December 31st, 2004


The Platform

Brute had never seen a woman orgasm before, yet as he stood there in the subway, watching the woman hump the antique ticket machine, he was certain she was coming close.

Her damp, short hair stuck to her flushed face, red lips open, pink tongue darting out to taste the air. Her plaid skirt was short enough that, bent over as she was, her white underwear shone like a forbidden lighthouse. Brute could see the muscles in her thighs move, powerful strong legs trembling as she moaned and laughed sporadically.

People were staring, of course, and not staring, which was about the same. When he walked into this scene, Brute felt strange and uncomfortable, caught in a odd social cage: to leave would be to miss his train but to stay would mean that he would become a shameful witness to this womans public embarrassment.

She was loud, and someone on the platform grumbled and cursed. For the first time in his life, Brute wasn't the Freak of the scene. Of course, a few of the passengers gave him the usual looks, but nothing was quite as strange as this girls behavior. Brute tried not to smile, joyfully confirming in his connection, in discomfort, to the people on the platform.

He stole another glance as the woman and shook his head, delightedly sharing the thought: “why doesn’t the government do something with these Freaks” with exactly thirty-four other people. She was caressing the buttons on the machine as a female voice repeated: “Please complete your selection.” A public nuisance, thought Brute, and he looked at the frowning faces, the people who appeared to be totally engrossed by the train schedule, a map, or the floor. This woman was the exact opposite of Ms. Lilly, who would never hump anything. Brute blushed. Ms. Lilly never wore makeup, she was beautiful without, and she was a proper lady, modest and sweet.

The woman screamed, and Brute turned to see her punch the machine and fall on her knees, the contents of her tiny bag scattering.

"Slut." she muttered, picked up a silver tube and rolled red lipstick onto her panting, swollen mouth. Then she looked up, short black hair covering one half of her face, one great brown eye dilating as she saw, across the platform, Brute, staring in terrible wonder. She touched her breast.

“Hi.” She said, and smiled.
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