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is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002,
theGreatxIam

Subway series #6:
Private Dancer
By theGreatxIam

I was 25 when I got married. A virgin. For 15 years, I
never strayed. Not once. Why would I? I loved my wife.
She wasn't a classic beauty. We argued sometimes. But
she was there for me whenever I needed her. In good
times and in bad, just like the minister said. We
survived the early years together, the sadness when the
doctors said we could never have children. But we
shared the joy, too: the vacations out on the coast,
that little cabin on the lake.

I tell you this so maybe you'll understand how
heartbroken I was when the news came: My wife had
inoperable cancer. It was a few months that seemed like
seconds and she was gone. "Until death do you part," as
the minister said.

I was without solace. Oh, work filled up my days, but
the nights stretched on forever. Especially on
weekends, when sleep wouldn't come.

I tried reading books or watching TV, but I'd look
around the house and break into tears when I saw
something that reminded me of her. I had to get out, at
least for a little while. But where? I'm a shy person.
I wanted someplace where no one would talk to me. I
would not bare my soul to strangers, just as I had
never bared my body -- gosh, even through all the years
of my marriage I don't think my wife ever saw my body
completely uncovered; I always put the lights off
first.

A movie theater? Much too expensive these days. Walks
in the park? Too dangerous.

I began to ride the subways. One token and you can ride
all night, and in our city, as long as you look awake
and healthy you're fairly safe on the trains; the
muggers have plenty of other choices.

So I rode every Friday and Saturday, into the night. In
the early evenings it was its own form of torture,
trains filled with people rushing to or from parties or
whatever. The couples were the worst, smiling and
giggling in the corners, reminding me.

I brought books and used them as shields. Mark Twain
would keep me preoccupied until the crowds had gone and
it was just me and the night and the empty tunnels of
the subway.

Until that night.

It was a Saturday. I got a seat next to the door and
tried to hide behind my book, but the noise of the
crowd sometimes distracted me; snatches of
conversations, laughter. I looked up once and saw a
young couple kissing as they boarded, and I'm afraid I
cried a little.

As my eyes slid back to my book, I saw to my
embarrassment that someone had noticed me.

She was about 20, I'd guess. Tall, or at least taller
than me. A long oval face framed by a savage sweep of
streaked blonde hair that clung tightly to the sides of
head and then swept away just as it reached her
shoulders. A black leather jacket and tight black
leather pants over a dancer's body; strappy, shiny red
high heels.

She was looking right at me as I cried, sky blue eyes
piercing me. I was paralyzed for a second. She smiled,
bright white teeth glittering between glistening red
lips. I essayed a thin faltering smile in return, out
of habit more than anything else, and went back to the
safety of my book.

I got a couple of teardrops on page 218 of "Innocents
Abroad," one of my favorites.

I was so shaken by the relatively trivial contact I'd
had that I didn't look up from the pages for some time.
I know it sounds silly, but, as I said, I'm shy. My
wife and I met at a church function. It was actually
sort of an arranged thing; the pastor knew her well and
me slightly and put us together. Lord knows it took me
long enough to figure out what was going on and
actually ask her out on a date. I did make the actual
proposal of marriage eventually, but she was the
driver. Not in a harsh way, I mean; just that she was
the one who got us out of the house, the one who kept
up our friendships. On my own, I'd have done none of
that. As my behavior since her passing showed, I guess.

I thought about this and other things as we rode; I'd
read the book so many times before that my attention
could wander freely and come back easily to where I'd
left off.

When at last I looked up again, I was surprised. The
train was emptier now, new faces. But that woman was
still there, still sitting across from me. Still
looking at me.

I may have blushed a little. But that's all I did.

I returned to my book, but every so often I'd keep
peeking above it. Still there. The train ran to the end
of the line and back twice. It was empty now except for
her and me. Likely to remain that way, I knew, as it
pulled its way through the wee hours. What was her
story?

The only clue I could find in my furtive glances was a
small white circle on the ring finger of her left hand,
a circle about the size of the gold and diamond ring
she now wore on her right hand, nervously twisting it
every so often. A broken romance? A loss of her own? I
could only guess; I'd never ask.

Back to my book, but now I heard movement. As I looked
up, the woman was standing in the middle of the train,
long legs spread across the aisle. She stood just
behind the metal pole that ran floor to ceiling to give
standees something to cling to.

And then she clung to it. In what looked like a move
she'd practiced, the woman threw her right leg around
the pole and launched herself high with her left as her
arms encircled it. She reached almost the roof of the
train as her blonde hair flung out around her. A
moment's hesitation at the top, and then she spiraled
down the pole, arms and legs curled around it.

Her eyes, as they flashed across me, seemed slightly
glassy. She stared off into space and went through what
appeared to be a routine. I was mesmerized.

A long leg would be raised until almost perpendicular
with the floor, then slid back and forth across the
pole like a bow on a violin. Then raised impossibly
higher, heel hooked around the pole as she spun around
it.

She leaped like a gazelle and grabbed the pole at the
very top. Both legs pointed straight out, she spun down
slowly, bending her knees as she did and ending in a
squat, the pole between her legs.

I experienced feelings I hadn't had since... since my
wife passed. Feelings I had never expected to know
again, had in some sense never wanted again.

Rising from the floor, she kept the pole tight against
her. She caught my eye and seemed to snap out of her
daze.

As her left leg snaked around the pole now, she reached
back and removed her jacket. Leaning far back, she
swung around the pole holding it out behind her so it
brushed against my legs.

She let it slide to the floor and unbuttoned her red
silk blouse. One button at a time, slowly, now looking
right into my eyes.

Though the blouse was now completely unbuttoned she
left it on and it swirled around her as she twirled
around the pole. She stopped with her back to me.
Stepping back toward me, she bent forward. Then she
stepped toward the pole again her leather slacks began
to slid down. Clinging to the pole with both hands, she
spun around faster and faster and the pants fell into a
crumpled heap on the floor.

And all this time the train is going on, flashing in
and out of stations where no one waits.

Her blouse thrown away too, this mysterious woman wears
only a red lace bra and red lace panties above her
shiny red heels. Her moves become more suggestive now,
sweeping me up in their erotic appeal. I lick my lips
as I watch her.

Thrusting up and down the pole, swinging around with
wild abandon, the woman takes off her bra and tosses it
down the aisle. Her breasts are not large, but I am not
picky. They bring to mind, and to body, old feelings
long hidden. I gulp and undo the first button of my
shirt. She looks right at me, smiles and nods.

And now it's a race and I peel off my clothes until I
am naked and unashamed in the light, in the train. The
woman lets go of the pole and pirouettes to me. She
stands straight and tall above me. With fumbling but
eager fingers, I peel the panties down her long, smooth
legs. She steps out of them and kicks them away.

I rise and we immediately kiss. Her lips on my are
demanding. I respond. Moans escaping both of us, we
hungrily share our mouths and then our tongues. My
hands roam across her silky skin, old memories guiding
my actions but new ones pushing them out before they
can hurt.

Next thing I know we are on the bench seat, her beneath
me, legs wide and inviting. I take the invitation, my
rigid member piercing her wet opening easily, driving
in, in, deeper in one fast but gentle surge until I
feel her wetness completely surround me and her pussy
lips grasping at the base of my tool.

My face buried in her apricot-scented hair, my hands
digging for purchase on a subway seat quickly becoming
slick with our sweat, I plunge into the primal rhythm.

In and out and over and over we move in synchronized
sexual response. Her hands scratch and claw at my back
and loins, pulling me deeper inside her. At some point
I gave way and released my seed, I must have done, but
in the passion of the moment our drive continued and I
realized I was hard again.

Thinking as one we switch positions now, her above me,
holding my rod erect and then sliding down it, one leg
tucked underneath her wedged between me and bench, the
other laying straight along the seat, along my body.
She sits up straight, hands rubbing her breasts as she
bounces up and down on me.

Tentatively, then with increasing passion, I move my
hands to her globes, now slick with sweat. I squeeze
them in time with our lustful dance, then slid my hands
down to her waist to urge her on, but she needs no
urging.

At last I feel her body respond to the utmost,
paroxysms sending shudders through her as her shouts
echo off the metal walls of the empty train car.

When she is still again, we move to one of the regular
seats, her in my lap, and resume. Her nipples brush
against me and I lean forward and take them in my mouth
one by one, gently nipping them with my teeth, suckling
them like a baby, teasing them with my tongue. Once
more I feel the power of an orgasm shake her.

She rises and bends forward now, hands around the metal
pole. I enter her from behind, sliding in easily.
Slowly at first and then with increasing speed I thrust
into her, pistoning so fast now that I must hold onto
her waist with both hands faster faster yet in savage
lust driving into her yells shouts screams of sexual
joy as she responds to me skin slapping against skin
muscles aching train filling with our smell harder
harder her screams become higher-pitched her body
wracked by passion the "little death" they call it but
for us a new entry to life Yes she shouts Yes Yes Oh
God Yes crying shaking as an engine shakes at the peak
of its effort roaring with power Yes.

And her tremors subside. She sinks to her knees on the
rubber floor. But I am still unsated and she turns to
me, lips parting into an O. And I am inside her mouth,
her lips holding me in a firm grip sliding me in and
out in and out tension rising her tongue on the tip Oh
just like that she slides me out string of gooey liquid
stretching out from the tip of her tongue and she
licked him up and down up and Oh! so far down and
around and into her mouth again just the head tongue
swirling in out and now sliding in more more more All
In! plunging up down up down now now now... I groaned
and shuddered as I drained into her mouth, gush after
gush. She licked me clean.

I never saw her again. We never even spoke a word, I
realized later. I don't know her story. Don't even know
her name.

But something happened to me that night, something
beyond the physical. I go out now. No nights on the
subway. Unless I've got a place to go.