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

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