The Handsome Young Man on the Train
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I board the train and find an empty row: two aisle seats and two window seats. I take the window seat on the right, pull out my book and plan to read for an hour while the train takes me homeward.
Just before departure I watch as a boy -- a young man-- walks down the aisle toward me, walking with a grace almost feline. He sits in the window seat opposite, takes out his phone and holds it in front of him, looking as if he's browsing the phone book or playing a game. Because his attention is on the phone I'm able to look toward him, feigning looking out the window opposite but my gaze resting directly on him.
I would guess he's 22 and he looks to be about 5'10". He's wearing his denim jeans so low it's NC-17. The pants are loose but not baggy, and are held up with a wide black leather belt. On his feet are well-worn Sketcher-type sneakers. His T-shirt is camel colored, well-fitting enough to trace his torso without being obvious about it. His dark brown hair -- almost black but not with conviction-- is short enough not to cover his ears but still long enough for the bedhead style he wears. He has a youthful 5:00 shadow, the hairs too few in number and too fine in quality to be middle-aged. On his right wrist is a wide brown leather wristband.
As he toys with the phone and my eyes toy with him I'm intimidated by the dark sunglasses he's wearing. I can't see his eyes. Is he really looking at the phone or is he watching me watching him? I'm too shy to be forward with him so I return to reading my book. No, that's not right. I return to staring at the pages of my book, my focus on my peripheral vision.
The train departs.
I try to read, but after every few sentences my eyes are drawn in his direction: to his youth, to his beauty, to his grace. He doesn't have the bearing of someone who knows how beautiful he is, of what effect he has on people. He has a lack of self-consciousness that's magnetic.
The train rolls on. He leans forward a bit to stare out the window. As he does, his shirt rides up, revealing a portion of torso between his pants and his shirt. I study every square inch of the body he's unwittingly offered to me. His torso is lean and tight, with no rolls above his pant waist. His stomach is flat and hard. Through his shirt I can see the outlines of his chest and notice his musculature as I trace each pec with my eyes, following the lower edges from the center of his chest outward and upward toward his shoulders, then my eyes continue to his arms. As his arms come out of the shirtsleeves I study his biceps and notice the proportion between his arms, chest and stomach.
His body isn't the product of a gym, it's the product of active use. With the grace he showed walking down the aisle and the development of his muscles, it's easy to imagine that he's mastered every board sport available: surf_, body_, snow_, skate_, skim_, and who knows what else. I imagine him in the surf, having just ridden a wave, walking out of the water, board under his arm, his body glistening as the sun reflects off his wet skin and matted hair, a smile on his face, a look of accomplished satisfaction in his eyes as he marvels at what his body has just let him do.
He adjusts himself into the corner formed by the seatback and the window and raises the armrest between the seats. He places his right leg, the one toward me, on the seat and bends his knee; his left leg stays on the floor. Each arm is resting on its respective thigh as he drops his head a bit and tries to nap. I can't help but notice his hands framing his spread crotch. If he had wanted to choose a position to afford me maximum enjoyment he couldn't have chosen a better one.
I alternate between my book and his body, knowing I am being obvious but trying not to be *too* obvious. I still can't see his eyes. Is he really napping? Had he wanted to he could be watching me watching him.
Fifteen minutes out the train slows to a stop halfway to the next station. The conductor announces there's a switch problem ahead that will take a few minutes to clear. I look at my beautiful subject, napping away. With all train motion stilled I'm able to notice his chest expanding with each inhalation and returning with each exhalation. Expand, return, expand, return. His shoulders rise a bit with each expansion. Rise, fall, rise, fall. Expand, return, expand, return. His body in motion, for me. I'm transfixed. I'm the deer: his body the headlights. I don't care if he's noticing me through his glasses, I have to look. I cannot turn away. Minutes pass and I continue to be obsessed with him and the motion of his breathing. Sitting in my window seat watching him in his, I become aroused. As the minutes pass I invest more and more into him, projecting every fantasy onto him. My gaze alternates between his heaving chest and his open crotch, with occasional glances to his arms. In my mind I play scenarios of me walking over, undressing him, caressing him, bathing him with my tongue, kissing every square inch of him, finally nuzzling into his crotch, smelling his masculinity, tasting his saltiness, taking him into my mouth, feeling the completion of my being in the consumption of his.
As get more aroused, I play the next scenario in which he enters me from behind, filling me, giving himself to me as I eagerly accept him and his offering. Then we switch. He lays on his back across the seats, throws up his legs and offers himself to me. I assume my position, but stop just before entering him. I look deep into his eyes, at his waiting hole, at his throbbing member, his flat stomach, his heaving chest, his erect nipples, then back into his limitless eyes. I realize in that moment I'm looking into the face of god; that it isn't a fuck, it's a communion; that I will offer myself to him totally, and in so doing receive in return his total self; that it's the death and resurrection myth in one act; it's redemption made flesh. All this goes through my mind as I watch him sleep.
The train starts moving again and I can no longer make out his breathing. I don't mind, because I've already completed the ritual and received my communion. Any more obsessing on him would only soil what has already taken place in my mind. I return to my book.
The train approaches my destination. I gather my belongings and rise from my seat. I take one last look at him before walking toward the exit. He's awakened and is looking out the window. He doesn't see me leave. I don't know he ever knew I was there. I had a total sexual and spiritual union with a man who likely doesn't know I exist. I don't mind in the least. I'm happy.
I exit the train and walk a few steps down the platform when I catch sight of my partner who's come to pick me up. We exchange dry pecks. "How was your trip?" he asks. "It was good," I reply.