Uptown Train

This dude wedged up against me? He has three hats.

I’ve just squeezed onto an uptown train. It’s eight-thirty at night, but the express leaving from Union Square is packed. Wall-to-wall, every seat filled, every pole a totem of clenched fists. Grand Central is only one stop away, I think to myself, but even though the doors have closed, the train hasn’t yet left the station. This sardine-like excursion is going to take a good ten minutes. And the dude mere inches away is wearing three hats at once.

I know this because two of the three brims are in my face. I’m having to angle my jaw up and to the right, just to avoid them. I look at his short, muscular body, covered by a frayed old skin-tight t-shirt. Through the maze of backpacks and bodies I can see his expensive high-top sneakers, his tight sweatpants with the ankle elastic pulled up to his knees to expose bull calves. Tough little punk. He’s a tough little Latin shit with a beard . . . and three baseball caps, over which he’s got a pair of Beats over-the-ears headphones.

Are three caps a statement? Has every wanna-be street thug been wearing three caps and I just haven’t noticed? Okay, in the grand scheme of things, three baseball caps is probably less asinine than one polo shirt worn atop another polo shirt, both with the collars popped, which was a preppy thing I might have done once or twice as a college kid. But its a close race.

The dude is having problems getting the Beats to sit properly, even extended all the way. When he reaches up with both hands to adjust them, the movement causes a ripple effect among the people in my immediate vicinity; everyone has to shift and move to accommodate his elbows. I’ve got my neck bent so far to the side it probably looks like I’m resting it on the businessman’s shoulder, next to me. One of the hats is going to have to go, he seems to realize.

He takes off the top one, flat-brimmed with a Yankees logo, to reveal a shiny black leather baseball cap underneath. Multiple murmurs of annoyance arise as he again tries to fix the headphones. The first cap still in his hand, he pulls off the leather hat and stuffs the pair into the waistband of his sweats. Then, lifting the Beats, he moves the brim of the final cap from the back of his head to the front, and settles the headphones squarely on his ears. The train jolts and moves; we’re finally, slowly, on our way.

I look at the guy’s final headwear. I recognize the brand logo immediately. Nasty Pig. There’s even a silver adhesive sticker still on the flat brim to verify: Official Nasty Pig Gear, it reads.

From his streetwear I’d mentally categorized this guy as a would-be thug. Now I know he’s a cocksucking thug. I smirk. That’s when the dude’s eyes catch mine. No, that’s when the dude’s eyes, so dark and so deep that it's tough to tell where the brown ends and the iris begins, lock onto mine.

I feel a spark of electricity at the base of my spine. People don’t really look at each other on the New York subway. We stand in our places, pretending it’s totally natural to be as close to each other as we are. We avoid eye contact to maintain the pretense of our personal space. But even though my eyes reflexively dance away for a moment, they shoot back just as quickly. He’s still staring. His glance travels down my body, then back to my face. This short little Latin bull and I are cruising each other from the distance of eight inches away. On a fucking subway. With a hundred people crushed around us.

Nasty Pig does a thing with his upper teeth, where they bite into his pillowy bottom lip at one far corner. It’s a sexy move that makes my pants stir. My dick is coming to life. Now he’s hooking his headphones cord around his index finger and sucking it into his mouth. He’s still staring at me, but now he’s gone beyond merely checking me out; he’s staring with intent.

I feel a tingle along the underside of my dick. When I peek down, I can see his pinky finger crooked, tracing up and down the denim of my jeans along the outline of my bulge. Naturally, that just makes me stiffer. When I look back up, he’s still sucking on that cord and giving me most provocative look I’ve had in months. This boy is not only wearing a Nasty Pig hat, he’s determined to live up to the brand.

The train is moving at full speed now; we’re whizzing past 34th. The next stop is mine. He must see me lowering my head to glance at the station sign as we speed by, because now the dude is bending over from the waist, reaching over the little backpack-wearing Asian college student chattering to a friend, extending an arm in the direction of the subway map behind plexiglass next to the door. He’s doing it as casually as anyone could, in a jam-packed train; the point of the exercise, it dawns on me when I see him pointing to the white circle ringed in black next to 125th Street along the green vertical line, is to show me his stop. He straightens up once he’s ascertained I’ve seen his destination, and raises his eyebrows. I pause. My own stop is approaching. But then I make a decision, and nod in response. The train screeches and brakes to a stop. We’ve reached Grand Central.

It’s been a long day, and fifteen minutes ago I’d been itching to go home. Now, though? I guess I’m going to Harlem.

A slew of people exit at Grand Central; another slew gets on. The Latin dude in the Nasty Pig baseball cap and I remain at our spots on the pole, pressed against each other, the crush of bodies shelter his relentless stroking of my dick through its denim prison. The train clears out somewhat at 59th; we separate by a couple of feet. I hold my backpack so that it blocks any public view of my raging erection. The concealment elicits a smirk of his own. His eyes bore into mine. The things I’m gonna do to you, that look says.

Harlem. We emerge from the depths onto the street. Neither of us speaks. I let him take the lead. The smell of hot spiced lamb and of onions and peppers from a food cart follows us around a corner, and then to a numbered street nearby. He uses a key to unlatch a iron gate in front of a small apartment building. With a gentlemanly gesture, he holds it open for me. I push it shut when I’m on the other side. Another key for the front door, then, once we’ve climbed one flight of stairs, a third for his apartment. Inside, the air is stale and still. There’s a faint scent of Lysol, and of cooking grease.

The two hats that covered the Nasty Pig revelation have been jutting out of the dude’s sweatpants pocket all during our walk. He yanks them out and tosses them on a chair. As I stand there, waiting to see what he might do, my heart flops about like a wild bird desperate to escape its cage; I’m a little breathless both at this stranger’s provocation and at my nerve. Nasty Pig is fucking fine. It’s clear he spends his days lifting, probably admiring his growing muscles in the gym mirrors while he works them. How old is he? Twenty-six? Twenty-eight?

I open my lips to say something, to break the ice. But before I speak, he clears his throat, then lifts up his arms. One hand grabs the brim of his baseball cap. The other grabs the rear. He turns it around on his head. And then he kneels. My lips stay open, but all that comes out is a breath. Oh fuck, my lips work. No sound emerges.

He’s got his cheek against my still-hard dick, rubbing it through the jeans as his hands tug at my belt and then at my zipper. My pants fall to the ground; he yanks at the elastic of my trunks. They tumble into the well of denim around my ankles. I feel his strong hand gripping my dick, squeezing it tight, maintaining an expert pressure on the extreme of pleasure, just below the threshold of pain. His lips are pursed; he’s breathing heavily through them as he gazes at my meat. Studying it. Admiring the fuck out of it. He glances up, watching me watch him. Then he’s twisting my shaft around, looking at it from another vantage. Then he opens his mouth wide.

I feel a cyclone of heat as his mouth surrounds my flesh. Then wetness, and the sloppy sensation of his lips dragging themselves down my shaft toward my balls. My head jerks back. I let out a groan.

The walls of the hallway where he’s blowing me are narrow; my left hand braces itself against cold plaster while my right gropes at a leather jacket hanging from a peg. He’s on his knees, hungrily gobbling the dick he’d been teasing for a hundred and ten blocks; one of his hands encloses my nuts in his grasp.

For five minutes while he greedily sucks me, we don’t make it more than a yard past his apartment door. Without announcement, though, he lunges to his feet. With my dick in his hand like a dog’s leash, he pushes off one of his kicks with his toes, then the other. He leads me down the hallway, padding in black-socked feet and me shuffling behind, past a tiny living area and an even tinier kitchen toward a room in the back. Only when we’ve reached the room with a mattress on the floor does he let go of my dick—but his fingers still tickle the underside, beckoning me to the makeshift bed on the floor. There’s a stack of boxes by the head that’s acting as a kind of nightstand, and a full-length mirror on a stand in one corner. I manage to wrestle my feet out of their shoes and the tangle of pants simultaneously; my hoodie comes off. He pulls off my t-shirt himself, then steps back. Off comes the Nasty Pig cap, tossed on the floor without ceremony. He skims off his own top using that crossed-hand move guys use to strip in movies, that I never can quite manage to grasp. Then his sweatpants drop. He stares at me the whole time.

The dude’s got a beautiful body. He’s a little bull, solid and shapely. A Nasty Pig dream model. He grabs a bottle of poppers from his makeshift nightstand, shakes it. Then he twists off the cap and inhales deeply. One nostril. Then the other. He offers me the bottle, but I shake my head.

Then he’s down on the dirty mattress. This little Latin piece of ass is on all fours for a stranger his dad’s age, his butt up in the air, his feet spread, his head down. He needs me inside him. It’d be cruel to deny the kid. Right?

Charitable humanitarian that I am, I kneel down behind the boy. My cock’s head nudges against his surprisingly furry little hole. He moans a little bit, and pushes back against me. Still greedy. I savor his need while I take my time spitting into my hand and getting my dick slick. Only once my shaft is glistening to I start to push in.

I intend to go slowly, but Nasty Pig doesn’t have the patience. He thrusts his hips back, engulfing my meat in a single push. Almost immediately he regrets it. I don’t know if he’s unused to dicks my size, or whether he’s just imitating porn to turn me on, but his face contorts. He bucks and yells at the sensations. His hand halts my hips, trying to stop me from thrusting just yet. Still hissing and breathing heavily, his face gradually goes back to normal. I take that as my cue.

With my hands parting the meaty globes of his butt, I slide my inches in and out. He nods, then grunts, then starts making noises of approval. Neither of us have spoken a word so far—why break the ice now? I press down on the small of his back with my hand’s heel, bring up one knees so that I can get some more momentum going. He grabs for the poppers again as I plow deep.

I’m not going to last long, I know; I’ve got a three-day load in my nuts and I know exactly where it’s going to end up. Nasty Pig is clutching his pillow now, high from the vapors and accepting the rough fuck as if he knows he deserves it. One of his hands covers mine. Our fingers intertwine as we both pull wide his butt cheek.

I need more traction. My dick makes an audible squelch as I pull out of his raw hole and coerce the boy to his feet. He braces himself against the wall as I shove myself back in. Partly I’m doing this for him; I know he’s getting off on the sight of us in that full-length mirror of his. Mostly, though, I’m doing it for me. Standing up, I can admire the sight of my slick shaft as it slides into his guts. Standing up, I can hold him by the hips and fuck him like the nasty little bitch he clearly wants to be. His back arches; his fat uncut dick is short enough that it can slap against his belly to match the sound of my thrusts.

When I shoot, it’s loud. I bark out my pleasure and the concussion reverberates around the room. His eyes open; he watches the reflection of my hips jutting forward as my cock buries itself as deep inside his hole as it can go. Those dark eyes flash; there’s a serious look on his face as I shoot my sperm inside. A serious look for serious business, it seems. I’m still inside his hole, recuperating, when he starts whacking that fat pinga of his. A few strokes, a grunt, and his seed spatters out. There’s a bucket of it, splattering on the bedclothes, the wall, the floor. A moment of silence and stillness. Then he shifts forward. My dick slops out. More seed falls onto the bedclothes. This time it’s mine.

The baseball cap is the first thing he dons. He sits down on his mattress wearing nothing but the hat and his black sock, legs spread, dick flopping down low between his legs. I start to grab my clothes. I dress while he checks his messages. He’s still silently poking at the glass of his phone as I don my shoes and hoodie. I know my cue to exit.

We still haven’t spoken a word. I raise my hand in farewell.

He’s up on his feet, suddenly. Unexpectedly, he pulls down my head to his own. Our lips lock in a kiss. His mouth still tastes of my precum. I feel his wet dick against my wrist.

I’m on the street a moment later. After the closeness of the apartment, the night air is cool on my sweaty face. I can pick up my commuter train from the Harlem stop as if nothing at all brought me so far out of my way—though I know that getting on at Harlem, I’m unlikely to find a seat.

Actually, it’s the first time I’m thinking that a crowded train isn’t so bad an experience after all.