Trapper and Emmeline (10 page)

“I think I came the first few times without realizing what was going on. It snuck up on me slowly, but soon it was every day, and then I final y understood what was happening. I didn’t need to touch myself to get off. I didn’t even need to feel dirty or guilty. No matter what happened on the crowded train, I could arrive at my stop, step out, and disappear into the crowd, and be a regular girl again.

“It was good training for you, Trapper. I know how to get depraved and corrupted, and then walk away, and erase it al like it never happened.”

In the subway car, I watched Emmeline lean against the seated man's shoulder. It looked like an accident but it wasn’t.

She edged closer, not looking down at him, but standing beside him, her hand grasping an overhead support loop.

The man noticed her and glanced up. She was a sexy young brunette, very nicely put together, of course he noticed her.

He didn't shy away from her touch. She was in his personal space, but he clearly didn’t mind. He wasn’t going to point it out. It’s hard, sometimes, to talk to a pretty girl. He apparently decided to persevere, and not worry about her occasional touches on his shoulder.

She bumped him again with her crotch. She took a tiny step forward when the train slowed. She pressed firmly against his shoulder, and she didn’t step back.

The train opened its doors at the next station and let people in. This was Penn Station and lots of people left for the Express. Not Emmeline. And her man was locked into his seat, staring ahead, blushing red across his whole scalp.

Emmeline's hips rocked up and down. She slowly, urgently, rubbed herself against his shoulder. He sat stock-stil . I tried to fathom what he was thinking. He looked like he was just being
present,
experiencing what he was experiencing.

Like he was using these moments to come to terms with the fact that a gorgeous woman was grinding against him in a semi-public way.

She was communicating her need to him. She shared herself with him. She included him in the deep currents of her bottomless sex drive. She used him as a prop, for his warmth and softness, for his ability to press his shoulder back against her clit. She used him for the wanton feeling she got by exposing her erotic need to him, and she got off because he was complicit, quiet, and wil ing to be used.

After a while, Emmeline couldn't maintain any pretense about what she was doing. She needed pressure. She needed feedback. She simply turned to her man and stepped closer. He looked up at her, awestruck and charmed and grateful that he was experiencing the thrumming rhythm generated in her body.

She stared out the window at the flickering subterranean dark, not acknowledging his awareness—until he clasped a hand to her knee. She reacted like someone had turned up the electricity. She lifted herself up on her toes. She lowered herself onto his shoulder, getting pressure from the weight of her body, and rubbed against him. Back and forth.

His hand slid up her leg, first playing with the delicate skin at the back of her knee, and then riding up the hamstring, where the muscles swel ed and danced with the movements of the subway car. He was getting a living, honest feel of Emmeline’s body as she shifted her weight. What could be more real or intimate than that? He didn’t know shit about the real Emmeline—the girl with the cutting sarcasm, the hilarious personality that could make an angry cop laugh, the girl with special caresses and personal jokes that she only shared with me. He was only discovering her animal need. My beautiful girlfriend was letting him discover her muscle, balance, and body, and she was letting his fingers work between her legs.

So as it turned out, Emmeline was not an innocent young thing after al . She wasn’t one of those young women who are only sexy because they are al new, and who innocently misjudge their power over others from sheer inexperience.

Emmeline was perfectly aware of her attractiveness—
and
her physical needs. She knew how to satisfy herself. She had selected a man with al the ceremony of picking a fork from a drawer. She had imposed her needs on him. She had smoothly accommodated him when he snaked his hand up her skirt.
Not innocent at all.
It was like learning that Snow White had a secret second life as a cal girl who specialized in dwarves. It was disorienting, intriguing—but it didn’t destroy my image of her. I understood that it was possible to alternate innocent and sleazy, and stil be wholesome. Like Snow White, Emmeline could sing to birds and mice al day long, but when the lights went out, brace yourself.

I was probably going a tiny bit insane from arousal by this point. Disney sex-metaphors are always the first clue.

Her hotness and her partner’s anti-hotness created a serious carnal dysregulation between them, but it simply didn't matter. I saw it for what it was. Emmeline was horny after a long day of being touched, tweaked, and kissed. She wanted an orgasm from
this man
. Fuck him if he didn't understand. Fuck him if he did.

He understood. His hand finished its journey under her skirt; it was easy to guess where it stopped. I could imagine the internal personal narrative running through his mind: he had generously decided to stimulate this degenerate, desperate, needy girl’s twat. Damn what the other subway riders around him thought, he was going to throw decorum to the wind. Let them judge him, he wasn’t going to miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

But he didn’t know her. He was deluding himself. This was
Emmeline.
When she was on a rol , she seriously fucked with the fantasy lives of every man around her. She engineered new realities for men, as if she were some kind of maleficent faerie princess who thrived on carnal dreams.

—Oops, Disney again! How ever did I get so manly?

Emmeline didn’t pul away from the stranger’s hand. I saw him dig around—scooping into her panties. His eyes stared straight forward, but his hand worked industriously. He was like a man under a spel , or Stevie Wonder. She let him work.

She drew pleasure out of him. The argument his fingers made was compel ing enough that she even backed off his shoulder to give him better access.

She told me later that most of her men never acknowledged what was happening. The chickenshits. They froze like scared lambs and let her rub herself to completion. And then she would step away with a clatter of heels, never looking at their faces—though she caught their reflections in the windows as they stared at her in wonderment.

This man had no such problem. He was right where she was.

She received her pleasure while hanging off the overhead hand-bars. Her legs were planted a bit too far apart to be overlooked by the other passengers. She was standing a bit too close to a seated stranger. Her skirt was being pul ed a bit too much to the side as he sought the right angle between her legs. Her body was starting to shiver more than the movements of the train required.

I watched my girlfriend get jil ed off by the man. By someone she hadn't even looked in the face. She didn't care who he was. A day later she could barely describe him. (We broke the episode down, minute by minute, over the next several nights of pil ow talk.) She said knowing the man wasn't the point. If he had a pulse, he would work.
The man was the dildo,
the train was the motion.
Whenever she wanted, she could enter the subway and find any number of men to generate sensation for her. Sometimes she had to try out two or three men before she found a good one. Sometimes the men told her to stop. Three minutes later she would be at the other side of the train car pressing her clit against someone else.

Her need. Her sexy orgasm-face. The man watched her closely. She bit her lip as she came. Her knees shook. She let out a big sigh, and then another. She kept it quiet, though she clearly wanted to cry out.

When the orgasm had coursed through her, she opened her eyes and glanced around. She met the knowing, hungry gazes of the fascinated men who had registered her performance. The man with his hand up her skirt tried to talk to her.

She didn't even look at him. She stroked the back of his head once, lifted herself off him, and threaded her way through the standing crowd back to me.

She looked nervous. She pressed her forehead against my shoulder. It was damp with perspiration.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked quietly.

“Are you insane? That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Real y.” Her voice was flat. She didn’t believe me.

I adopted an English accent, mainly because it was completely inappropriate for the moment. “You underestimate the depths of my perversion, milady. Pip pip!”

“Shit, you’re weird. Thank goodness you’re already a total pervert.” She kissed me hard on the lips. “So you understand? You don't think it’s total y disgusting? I would understand if you did.”

“You seriously bent reality in this subway car just now. I can’t believe how amazing that was.”

“I used to do it a lot,” she said, a little flattered. “Especial y after I got sick. It was escapism because I could just switch my brain into standby mode.”

“There are men al over the tri-state area who have gotten you off,” I reflected. “You have to tel me al the stories. You are a walking wet dream.”

“I’m a toy for al men,” she said, echoing what I’d told her earlier that day. A little of her fire and confidence was coming back.

“And they’re toys for you.”

“So no more of this nonsense about how you are corrupting me?” She gave me little kisses on my chin and lips while I pondered my response. “I don’t want you worried on my account. I am your partner in crime with al this.”

I raised a hand. “I hereby no longer believe I’m corrupting you.”

“And I think corruption is the wrong word for it,” she added.

“You’re right. Corruption is ugly. This is beautiful and sexy. And empowering. And confirming. And male-dream-fulfil ing. Al kinds of gerunds…”

She shut me up with a kiss. “And you promise not to censor yourself any more? You’l tel me everything you want?”

She seemed to be asking me to not hold back.

“Emmy, do you real y want to hear al my crazy, depraved ideas?”

A nod.

“You’re saying I can tel you what I want you to do, Emmy, and you won’t judge me?”

She gave a pleased smile at the sudden symmetry. We had started the day with her worried what
I
would think.

“I’m going to feel total y exposed,” I said.

“You’re fucking kidding me!” She shook me by my shirt. “Don’t be an asshole. If you want to feel exposed, try getting fingered on the subway.”

“
That’s
your moral high ground?”

She loved that.

We both burst out laughing.

“Since I am not censoring myself,” I said, “I want to see it again. I want to see a strange man finger-bang you on the subway again.”

She giggled. “Usual y that would be a sign that you’re not good boyfriend material. But right now I find it total y validating. I’m awesome, and not a pervert at al !”

“Oh, you’re perverted, al right,” I said, kissing her hotly. “But with women we use the word ‘wicked’ instead. Anyway, here’s my uncensored idea. Go back to that man and stand by him. Wait expectantly. Let him know you want him to finger you some more, okay?”

She breathed for a moment. “I’ve never gone back to one of my men.”

“He’s staring at you. He’s coming to terms with what happened. He can’t believe it. So I want you to go back to him.

Look him in the eyes. Watch him as he touches you.”

She quivered against me. I felt it, distinct from the rattling train car. Her body was reacting to the idea I had given her.

“That wil make it much more intimate,” she said. “If I look at him.”

“He won’t be as shel -shocked. He’l have a chance to be a part of it.”

“It’s nice that you care about him that much,” she snapped. I wasn’t offended. It just meant her adrenaline level was rising. Her tone turned reflective. “Now that I look at him, he’s not bad looking.”