You know what he looks like from the photo he sent: dark hair cropped short, clean shaven, black-framed glasses. He’s taller than you by four inches or so. Enough that you’d need to look up to see his face, but not so tall that he’ll tower over you. At least, that’s how you’ve imagined it.
He hasn’t seen you – the idea of sending a photo through email made you nervous, and he didn’t push you on it. But you’ve described yourself to him throughout the missives you’ve been sending back and forth all week.
He knows your hair colour, your height, your penchant for oversized sunglasses and big purses – more importantly, he knows that right now you’re wearing a dark coat over a knee length dress, a white toque, black knee-high boots, and you’re standing at the Patterson SkyTrain station while the train he’s on, only minutes away, heads towards you.
Your phone “bings” in your hand. Kik notification. It’s him.
After five days of emails, sparked by a craigslist post for a “friend,” he suggested you both download the same text app so you could communicate a little more quickly. It was a good idea - it’s hard to get a good sexting session going when you’re pushing “refresh” on an email screen.
This was meant to be the entirety of it: anonymous communication, sexual exploration through words. He’d suggested a few times that the heat you were both enjoying on screen might translate fantastically to the real world, but you declined again and again.
This afternoon, all wound up after talking back and forth about your fantasies for an hour, you proposed something crazy. Not him, you.
“Let’s meet. Let’s meet today,” you wrote.
“Yes. Before I change my mind.”
“Ok, I’ll be home about 6… After that?”
“How about I find you on the train?”
“Like, you’ll get on along my route? And look for me?”
“That’s really… exciting.”
It was really exciting when you had proposed it. But now, standing in the cold on the station platform, it seemed scary and foolish.
What were you thinking? This wasn’t you. You don’t meet strange men in strange places. What if you look at each other and there’s no spark? What if all the back and forth all week - all the hot ideas and exciting stories - doesn’t translate into anything tangible in the real world? Maybe you should have just kept him as an anonymous pen-pal friend forever.
The phone in your hand bings again. Shit. You’re standing here with your head in the clouds, and he’s sent three messages.
First message: “I’m leaving Stadium station. Are you at Patterson like you said?”
Second message: “I can’t wait to meet you. I’m so fucking excited.”
Third message: “Hello? Have you changed your mind?”
As you read them, the phone bings again and a fourth message pops up.
“I hope you’re at Patterson. I’m almost there. Like thirty seconds more. Get on the last car. I’m near the very back. I hope you’re there.”
Your stomach lurches when the headlight on the front car lights up the tracks in the distance.
The roar of the first few cars passing by swells and fades as the train slows to a halt in front of you. A rush of commuters swirls around you as you push to the end of the platform.
Last car. Last car, he said.
Just before the warning bell goes off to announce the doors are about to close, you step in, pushing yourself between the oblivious riders blocking the the doorway.
You see him immediately. He looks exactly like he did in his photo. But he’s scanning the platform, looking out the car’s windows to the now-empty station. There’d been so many people getting on and off, he must not have seen you. Or more likely, you realize, he may have seen you but didn’t think that you were you. After all, he has no idea what you actually look like.
You see him pull out his phone and type out a quick message. The loud “bing” in your hand echoes out across the quiet car. He obviously hears it. His head perks up, scanning around for you, but you quickly look down at your feet, pretending to be just one more evening commuter.
After a moment, he seems to decide that it’s not his message pinging out on someone else’s phone in this car, and he looks back down to his screen to start typing again.
You quickly flip off the volume on your phone. A moment later, you feel it buzz in your hand and look at the new message.
“I think I missed you. Or you missed me. Should I get off at the next station and come back?”
He has no idea you’re standing just feet away from him. The invisibility makes you feel suddenly much bold and braver.
You write back: “No. Stay on. I’ll explain in a little bit.”
You hit send, see him look down at his screen again. His shoulders slump a little, disappointed. He pockets the phone and runs his hand over his head. When he turns sideway and looks out toward the rear window of the car, you start to make your move, slowly side stepping your way through the crowded car.
“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” you whisper under your breath as you wind your way around the other passengers, getting closer and closer to him as you go. Finally, you’re right behind him.
Shit. What now? You hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Just then, the train hits the next station. The sudden slowing as it approaches the platform area causes his body to lurch sideways, towards you; you rock with the motion so that your back is to him as his body pulls forward.
As the front of him brushes the back of you, you hear a polite “oh sorry” from behind you.
“No problem,” you say, looking halfway back over your shoulder. With one hand on the railing above his head, he’s looking out the window at the platform. Maybe hoping that you had mixed up the stations and you’re here instead of at the last one, still optimistic he’s not been stood up.
But it’s mostly businessmen, and a few senior citizens carrying small bags of fruits and vegetables from the nearby market. No one of your description is anywhere to be seen.
When the train starts again, you let yourself go loose. Normally, you’d hold yourself rigid, ensuring you wouldn't come into contact with anyone around you. But this time, you let your body sway with the forward motion, and it causes the back of you to come up flush against him for a second.
And then, instead of moving away, you stay there.
Brushing up against another person in a jostling train is normal. But everyone knows the rules of close-space etiquette: you move away as soon as possible, allowing some healthy minimum of personal space between you.
But you don’t. You just… stay. There’s nowhere for him to go, with people all around, and so the length of you pushes up against the length of him. Between the layers of clothing, you can feel the heat of his body.
Your heart rate jacks up and the aching, needy pulse that’s been thrumming between your legs for the last week is almost overwhelming. You need him. You need this. Now.
You carefully arch your back, pressing your rear end into the front of him. The curve of your ass slowly comes up against his groin, and you pause right there. The train continues to bump along its raised track, and you peer out into the darkened city scape stretching out beyond the windows in front of you, fighting the urge to rush through this moment to the next one.
For a split second, he stays still. Then, you feel a hand come up on your hip and he pushes himself against you. You can feel him now, hard inside his pants. The train is so crowded that there’s nowhere else to move. Not only that, but no one can tell that you’re a fraction of an inch closer than you ought to be. No one knows but the two of you.
You reach into your pocket, grab your phone, and send a quick message.
You hear the buzz of his phone and feel its vibration against your leg. It’s in his front pocket. He pulls back from you a little to reach in and get it.
He responds: “This is you, isn’t it.”
“You smell so fucking good,” he writes back.
You reply: “Thank you. You FEEL so fucking good. Do it again.”
He does, harder then, more solid, more insistent. His entire lower body comes up against you. And then both hands are on your hips, giving him leverage to pull you back against him.
He leans forward, putting his mouth close to your ear, and whispers: “I want you so much.”
The blood rushes to your feet, and for a second, you're dizzy. You can feel yourself getting wet, and wonder for a brief moment if you’ve ever been this aroused before.
The SkyTrain is pulling into the next station and without thinking, you turn and look up at him.
“Come with me,” you say, a statement not a question, and you take his hand in yours.
When the doors open, you pull him through the mass of passengers, out onto the platform, and head for the exit to street level. You climb the stairs quickly, and gripping your hand tightly, he stays at your side the whole way.
“Where are we going,” he asks.
“I have no idea,” you say, looking back at him.
You cross the street, coming into the light from the windows of an old corner store. Then you pull him around the corner of the building, up into an empty space between the brick wall of the store and a large cedar hedge that borders the neighbouring property. It’s dark enough that no one can see you, but light enough for you to find your footing.
“Here,” you say. At the word, he puts his hands to your shoulders and backs you up until you feel yourself bump up against the brick wall.
And then his hands are on your face, his mouth on yours, kissing, biting and nipping at your lips. His tongue slips into your mouth, and yours into his – fevered, desperate kissing.
Obviously, you didn’t have to worry about the lack of “translation” from screen to reality. You’re so worked up right now that you know that if he tries to take you here, in this dark lot, you’ll let him.
In fact, you want him to.
“Fuck me,” you say, the words surprising you as they slip out.
“Really? Jesus… really? Oh fuck,” he breathes back, still kissing, his mouth moving down to your neck, your chest, opening your jacket to find your breasts. His hands cup both of them through your dress, squeezing.
“Really,” you reply.
He reaches up under your skirt, finds the top of your tights and pulls them down your hips below the curve of your ass. The cold air circles up, tickling your thighs, and sends a shiver through you.
“Are you warm enough?” he asks, pausing for a moment.
“Yes, don’t stop… please, don’t stop.”
He drops down on his haunches in front of you, lifts your skirt and leans forward to kiss your bare tummy, moving lower. You want to spread your legs, to open yourself for him, but your tights bunched up at mid-thigh are keeping your legs locked together, limiting your ability to move.
He must know this, and simply brings his face to the front of you. He lets his tongue slip out and press between the very top of your thighs, sliding between your closed pussy lips, barely flicking against your clitoris, again and again and again. His hands move to yours, and he laces your fingers in his, squeezing. He then moves your hands to his head so that your palms are cupping the back of his head.
“Oh god,” you breathe out, gasping.
You can’t help yourself now. You push your hips into his tongue, and your hands grasp at his head, pulling him into you at the same time. He moans, a deep, delicious sound, and his tongue is moving twice as fast now, flicking across your clit. Over and over.
You wish you could lay back, open your legs as wide as possible, and let him lick you all over.
Later, you think to yourself. Later you will do exactly that.
The idea of it pushes you over the edge and you suddenly cum hard, bucking your hips against him. He waits for you to stop shaking before finally standing up and whispering in your ear: “Turn around.”
You do, bracing your feet a few steps back from the wall. Leaving room to lean over slightly, you press your hands flat on the cool bricks in front of you.
You hear him rustling, and he tells you he’s got a condom.
“You always carry one in your pocket?” you ask with a laugh.
“No. I stopped at the store on the way to the train,” he says.
“No, just very, very hopeful.”
While you were teasing him, he was putting the condom on, and now he’s pulling your tights down further to your knees.
You know you’re wet, dripping as much from your own arousal as his tongue, and you shiver – half from the cold, half from anticipation – as you feel one of his hands come back up to your hip. His other hand is obviously gripping his hard cock, lining himself up to meet your wet pussy.
You feel his head nudging between your pussy lips, and you gasp. Perfect. Feels so perfect.
“Please,” you moan, begging, needing. Desperate now.
He pushes into you, all at once, sinking deep into you. The warmth of his thighs comes up tight against your ass cheeks. The sudden intrusion stretches you to fit him. You raise and turn your head, trying to look over your shoulder toward him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh god, baby,” he’s whispering, over and over and over again. “This is so good.”
You can’t even respond, your brain a jumble of feelings and vibrations. Your entire body is centred around the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of you.
He’s moving faster now, faster and harder. And it’s exactly what you needed – this hard solid pounding against you.
You feel one of his hands grip your shoulder, the fingers of the other squeezing at the curve of your hip where you’re bent in half, and you know he’s close. Holding you in place, pumping hard now.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he says, his voice losing the whisper. It sounds so loud in the dark.
“So do you,” you manage, before letting loose with a long, slow mewling moan – his name slips out from your mouth.
“Say it again,” he begs, “say my name again.”
You do, again and again, and he pumps hard into you three, four, five more times, until he groans, and pauses as deep inside you as he can be as the last of his orgasm shudders through him.
You’re both breathing hard now. Small, fleeting clouds of steamy mist puff and disappear in front of your faces.
He pulls out, you stand and pull your tights back up, and he tugs your arm to turn you around to face him.
“That was incredible. I need more. Can you come over?”
“I don’t normally go home with strange men. But I think I can make an exception this time.”
With the glaring street lamps lighting the path ahead of you, he takes your hand and pulls you out onto the sidewalk, back towards the train.