Boarding the downtown 6 train this morning, the usual thought was in my head: "The Upper East Side has the least attractive people in the world." Also per routine, I surveyed the car while boarding, hoping to prove myself wrong. (Shallow as it might be, looking at pretty people is a habit.)
My eyes met a pair of hazel eyes staring intently back at me. They belonged to a guy, probably Greek or Italian or Jewish, with dark hair. He was my height, more muscular for sure, but with a touch of a belly. Enough of my type to notice. And what I noticed was a too-tight pair of faded jeans and, the killer, an Abercrombie tee shirt. (Shallow as it might be, wearing such a shirt automatically reverses any attraction I may have for someone.)
The door closes, and the crowd adjusts. Swear to whatever, it was not my intention to have my back suddenly pressed against his front. But it happens. As I read about Bill Clinton reconciling with Paul Tsonga's wife, it occurs to me that there is extra pressure on my posterior. As the train is packed, I ignore it and continue reading.
The more primitive signals in my brain start firing and a, well, physical response begins in my pants, as the motion of the train in combination with the person's persistance is actually enjoyable. At 51st Street, the train clears a bit. I remain in the same spot, moving on to an article about Barack Obama. And despite the clearing of the train, Abercrombie's assault continues.
Granted, nothing on my behalf is being done to stop this. But at Grand Central, my position changes so that I am now against a door and my molester is to my front. My ability to keep reading falters, but I don't put my Observer down as that would mean looking directly at this person. He relents briefly and the train empties more at 33rd Street. Now I'm looking up to see if people are paying attention to the fact that the back of this muscle daddy (Is that what they call themselves? No clue.) is rubbing against my crotch with increasing vigor.
No one sees anything. I'm about to break into laughter. And he doesn't stop.
Finally my stop arrives (28th Street), but completely caught up in the absurd (erotic?) scene, I decide to ride one more stop and get my morning wrap at a different deli. By 23rd Street, my pants bulge in flagrant, but still no one is looking in my direction (which sort of bothers me - why is no one looking at me!). As I'm about to get off the train, I look at this person and consider him again. The face is good and the body too.
And then I fixate on the shirt. The Abercrombie shirt on a man in his forties. As the door opens, I turn to exit and never look back, sending a quick email to five friends. "I was just molested on the subway!"
Scene: The offices of Bloomsbury Publishing
