The Game

See, the thing is I'm a sucker for a good happy hour. If you have colorful drinks with too many ingredients, served in frosted martini glasses, and then you make them half price, I will find a way to get there.

Even if it's in Queens.

I don't normally leave Manhattan unless it's a dire emergency, but my girl insisted I had to see this bar in Astoria, "sexy," she said, "velvet couches, classy artwork, yummy cocktails, dark. You'll love it." And she was right, except not-sexy in that we both left alone.

So now I'm on my way home from Queens at midnight on a Monday, waiting on the platform of the N train. My nipples have been hard all night and it's a long way to Brooklyn and I want someone to play my game. People who stay to play, people who lock my gaze and don't back down to my little power trip, my favorite way to start or end the day, those people are real city people. They earn my respect. They get me wet.

I spy you right away, leaning up against a lamp post near the end of the platform, reading... the Village Voice? Oh, ha, the Onion. This is fun already.

I start the game here, on the platform, though it's not fair since you don't know you're playing. You don't have music in your ears and you're not wearing a hat, your collar isn't popped up so you didn't just come from the Beer Garden, messenger bag but it doesn't seem to be concealing a laptop. The way you stand makes your hips jut out. Leading with your pelvis. Nice. Relaxed, but your own style. You would never shop at American Apparel and you never have never worn a trucker hat. Your shoes look European.

The train whooshes and grinds into the station. I let you get on first, you nab a seat at the end of a bench and I cozy up across from you, not that you notice. At the other end of the car sits a sad looking old lady with five woven plastic tote bags bursting at the seams, and a little kid who is way too young to be out this late. Two cars from the front, no conductor to bug us. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.

I can't help it, I jump in right away. Your hair is falling across your field of vision like it has nothing better to do and you're reading a fake newspaper like it's King Lear, but there are no fake military patches on your faded green jacket, you don't have a wallet chain, there's nothing about you that I can make fun of to a girlfriend later. The lines of your face are striking, your eyelashes are long enough to bother your bangs when you blink, and you are grinding your teeth just a little which makes your jaw quiver. I quiver too.

You're so stubborn! I toss my hair, I squirm, I cross and uncross my legs, which only makes me hotter. My nipples are so hard they hurt. Look up. Look up. Look!

You jerk. You're in for it now.

I reach up and trace my fingers around my collarbone, fiddle with my necklace. You blink. Your hair twitches. Your jaw pulses. Fuck you, look at me. I put on scented hand lotion. I dig through my purse. I pretend to look at my watch, even though I don't have one on. Nada.

I see how you are.

I slowly uncross my legs and slide forward on the blue plastic seat. Just slightly. You might not even notice that I'm not wearing underwear. If I stood up now, I'd leave a damp spot on the seat. The train stops at Broadway, the other people on the car beat their retreat, and we're alone. I make my next move, reaching into my blouse, sliding my fingers into my bra and . . . Yes! As if on cue, you look up with those sexy eyes.

Game on.

One eyebrow? That's all I get as I'm staring at you, my legs apart, lips apart, pinching my own nipple, you fold your paper and raise your eyebrow? You think I'm chicken? You don't know who you're up against, buster. I bite my lip at you. You smile, tilt your head to the side slightly, slide forward in your seat, and rest your hand squarely on your crotch. Time to double down.

I've got your eyes, but I can see that you're moving your hips to readjust and rubbing your crotch. My my, have you done this before? I lick my lips and slide my skirt up, feeling my slick cunt sliding on the MTA seat. It's fucking nasty, and I love it. I'm so hot and I've been squirming and my wetness has traveled all the way up my crack and the subway doors open and I can feel a little breeze on my butt.

You hold my gaze, and stroke yourself more intently. The doors close.

Right hand still on my nipple, I reach down with my left and stroke my thigh. You're hard already, god, I can see you straining through those cute pinstriped slacks. I smile just a little, because no matter how this ends, I win.

You are bold, aren't you, challenger? Still with your eyes on mine, you unzip your pinstripes slowly, carefully, shift your hips just so, and your cock is free. My hand wastes no more time on my thigh and I try to stroke myself slowly to put on a show, you've earned it haven't you, but I don't know how long I can be the pace car. My right hand abandons my breast to hold myself open for you so you can see everything, my everything, see how wet and wanting I am, ,see how red and throbbing my clit is, see how dirty I am touching myself on the train for you. Your stroke quickens, and I can see the first of your juices have risen to the top, gleaming on the head of your cock, making it look purple in this excellent MTA lighting.

You jack yourself intently as you stare me down. I'm grinding on my fingers, sliding on the seat, my chest up and down and up and down with my breath. I steal the quickest fleeting glimpse to really see your cock, and you go "HA!"

"Fuck you, 'Ha,' what do you mean by that?" You are on your feet in front of me, holding on to the subway pole with one hand and stroking your pole with the other, right in my face.

"I win, miss." I draw in my breath. That accent. I knew those shoes were European.

"Like hell..." I start, but with your cock in my face and that voice in my ear, my heart is no longer in the game. You offer your bulging erection to me like a gift, and reach down and push my hair behind my ear. We're at Queensboro Plaza, the subway doors open and close as you stroke your cock in my face, and the train speeds up. We're going under the river, and from the way you look at me you must also know we've got a couple of minutes here. In one very smooth move, you sit next to me and scoop me into your lap, I'm astride you, you nudge my opening just once, then you pull me down so hard and fast that I gasp.

Then, after you've plunged into my wet heat a couple of times, looking into my eyes, then you kiss me.

Your hands are on my ass, skin is slapping on skin, the roaring of the train drowning out our cries of "yes," and "fuck me," drowning out the noises escaping my throat, our panting, faster faster, your pubes on my clit, grinding harder harder, we rock and the train sways and somewhere under the East River I come so hard I'm amazed I don't pass out. You slap my leg frantically and push on my shoulder, waving me off, I dismount and watch as two strokes of your hand pushes you over the edge and your come splatters on a Gatorade advertisement. Take that, sports fans. I could use some fucking electrolytes right about now.

We're catching our breath, both sprawled on the seat, clothes and hair a mess, my come all over your pants, yours all over the wall, your hand sweetly on my face as I smile at you. The train slows to a stop at Lexington Ave and an older man on the platform glimpses us through the window before the doors open. I stare at him, he stares back, he shakes his head and looks away, and gets on the next car.

I win.