Yesterday I was riding home on J and came to an epiphany. My natural male urges have become directly effected by my finely honed sense of correct public etiquette.
Let me explain, and by explain I mean start off with a mildly erotic, almost film noir description of the scene that I found myself in.
The city was hot that day, my friends. Like the ass of a black mule grazing in Texas under a hole in the ozone. At each stop the waiting crowd would elbow their way into a forceful exhaust of freon laced air and breathe a sigh of no longer constipated relief. There were hard nipples all over the place. Hard, happy nipples.
I hadn’t seen nipples that happy since battery clamp day at Shea Stadium.
At Delancey and Essex they strolled into my car. Three little women decked out in bikini tops and lilliputian patches of denim that possibly could have been described as skirts. It was doubtful that their combined age would have qualified them for AARP benefits, but that fact didn’t seem to bother the rest of the formerly sweaty, now sticky and soon to be hot again male population of the subway car.
They had those kind of bodies that make you think of bizarre euphemisms for erections. Pitching a tent, raising the flag, passing the reflex test at the love doctor. Stomachs exposed and flatter than Iowa after Tornado season, though I doubt anyone spent much time staring there. Racks to match, pants-hams round like soccer balls and sun-kissed, freckled cheeks were accompanied by the train lurch enhanced jiggle factor. Added to that a pair of lower back tattoos and every guy was hoping for a filming of Brooklyn Girls Gone Wild to break out over the bridge.
But then they started TALKING.
Good LORD were they fucking LOUD.
They were speaking in that rapid fire machine gun paced verbal diarrhea hose out the mouth style that only either the energy of being college aged and unburdened by the crippling weight of life or three massive lines of crystal meth can bring.
Even worse was that they spread out when they came into the train to maximize their overt volume abuse. One girl sat, one leaned against a door and the other wrapped herself around the hand-pole in such a way that it was impossible to think of anything BUT a stripper. But when she started blabbering on about the beach, some kid named Anthony and getting drunk on wine coolers all I could see was a 75 year old gossip hag (who was still in the skirt/bikini combo I might add, it was not cool).
They talked so haphazardly you could actually hear spelling errors.
Casual glances around the car might have, another quieter time, elicited the kind of knowing glance from another guy that symbolized that little male bond of checking out the same hot lady. This time the only thing being passed around were rolled eyes.
When they finally exited the train, no one followed them walking away as is the creepy male tradition. Instead, there was a collective sigh of relief. The moral of this story?
Wear headphones at all times and make sure your iPod is fully charged. At least then you can imagine that someone who’s loud and hot is singing back up to your favorite band.