The Brits have it down pat. Cruising, that is. First they were out doggin’ it in the countryside and now they’re toothin’ it on trains everywhere. Damn, but they’ve thrown caution to the wind and, living here in today’s America with its reawakened Puritanism, I long for a revolt that would get us wild in the streets. Or at least in back alleys. If only we’d motivate ourselves to upgrade our PDAs and cell phones so we can ply each other with requests for anonymous sex!
Sitting here on a Metro North train, nursing my chai tea, I wonder who I’d pick “to tooth”. I spy a lot of Gold Coast wealth – women coming home from city shopping, weighed down by Bloomie bags and designer purses, and Wall Street stiffs, their faces drawn serious by five o’clock shadow and by the strangle of red neckties (power ties, they call them). It’s not the delightfully democratic mix that you get on AmTrak, but there’s a scattering of interesting individuals who liven up the surroundings with their body art and alt-whatever wardrobes.
So who would I pick? Who would I aim my lust at? My gaze wanders until I spot a certain young woman. She’s reading Bertolt Brecht so she’s likely college-aged. Given the fact that her short spiked hair, conch-embellished earlobes, and tattoos shout “suicide girl”, I bet her parents were relieved to see her off to college. I imagine texting her.
“Toothin’?”
“Yes.”
“Restroom.”
“M or W?”
“W.”
“Wow.”
There, in the restroom, I kiss her hurriedly, hungrily, and I hike up her shirt to get at her young breasts. I’m not surprised to find them pierced and I get my hands on them before she pulls away from my mouth and mumbles something about me being a lot older than her.
To which I answer, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
She doesn’t get it – it’s too old a saying for her generation to recognize – but her “huh?” doesn’t stop me from caressing her. I dip down to a luscious nipple made tight by my touch and take it in my mouth. As I tongue it, it gets even harder and flicking its little barbell makes her moan.
I push her legs apart, eager to get my hand under that little pleated skirt of hers. It takes seconds to caress my way up to her cleft and – silly me! – I gasp when I find she’s wearing a thong. Yes, I gather that most young women do, but I’m old enough to be among the old lady cotton undies crowd. Still, that doesn’t keep me from pushing it aside.
Touching her cunt sends a shiver through me. Such sweet lips, so petite. I stroke, I probe, I feel my way about her labia. I find her hole and discover her clit. My touch is light and, as I search, she grows wet.
I pull away from her breast, kiss her again, then remark, “You like this.”
“Oh, yes!”
Her voice is breathy, heated by arousal. As I work a finger into her, I ask, “You ever do this before? Anonymously?” Her hole is soft and fleshy and it gives way to my finger. She wraps her arms around me in an embrace so tight, it’s like she’s hanging on for dear life. “No,” she half-whispers. “Never. Especially not on the train.”
A cryptic answer, but I’m far more interested in the mystery between her legs than in her words and when I get my thumb anchored over her clit, I forget entirely about what she said. Her cunt clutches my finger when she feels my thumb hit its mark. “Oh!” she gasps, “I like that.”
“Then ride my hand, baby,” I encourage. “Hard. Make yourself come.”
She undulates. Where the clutching is a response to my thumb, this motion is a whole body response to my invitation. She launches into an exquisitely uninhibited lap dance on my hand.
“That’s it,” I coach. “Bring yourself off. Do it, baby.”
As she rides me, that tight little cunt of hers affords a second finger and it starts to slurp busily. She’s really fucking my hand and I press my thumb as hard I can into her clit. I wish I could stroke it and I ache to grope her tits while she’s riding me, but the compartment is too small and she’s hanging onto me too much. One false move and we’d fall down.
But we don’t fall and sweet girlish squeals escape her as she comes. As her cunt squeezes my fingers, I talk dirty to her. “Yeah, that’s it. Give it up. Give it to me. Come all over me.” And she does, enough to leave my hand sopping wet. When I take it from her, I notice the train’s slowing for one of its local stops.
“Wow, thanks,” she says as she straightens her skirt and hair.
“I’ll leave first,” I devise. “Count to ten before you follow me.”
I make my way back to my seat, aware that no one has apparently seen the trick we’ve shared. The train takes on its Stamford passengers and, as people shuffle to their seats, I see her make her way down the aisle among the throng. To my complete surprise, she exclaims, “Dad! You made it!” Girlishly, she plops down in the seat next to an older gentleman. He gives her a hug and she plants a kiss on his cheek.
“Yes,” he answers. “And I was almost beginning to think you hadn’t left the city yet.”
She giggles, letting out an exasperated yet very feminine, “Oh, Daddy!” It was the kind of exclamation girls use to wrap their fathers around their little fingers.
“So how’s your semestre going?” he asks.
“Great! You can’t imagine all the new people I’m meeting and all the adventures I’m having.”
Amazing, but she sees me then, sitting further down train. She lets loose a huge, beaming smile and I realize that, if not for anonymity, I could become just as tangled around her finger as her father, but in a completely different way.
They chat for a time, father and daughter reunited, before he turns to his Wall Street daily and she takes to listening to mp3s. I realized that, mystery solved, doing it on the train was taboo-breaking for her because she’s on Daddy’s territory. I smile, sit back, and think about the juice that’s dried on my hand.
Then it happens to me. I get a message.
“Toothin’?”
“Yeah.”
“Figured. Saw you.”
“Huh?”
“With the girl.”
I pause. Another send comes my way.
“Two cars back, between.”
I get up, gathering up my stuff, and make my way through the next two cars, trying to balance myself as the train rumbles and sways. I don’t have the sea legs for this, but if getting this much sex is always this easy, I sure could be tempted to commute by train more often.
When I reach the designated area, I find it’s too noisy for my solitary ways despite being enclosed. If not for the intriguing invitation, I wouldn’t have stopped there. And I find myself alone with a guy, someone I’d consider a “suit”, another boring businessman. His button-down appearance, I don’t like but his audacious inquiry? That, I find attractive.
“Rough week?” I yell his way. “Want relief?”
He nods. I make my way into his pants and grasp the growing cock that waits me there. I don’t take it out; that would put us on the indecent side of the law and, besides, there’s something wildly clandestine and covert about doing a hand job inside a guy’s pants. I can feel that he’s uncut and as I pull back his foreskin and start to stroke him, I sidle up to his ear.
“This is what I did with her.”
He shudders slightly.
“Except I had her wet hole.”
He moans. Good – he likes dirty chat.
“She rode me hard. She was a whelp of a whore.”
Getting into it, he thrusts into my hand. I like that; it tells me what rhythm he needs to get off.
“You wouldn’t believe the tits on that girl.”
I tease him with my knowledge of her.
“Pierced, pink nipples.”
He groans.
“A hole so tight, it could only take two of my fingers.”
His cock surges in my hand. He’s close. This, I realize, is going to be a quickie.
“And when she came, she left my hand sopping wet.”
“Oh, God,” he mutters. I don’t hear the words distinctly, but I know their intonation well enough to grasp what he said.
“Her juice is still all over my hand – the hand I’m beating you off with.”
I don’t have to exhort him any further to get my hand wet with his come. The very idea that the hand which touched her is now jerking him off is enough to make him lose it. He turns beet red, utters a quick groan, and starts shooting in his pants, two, three, four squirts of come. I catch some of it on my hand. Pervert that I am, I want both him and her on my hand. I can’t imagine two better mementoes to take from these unexpected, unplanned quickies.
When his orgasm fades, I take my hand from his pants, careful to keep his runny come on me.
“I’m taking this with me,” I tell him.
He straightens his clothing and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish you could take me with you, too.” He tells me this is the first time toothing’s ever worked for him. I don’t tell him that I’m a novice as well. Instead, I ask him which stop he gets off on, ludicrous pun and all. “Westport,” he divulges.
I dig out my PDA and tooth him my email address – as best I can one handed, that is.
“Maybe we’ll meet again someday.”
It’s a promise predicated on a word: maybe. Who knows if he’ll have the courage to meet me again. Where we’re all brave sexual explorers online, we’re just as often absolute cowards in real life. And pressing the flesh successfully once in person doesn’t mean you won’t chicken out if given repeated opportunities.
Ah, you see? Even in fantasy, reality bleeds in! Still, I imagine what it would be like to have my hand caked with his come and her dried juices. Would both draw tight on my skin? Would the smell of their sexes combine and give a lasting, musky fragrance to my hand? Would I beg off washing it “ever again” and thus promote their bodily fluids to celebrity status? Or would I keep them with me only as long as memories of our meetings stay fresh in my mind?
Yes, it’s a lovely fantasy, “toothing” a series of sexual adventures, cruising my way home in more ways than one. I finish my tea and lean back in my seat. I close my eyes and again my imagination wanders.
I imagine I’m home, perhaps reading, perhaps on the laptop, lost in thought and enjoying the peace and quiet I’ve carved out for myself. But my cell phone lies close and when the opening theme from Dvorak’s New World Symphony sounds, I know my lover is calling. To my surprise, it’s a brief text message, in shorthand no less: LUVST. No polite, tentative introduction, no hopeful inquiry, but a very clear message, one which means he’ll unceremoniously fuck me upon arrival. I set aside what I’m doing, undress, and make myself ready for him. I bend forward over the back of my love seat and spread my legs just enough to await his cock.
I suppose most women would find this scenario terribly sexist or, at the very least, thoroughly unromantic, but I find it absolutely thrilling. Waiting to get fucked is far more delicious than people are willing to admit.
I stand there, anticipating. The exposed nature of this position and its readiness make me wet. I wonder how long it will be before I hear him enter my apartment, before I hear his steps approach my willing body. Then, those most exquisite sounds of all: that of his zipper in motion and his gasp of delight when he enters me.
Jump forward: he’s there, entering me. When he seats himself fully in me, he hikes me further over the edge of the sofa. My feet are off the floor now, dangling, and he pulls my hands behind my back and tells me to “keep them there”. It’s a helpless position, but it’s one that’s highly attractive to him. In this state, I’m totally available to him. I cannot escape what he wants.
He begins to fuck me and he works me as perfectly in this fantasy as I did the others on the train. He plunders me with an utterly single-minded focus, and that’s what I find thrilling – that he’s willing to use me to achieve just one simple goal, to come.
Evidently, I’m not yet enticing enough. He takes one hand from my rump and, after licking his thumb, finds my asshole and pushed it into me. This, I don’t take too well. It’s rough, it hurts. My body tenses against it and I scream into the pillows that accent the love seat. If I could use my hands, I’d brace myself against this intrusion and if my feet were planted on the ground, I’d surely squirm. But I can’t. The only part of my body that responds to his thumb is my asshole and it clenches in protest.
Hovering in this awkward position, my legs and arms are ready to give out, but I have no place to anchor myself and my arms must stay pinioned behind me. I struggle with what little strength and freedom of movement I have and again I scream into the pillows. All the while, he reams me. His cock drills me and his thumb tears at me.
It’s enough, though. He’s pounding me so fast now that I know he’s close. One last push of the thumb, one last protest from me, and he’s coming. He slams into me, jetting his come, filling me with his liquid heat.
When he pulls out, I don’t move. I know he likes to watch his come drip from me. It isn’t until I feel his hand on my arm that I know he’s satisfied. He helps me up, takes me in his arms, and kisses me with a passion that’s mixed with thankfulness.
“You’re a treasure,” he murmurs between kisses.
“One that only you can claim,” I remark as I fall to my knees. I take his spent cock into my mouth and claim it as my own reward. My tongue gently caresses him clean, a gesture that tells him how thankful I am as well.
So there you have it: toothin’ for sex in a myriad of ways. Hot, isn’t it? So hot that maybe I shouldn’t wait for my cell phone contract to expire before I upgrade its services. I’m too impatient to wait for that. It can’t come soon enough. Because, quite honestly, neither can I.