She was petite but packed with sharp lines and smooth curves in all the places a man would pick if he'd built her. And if she wasn't dressed for men then I didn't know who she was dressed to please, but please she did. She had black jeans that were so snug they had to be fitted and tiny black pumps with just a little too much heel to be called comfortable. Her top was a clingy knit jersey and black to match with a mock turtle neck that set off her slender neck. Her jacket was dark blood red and made of some type of embroidered material that looked expensive. Her accessories were jangling everywhere- a formidable necklace, a sparkly watch, bracelets swallowing both wrists- and they all had the look of items that fell off a truck but did nothing to distract me from her dream of a face and the tight, tasty swells of her body.
Then she took her seat across from the relative harmlessness of me and I got an even better look.
Her skin was a wonder of pale perfection. Like her namesake her bone structure was so fine, so carefully chiseled that its porcelain delicacy cautioned you to handle it with great care should you be lucky enough to get the chance. Perhaps it was touched by foundation but it was the type of undetectable make-up that must've taken a long time and lots of practice to perfect. And she'd perfected it.
And, perhaps as a nod to her fashion doppelganger, she planted a pair of large, black oval Chanel shades across her delicate features to lend her an impervious air of inscrutability and otherwise hide her eyes from her public.
Her dark black hair was pulled back tight, however, into a careless ponytail that at once accented her striking beauty and also revealed a certain calculated maturity to her girlish facade that said-
I've seen it all so...don't be too afraid to approach...I won't bite...
The lips were a plump, generous slash of dark red with the mouth just on this side of business, which is what it announced with a sphinx-like serenity that offered exactly zero answers to her mysteries.
But the body...
That was around the way and bulging with bedroom definitions and promises, promises.
The curves said-
Come closer...I'm ready to ride...
Then she whipped her baubled, bejeweled phone out from her purse, tapped it a few times and, seemingly dissatisfied with the news, stowed it away as if bored by the results.
I dove eagerly into my game as my eyes pored over this portrait of feminine perfection that defied explanation even as that body trumpeted its arrival.
How old was she?
She could've been 25 (and certainly no less) or she could've been 35 and glowing with a studied, cultured, carefully nurtured loveliness that was rooted in heavenly genetics and hard won aesthetics. Or maybe she was just a snaky vampiress from across some ocean carefully slithering through our daytime underground but too well nourished to pick any of us hoi polloi as her prey. At the moment...
Married?
No (and no rings), but well cared for by someone as she perhaps had expected to be since the very first time she realized her power to enthrall, to captivate, to pull men's eyes to her with only her most minimal effort required. Or maybe just a tiny bit of pale flesh flashed if she wasn't up to the minimum effort.
With children?
Absolutely not. Her attentions were undivided and the casual but careful selections of her presentation hinted that she had plenty of time to think and plan and play with her looks without any needless interference or selfish distractions.
What did she do?
A tough one.
At this time of weekday she was obviously no 9-5er yet her wardrobe suggested she'd planned her effect even for such a joyless commuter journey as the one we were both currently sharing. Too petite for a model and too self-possessed for an actress, the Arts did not appear to be her thing and/or maybe her ego wouldn't allow it anyway.
Student?
No.
This chill goddess was damn sure of where she was going and seemed damn positive she was well on her way despite any present circumstances.
GF/Mistress?
Maybe.
She had the well-cared for sheen of a woman who knows exactly how to butter her own bread- but never has to pay for the butter- and if she was a mistress then her Daddy was a Player and he was keeping her mostly comfortable and mostly content. Mostly.
But, I thought, maybe she's just an extraordinarily striking, if uncommonly common, single Italian Princess on her way back to her family's five-bedroom, three-and-a-half bath, slapped together McMansion in Dyker Heights loaded with faux columns and littered with security cameras in every cranny. Maybe the subway was just her slummy getaway to check on how all the peons are forced to travel only until Daddy either fixed her car or bought her a new one.
Maybe she was just doing us all a favor...
But 86th flew past and we were both heading to the end of the line so I fiddled with my focus while she sat as still as an ivory sculpture come to breathing life.
She popped up first at the last stop and I took my time re-strapping my body into my baggage then positioning myself for optimum viewing pleasure. It was a view.
She had the type of tight, taut apple-shaped ass that was juicyripe but not ample in any way. The gentle curves suggested it was packing just the proper amount of generous jiggle, however, if you could only get past the jeans. This was the light at the end of my tunnel as I followed it out to the stairs then the street with my eyes wide and my mouth shut, I hoped.
Gymnast?
Maybe years ago before those curves sprouted but those years were gone and the curves were a luxurious replacement.
No...
The delicate but precise balance and power of her graceful, unhurried stride said- Dancer- and the message was a heart aching one to witness. What type of dance I didn't know but she flowed through the grime and into the sunlight while I galumphed behind her loaded down with a new kind of weight.
Then as we both hit the air with her heading South and me North, she paused and plucked her phone from her purse as I made a show of re-adjusting my bags while stealing my final look.
The call must've went through and she replied in a language I didn't understand, something Slavic (maybe Czech or Polish or even Russian) but her voice, which was as fine a lilt as you could've hoped to match to her form, was on the border of reproach, not a bark exactly...but she was not entirely happy with the other end of the line either.
So she was maybe a Princess of her own brand but not the Italian variety, that was for sure and she was no shrinking violet either.
Then her voice rose in intensity even as the sound faded and she danced away down the street to her GF/Mistress options which, I imagined, were always in negotiation.
I trudged back to my cave obligations, everything set in stone.
Shall we dance?
Not this time...
Next Time- A Hip-Hop, K-Pop B-Girl
Monday, February 23, 2015
A Vision from the Past (the new LoML* rides the "N")
It was summer and about as perfect as NYC days get by any measure.
The cottony cloud dappled blue sky was buffed by sunshine that felt like a kiss, the temp was hovering in the low 80's with just the proper amount of cool breeze to lift you along so you could go all day then hit the night running and I had business across the bridge that was waiting for my arrival. The business was a lunchtime meeting at the Plaza, that grand old lady of a hotel just across the street from the Park, and when I popped free from the "N" on 5th, I emerged to sidewalks that could barely contain all the life that was buzzing from anywhere you wanted to spin your eyeballs. It was a carnival of summertime splendor in the City.
But I was on a mission.
And, quite unusually for me, I was dressed to represent.
Although I'd never been, I knew the Plaza was posh and upon arrival it did not disappoint so I was extra especially glad that I'd prudently donned my finest rags which consisted of a cleaned/pressed jacket, my finest slacks, fave fitted Tee and my highest-end Nike's for as much subway running style as I could muster on my own. The open invitation of Central Park South beckoned but I kept my eyes peeled and made a beeline to the meeting. She was a Lady and everything went smooth with her picking up the check at the end. Aces.
It was after this brush up against how-the-other-half-lives, and still pumped from the high, that I tracked back to the "N" to make my way home to a Brooklyn where maybe I fit in just a little bit more naturally, all things considered.
I was practically snapping my fingers and humming Sinatra when the packed train pulled in just after 4 and I piled into the party.
And there she sat.
She was perched in the last two seats at my end of the car, next to an elderly Grandma with shopping bags planted between her thick ankles, but She was facing everyone, looking at no one and certainly not at me. That Girl-who-used-to-be-mine hit me hard.
"A-Nee..."
This was a pet name I'd had of my former LoML- now long lost to the very distant past- and I think I almost said it out loud when I saw her sitting there, poised and indifferent to my breathless alarm.
Yea, she looked so much like my long-lost that I momentarily and involuntarily froze, chest clutching hard, before I caught myself.
But, of course, this One was young.
She was- in her flesh- so fresh, distinct and unique from my memory that I was forced to recover my senses. This One beamed juicy youth and sultry sex without any effort at all inside that most bracing of tawdry settings for any jewel like her. We were both surrounded, hemmed in by the borough's finest go-getters busy playing with their phones, ignoring each other and making the world go 'round but She just perched there serenely; a slender, dark diamond sparkling in the middle of the trashy, babbling brook.
Me, I snaked through the throng and positioned myself on the pole next to her seat for a closer view, sipping her up and savoring.
Did I say slender?
She was a wisp.
A feathery flame of a girl that still glowed with the embers of her heedless youthful beauty, waiting patiently for someone to blow gently on the coals. And she was dressed coal black from her spindly ankles to her swan of a neck, topped by raven black hair that tumbled carelessly over her slight shoulders, a crown of silk.
Her summer outfit for the day was black sweat pants and a black tee with black flip-flops that looked like they cost more than the iPad in the bag I had slung over my shoulder. In fact her entire go-to-hell look melted into the background and was barely noticeable unless you were paying close attention and I was. Everything about her shockingly spare gear screamed money but you had to look very, very closely to see it. The only outward sign of ostentation was the Michael Kors leather handbag (black, natch) that she was holding on her lap with the Macy's store tags still attached. She seemed quite interested in it and was examining it as carefully as any girl looking into a mirror might just before she heads out for a big night.
Did I mention the flip-flops?
Because they were the only things attached to the slenderest, tenderest, most exquisitely shaped feet and toes that I had, finally, ever saw in all my decades of close observation. Her pedicure was perfect and precise without any color or adornment and those puppies sure didn't need any. The nude insouciance of her display was a dare, it had to be, and it was a hint of the rest of her pale flesh that had me salivating in spite of myself. Her slim legs were crossed at the knees and her left foot bounced up and then down, like a luscious lure bobbing along the subway stream with the hook hidden just beneath the placid surface.
Her legs were long but their shape was covered with only the clue of her sinewy arms to match them to as my mind spun pictures of her body without the burden of her commuter disguise.
Her waist was a wonder of taut tight that I only wanted to wrap my arms around then squeeze.
Her breasts were peaches poking from her blousey tee with just a touch of sharpness jutting out to suggest the delight of her nipples. No bra needed, none wanted.
Her fine hands matched her feet with long, long fingers spidering all over her bag as I imagined how they'd feel doing the same to my skin.
And her face...
Her face was cast for kissing tenderly even as her body was ready for ravaging.
It was the face of a young woman who knew more than perhaps she'd ever wanted to but was resigned to her knowledge and confident of her mastery over every shred of it that mattered. Whatever her gig was, it was no 9-5 (student/model/escort maybe?) and she quite clearly felt no need to make any impressions when snagging designer handbags so self-confidence did not appear to be an issue.
Her eyes were black to match her outfit and the only part that displayed traces of any vanity, lined as they were to accent her feline prowess. Her lips were full, bare, lush and on the edge of angry, suggesting a mouth that could drop you to the floor if you misstepped or that would lift you off the bed if you stroked her just right.
Her nose was the asymmetrical imperfection that made her so much more than perfect.
It was Sofia C, it was Streisand, it was Cleopatra and it was all woman bursting out from the ordinary to tease you with promises that were very, very real. It burnished her beauty and wounded your heart with a love that pulled hard, daring you to kiss her and prove it all no matter what.
Me? I was gripping that pole to keep from jumping.
Then, the stop before we crossed the bridge, the elderly grandmother sitting next to her got up and headed for the door, bags in tow. I did not hesitate, slipping smoothly into the only remaining seat on the train.
Next.
To.
Her.
Her clean fragrance was all her and so subtle I had to silently breathe, deeply, just to detect it. The rocking hips that erupted from her tiny waist were so narrow our bodies weren't even close to contact. And her chin did not turn, her cat-eyes did not regard my presence at all as I copped my spot next to her and rapidly checked myself.
After a rundown I had to face the uncomfortable facts- This was about as clean as I was ever going to get and certainly as presentable as I might casually manage and so I knew it was now or never. I practiced a few cleansing breaths then turned my gaze in her direction, playing it off as if I was checking the car for evil-doers or about to fight some crime.
She was the type of beautiful that gets better the closer you look. And her bouquet of prime skin was the invitation that let you know you could never get close enough even if you had a microscope and years to sample it. I eyed her all the way up and all the way down as coolly as I possibly could as her bare, dangling toes kept that sandal bouncing, the only discernible clue to an inner rhythm that was swirling with storms.
SAY SOMETHING F**KHEAD...QUICK!- screamed through my ears but my brain was scrambled and my mouth paralyzed.
Hell...I was old enough to be her father even if her demeanor as she sat there gave every indication that she knew more than I ever would. It was a casual part of her everyday wardrobe. Maybe she was 25, maybe 27. Maybe she was 21 going on 41; I just couldn't tell as I struggled to raise some cool from inside me to little avail.
We hit the tunnel and my stop at 59th was coming up fast, I knew it and I'd have to step to her quickly if I was to ever know her or see her again.
TALK TO HER!
SAY SOMETHING!
SAY ANYTHING!
I furiously flipped through a litany of lines that might break the ice between us as she very calmly continued to display absolutely zero acknowledgement of my existence and the train kept barreling on. I briefly considered simply getting off with her, wherever that might be, then pressing my suit after we both hit the street but quickly abandoned that idea as borderline stalkerish and almost certain to rub her all wrong.
36th...45th...NEXT STOP ME!
Hell with it, I decided- I'll just ask her for fake directions and take it from there.
I turned to face her and deal my corny cards...and she was asleep.
Or maybe just pretending to be.
Maybe she'd somehow felt the pressure of me sweating her youth and beauty and so judiciously decided to cut me off at my pass before we both were forced to suffer through a socially painful moment that could just as easily be avoided. One she'd doubtlessly had to tolerate more often than I could possibly imagine in my boyishly ancient excitement.
And maybe I was the ugly kid from nowhere, his nose pressed to the glass with no money in his pockets and no prospects in his limited future, bug-eyed and starving for some.
Of course she looked even more delectable than before and sinfully sweeter as her lips parted ever so slightly from the effects of her subway slumber, revealing the mere suggestion of an overbite that somehow worked to enhance rather than detract from her sensual allure.
Well, now I'd have to wake her up to hit on her and even I knew that couldn't possibly be a good idea...
So where was I going anyway?
Next stop- 59th...transfer to the blahblahblahblahblah....
Train stopped, doors popped, I got off and looked back through the car window as she slumbered on, clutching her big girl bag and rolling into her definite future that did not include me and never would.
Goodbye beautiful and here's to a hundred next times...
But she sure was something to sit next to anyway.
*LoML (Love of My Life)
Next Up- Audrey Hepburn with Curves
It was summer and about as perfect as NYC days get by any measure.
The cottony cloud dappled blue sky was buffed by sunshine that felt like a kiss, the temp was hovering in the low 80's with just the proper amount of cool breeze to lift you along so you could go all day then hit the night running and I had business across the bridge that was waiting for my arrival. The business was a lunchtime meeting at the Plaza, that grand old lady of a hotel just across the street from the Park, and when I popped free from the "N" on 5th, I emerged to sidewalks that could barely contain all the life that was buzzing from anywhere you wanted to spin your eyeballs. It was a carnival of summertime splendor in the City.
But I was on a mission.
And, quite unusually for me, I was dressed to represent.
Although I'd never been, I knew the Plaza was posh and upon arrival it did not disappoint so I was extra especially glad that I'd prudently donned my finest rags which consisted of a cleaned/pressed jacket, my finest slacks, fave fitted Tee and my highest-end Nike's for as much subway running style as I could muster on my own. The open invitation of Central Park South beckoned but I kept my eyes peeled and made a beeline to the meeting. She was a Lady and everything went smooth with her picking up the check at the end. Aces.
It was after this brush up against how-the-other-half-lives, and still pumped from the high, that I tracked back to the "N" to make my way home to a Brooklyn where maybe I fit in just a little bit more naturally, all things considered.
I was practically snapping my fingers and humming Sinatra when the packed train pulled in just after 4 and I piled into the party.
And there she sat.
She was perched in the last two seats at my end of the car, next to an elderly Grandma with shopping bags planted between her thick ankles, but She was facing everyone, looking at no one and certainly not at me. That Girl-who-used-to-be-mine hit me hard.
"A-Nee..."
This was a pet name I'd had of my former LoML- now long lost to the very distant past- and I think I almost said it out loud when I saw her sitting there, poised and indifferent to my breathless alarm.
Yea, she looked so much like my long-lost that I momentarily and involuntarily froze, chest clutching hard, before I caught myself.
But, of course, this One was young.
She was- in her flesh- so fresh, distinct and unique from my memory that I was forced to recover my senses. This One beamed juicy youth and sultry sex without any effort at all inside that most bracing of tawdry settings for any jewel like her. We were both surrounded, hemmed in by the borough's finest go-getters busy playing with their phones, ignoring each other and making the world go 'round but She just perched there serenely; a slender, dark diamond sparkling in the middle of the trashy, babbling brook.
Me, I snaked through the throng and positioned myself on the pole next to her seat for a closer view, sipping her up and savoring.
Did I say slender?
She was a wisp.
A feathery flame of a girl that still glowed with the embers of her heedless youthful beauty, waiting patiently for someone to blow gently on the coals. And she was dressed coal black from her spindly ankles to her swan of a neck, topped by raven black hair that tumbled carelessly over her slight shoulders, a crown of silk.
Her summer outfit for the day was black sweat pants and a black tee with black flip-flops that looked like they cost more than the iPad in the bag I had slung over my shoulder. In fact her entire go-to-hell look melted into the background and was barely noticeable unless you were paying close attention and I was. Everything about her shockingly spare gear screamed money but you had to look very, very closely to see it. The only outward sign of ostentation was the Michael Kors leather handbag (black, natch) that she was holding on her lap with the Macy's store tags still attached. She seemed quite interested in it and was examining it as carefully as any girl looking into a mirror might just before she heads out for a big night.
Did I mention the flip-flops?
Because they were the only things attached to the slenderest, tenderest, most exquisitely shaped feet and toes that I had, finally, ever saw in all my decades of close observation. Her pedicure was perfect and precise without any color or adornment and those puppies sure didn't need any. The nude insouciance of her display was a dare, it had to be, and it was a hint of the rest of her pale flesh that had me salivating in spite of myself. Her slim legs were crossed at the knees and her left foot bounced up and then down, like a luscious lure bobbing along the subway stream with the hook hidden just beneath the placid surface.
Her legs were long but their shape was covered with only the clue of her sinewy arms to match them to as my mind spun pictures of her body without the burden of her commuter disguise.
Her waist was a wonder of taut tight that I only wanted to wrap my arms around then squeeze.
Her breasts were peaches poking from her blousey tee with just a touch of sharpness jutting out to suggest the delight of her nipples. No bra needed, none wanted.
Her fine hands matched her feet with long, long fingers spidering all over her bag as I imagined how they'd feel doing the same to my skin.
And her face...
Her face was cast for kissing tenderly even as her body was ready for ravaging.
It was the face of a young woman who knew more than perhaps she'd ever wanted to but was resigned to her knowledge and confident of her mastery over every shred of it that mattered. Whatever her gig was, it was no 9-5 (student/model/escort maybe?) and she quite clearly felt no need to make any impressions when snagging designer handbags so self-confidence did not appear to be an issue.
Her eyes were black to match her outfit and the only part that displayed traces of any vanity, lined as they were to accent her feline prowess. Her lips were full, bare, lush and on the edge of angry, suggesting a mouth that could drop you to the floor if you misstepped or that would lift you off the bed if you stroked her just right.
Her nose was the asymmetrical imperfection that made her so much more than perfect.
It was Sofia C, it was Streisand, it was Cleopatra and it was all woman bursting out from the ordinary to tease you with promises that were very, very real. It burnished her beauty and wounded your heart with a love that pulled hard, daring you to kiss her and prove it all no matter what.
Me? I was gripping that pole to keep from jumping.
Then, the stop before we crossed the bridge, the elderly grandmother sitting next to her got up and headed for the door, bags in tow. I did not hesitate, slipping smoothly into the only remaining seat on the train.
Next.
To.
Her.
Her clean fragrance was all her and so subtle I had to silently breathe, deeply, just to detect it. The rocking hips that erupted from her tiny waist were so narrow our bodies weren't even close to contact. And her chin did not turn, her cat-eyes did not regard my presence at all as I copped my spot next to her and rapidly checked myself.
After a rundown I had to face the uncomfortable facts- This was about as clean as I was ever going to get and certainly as presentable as I might casually manage and so I knew it was now or never. I practiced a few cleansing breaths then turned my gaze in her direction, playing it off as if I was checking the car for evil-doers or about to fight some crime.
She was the type of beautiful that gets better the closer you look. And her bouquet of prime skin was the invitation that let you know you could never get close enough even if you had a microscope and years to sample it. I eyed her all the way up and all the way down as coolly as I possibly could as her bare, dangling toes kept that sandal bouncing, the only discernible clue to an inner rhythm that was swirling with storms.
SAY SOMETHING F**KHEAD...QUICK!- screamed through my ears but my brain was scrambled and my mouth paralyzed.
Hell...I was old enough to be her father even if her demeanor as she sat there gave every indication that she knew more than I ever would. It was a casual part of her everyday wardrobe. Maybe she was 25, maybe 27. Maybe she was 21 going on 41; I just couldn't tell as I struggled to raise some cool from inside me to little avail.
We hit the tunnel and my stop at 59th was coming up fast, I knew it and I'd have to step to her quickly if I was to ever know her or see her again.
TALK TO HER!
SAY SOMETHING!
SAY ANYTHING!
I furiously flipped through a litany of lines that might break the ice between us as she very calmly continued to display absolutely zero acknowledgement of my existence and the train kept barreling on. I briefly considered simply getting off with her, wherever that might be, then pressing my suit after we both hit the street but quickly abandoned that idea as borderline stalkerish and almost certain to rub her all wrong.
36th...45th...NEXT STOP ME!
Hell with it, I decided- I'll just ask her for fake directions and take it from there.
I turned to face her and deal my corny cards...and she was asleep.
Or maybe just pretending to be.
Maybe she'd somehow felt the pressure of me sweating her youth and beauty and so judiciously decided to cut me off at my pass before we both were forced to suffer through a socially painful moment that could just as easily be avoided. One she'd doubtlessly had to tolerate more often than I could possibly imagine in my boyishly ancient excitement.
And maybe I was the ugly kid from nowhere, his nose pressed to the glass with no money in his pockets and no prospects in his limited future, bug-eyed and starving for some.
Of course she looked even more delectable than before and sinfully sweeter as her lips parted ever so slightly from the effects of her subway slumber, revealing the mere suggestion of an overbite that somehow worked to enhance rather than detract from her sensual allure.
Well, now I'd have to wake her up to hit on her and even I knew that couldn't possibly be a good idea...
So where was I going anyway?
Next stop- 59th...transfer to the blahblahblahblahblah....
Train stopped, doors popped, I got off and looked back through the car window as she slumbered on, clutching her big girl bag and rolling into her definite future that did not include me and never would.
Goodbye beautiful and here's to a hundred next times...
But she sure was something to sit next to anyway.
*LoML (Love of My Life)
Next Up- Audrey Hepburn with Curves
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Every Day I Fall in Love- In Praise of NYC Subway Girls
Brooklyn is the place I call home for now but, like so many of my neighbors, I wasn't born here.
The attractions of this particular borough-and all the others including the "City" across our Bridge- are evident. It's a constant blast of frenetic energy that sucks me in, swirls me around then usually spits me out even as it nonchalantly sustains me. Usually I'm purged from the controlled chaos just as I'm somewhere near ready to drop my dusty needle on a groove that's been worn to a sinuous rail with the shiny seduction of light blazing at the end of all its sticky darkness.
Been that way for years now and I don't get tired of it.
Ever.
Now there's plenty of reasons I don't mind the pace or the purge but the first time I bailed into the tunnel to grab the train, the righteous evidence was kaliediscoping all around me no matter which direction I turned and absolutely everywhere I looked. All while I did my level best not to gawk like some seedy perv let loose from his hothouse pen. Yes, inside that stale, choked-out air and those dank, grubby tunnels sweat-sealed by a non-stop, turnstiled jailbreak rush to our ratholes, there bloomed a fresh, fertile bounty of beauty more than fit for man or beast.
As a new recruit I had hungry eyes grateful for the revolving display of shameless poise and regardless invitation. I still do.
Because to take any train at anytime in this most American of all cities is to purchase a two-and-one-half dollar ticket to a glorious Gotham brimming to overload with a saucy, sultry, stylish, sophisticated and always, always juicy brand of the form feminine that is at once striking in its singularity as it is impossible to ignore in its distinctive urbanity.
For the unfortunate uninitiated, suffice to say- NYC Girls maintain a unique sensual snap that straightens you up like a drill sergeant's command even as they gracefully mingle it all with a flavor that's absolutely been brewed to savor.
Now what's your particular tasty taste?
Just take any subway line to anywhere and I will guarantee that you'll be blessed with a vision from those very particular dreams, no matter what your particular appetite happens to be at any real moment in your desperately daily life.
But while she may match some salacious fantasy from your most sophisticated daydream, nightdream or wetdream, that vision of a feminine force will strut straight into your sight with a raw confidence that's been so polished to perfection it will undoubtedly rock you back on your heels as you catch your breath and struggle for cool. Maybe for minute or more. Maybe forever.
She's real, she's right there and all bets are On.
And she's so beautiful it's hurts more than a little but never ever too much and I mean you feel it in your chest like some some goofy Greek God of fleshy cornucopia just crept up behind you and bear-hugged you for a sec- just for a gag, just for a giggle- whispering in your ear and daring you to take a step in the exact direction you've really been waiting to travel as all the grimy grind goes on around you with your life's clock ticking away. Yet she's no joke as this Gotham Goddess sways or swaggers or maybe saunters or slinks, gliding her effortless way to the genesis of all that you were meant to become as a man.
If you've got the moxie. If you got Game.
Why the Subway maybe you ain't asking?
Call it a collection, a compression, a curation, a prole distillation of all the wild, wicked, free-ranging sexy that's buzzing through this endlessly connected NYC beehive network of crackling short-circuits, miserable misfires and volcanic feedback that's ever ready to blow yet forever shot through with these gorgeous flashes, these sensual splashes of a purity that's always bubbling just above the funked-up fray- These MTA dynamo divas so seriously styled for their mystery missions and absolutely primed to launch.
Yet we, the dull denizens lit up by their generous glow, are the ones who get to achieve lift off.
We are the lucky ones.
In shorter- Beautiful women are freely roaming this 24/7 underground landscape, everywhere and always here and it couldn't be more real if it smacked me in the face. Hallelujah and I'm welcome.
I'm alive and the invigorating taste of sweetest life itself is bursting out from every subterranean crack, corner, nook and cranny. This is a gift and it is so much better than good.
These words of humble gratitude are my sincere celebration of them all,
$2.50?
Deal.
Next up- This Week's Subway Girl
The attractions of this particular borough-and all the others including the "City" across our Bridge- are evident. It's a constant blast of frenetic energy that sucks me in, swirls me around then usually spits me out even as it nonchalantly sustains me. Usually I'm purged from the controlled chaos just as I'm somewhere near ready to drop my dusty needle on a groove that's been worn to a sinuous rail with the shiny seduction of light blazing at the end of all its sticky darkness.
Been that way for years now and I don't get tired of it.
Ever.
Now there's plenty of reasons I don't mind the pace or the purge but the first time I bailed into the tunnel to grab the train, the righteous evidence was kaliediscoping all around me no matter which direction I turned and absolutely everywhere I looked. All while I did my level best not to gawk like some seedy perv let loose from his hothouse pen. Yes, inside that stale, choked-out air and those dank, grubby tunnels sweat-sealed by a non-stop, turnstiled jailbreak rush to our ratholes, there bloomed a fresh, fertile bounty of beauty more than fit for man or beast.
As a new recruit I had hungry eyes grateful for the revolving display of shameless poise and regardless invitation. I still do.
Because to take any train at anytime in this most American of all cities is to purchase a two-and-one-half dollar ticket to a glorious Gotham brimming to overload with a saucy, sultry, stylish, sophisticated and always, always juicy brand of the form feminine that is at once striking in its singularity as it is impossible to ignore in its distinctive urbanity.
For the unfortunate uninitiated, suffice to say- NYC Girls maintain a unique sensual snap that straightens you up like a drill sergeant's command even as they gracefully mingle it all with a flavor that's absolutely been brewed to savor.
Now what's your particular tasty taste?
Just take any subway line to anywhere and I will guarantee that you'll be blessed with a vision from those very particular dreams, no matter what your particular appetite happens to be at any real moment in your desperately daily life.
But while she may match some salacious fantasy from your most sophisticated daydream, nightdream or wetdream, that vision of a feminine force will strut straight into your sight with a raw confidence that's been so polished to perfection it will undoubtedly rock you back on your heels as you catch your breath and struggle for cool. Maybe for minute or more. Maybe forever.
She's real, she's right there and all bets are On.
And she's so beautiful it's hurts more than a little but never ever too much and I mean you feel it in your chest like some some goofy Greek God of fleshy cornucopia just crept up behind you and bear-hugged you for a sec- just for a gag, just for a giggle- whispering in your ear and daring you to take a step in the exact direction you've really been waiting to travel as all the grimy grind goes on around you with your life's clock ticking away. Yet she's no joke as this Gotham Goddess sways or swaggers or maybe saunters or slinks, gliding her effortless way to the genesis of all that you were meant to become as a man.
If you've got the moxie. If you got Game.
Why the Subway maybe you ain't asking?
Call it a collection, a compression, a curation, a prole distillation of all the wild, wicked, free-ranging sexy that's buzzing through this endlessly connected NYC beehive network of crackling short-circuits, miserable misfires and volcanic feedback that's ever ready to blow yet forever shot through with these gorgeous flashes, these sensual splashes of a purity that's always bubbling just above the funked-up fray- These MTA dynamo divas so seriously styled for their mystery missions and absolutely primed to launch.
Yet we, the dull denizens lit up by their generous glow, are the ones who get to achieve lift off.
We are the lucky ones.
In shorter- Beautiful women are freely roaming this 24/7 underground landscape, everywhere and always here and it couldn't be more real if it smacked me in the face. Hallelujah and I'm welcome.
I'm alive and the invigorating taste of sweetest life itself is bursting out from every subterranean crack, corner, nook and cranny. This is a gift and it is so much better than good.
These words of humble gratitude are my sincere celebration of them all,
$2.50?
Deal.
Next up- This Week's Subway Girl
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