Bus Boy

It was the kind of look you get in passing. They sparsely last a moment and so you have to know what you’re looking for before it happens. Knowing it was going on as it was happening was tough, but tougher still was acting on it. The excitement was electrifying. He had definitely given me the look.

Sometimes you think it’s the look, and an unfortunate and unsubstantial glance is just that. When the guy takes off his sunglasses he’s usually trying to tell you something. He wants it to be irrefutably clear without tinted lenses to obscure the meaning. I want him to want that anyway.

I looked back in that split second to give him an affirmative. I had to make sure it was slow and deliberate, but also delicately nonchalant; like I was trying to act surprised or sneak up on a grazing deer. I gave the slightest wink that might have only been me moving my eye, but he knew what I was doing. It was a sultry gesture that meant take me, and do it now.

Except that he didn’t move. At first I doubted myself, I thought I had been so clear. Anything more and the rest of the people on the bus would look at me funny and tell me to put my clothes on. Maybe it wasn’t the look? Maybe it was an accident or maybe he was just admiring my clothing; except that he wasn’t looking at my clothes he was looking at my eyes. I could see it.

It dawned on me slowly. He was slow playing me. He wanted this to be foreplay. Otherwise we’d be on top of each other in a back alley by now and my inane inner-monologue would be replaced by wanton moans. Minx, he wanted to play THAT game. He was the predator. I was the prey. He was the captain of the rugby team. I was the guy who happened a glance in the shower.

This ought to be more fun than a quick jaunt on a bus.

I looked away, nervously. It was my role in our dance. I dredged up excess emotions to make me anxious and virginal. I controlled my breath, inhaling in a short staccatto fashion. The sweat was all real, it was a hot summer day and the bus was none too comfortable. Someone call a doctor because I’m feeling faint.

A response now wasn’t a good thing. It meant that he didn’t know what he was doing and was in fact unsure. It meant that he didn’t want to fuck. It meant that, please, if you didn’t mind… would you be so kind as to engage in lewd acts with me? Like a band nerd he’d use the formal terms for everything, intercourse, touching, and romance. I made the mistake of being the aggressor once to someone who happened to get lucky. He had no idea, he confessed the first time he jerked off he called it masturbation and he didn’t come he ejaculated. He cried when it was done, I cried after he left.

I wanted no response at this stage. That means he knew how to play, that was safer. And there it was, nothing. No curt nod. No continued stare, just stoic avoidance. Hot.

I didn’t need to check any playbook. I knew what to do. I’m not a slut, I just understand how things are done. Some people were born mechanics, or sportsfans; I was born with an intimate understanding of how to get some. How any situation could turn explosively sexual at any moment.

Coyly, I checked my watch. I was late for an appointment. I had a meeting with my boss. I needed to meet a friend for lunch. That’s the after story. I just hate when someone has to rush off but says they’ll call you. Be honest, it was a one shot deal don’t bother with platitudes and empty promises. When we’re finished he can linger in his conquest but I need to compose myself and rush off. I’ll leave the ‘Just Been Fucked’ hair it’ll be my victory. You can’t buy that in a can. There was a holistic spontineity to the JBF hair that can’t be replicated. It’s nuclear waste that you don’t need a geiger counter to detect.

Still nothing from him, I should be a little more tempting. I undid a button on my shirt and shook the collar. No response, he must be really good. I paused, trying to be casual before trying another tact. I stretched my leg out towards him into a more reclined position making the seat of the bus look inviting like the arm rest seat on a couch. I let this set in. He was sweating now. That was his game, role reversal. He was the confident jock turned bitch boy. The sergeant taken down a peg or two. I had to be the instigator now. I prowled around long enough, it was my turn to act.

Casually I scratched my knee. Then trapsed my hand up my inner thigh slowly like I was painting. He reclined in the way I had. He was enticed. I was a siren. I was a vampire. I’d appear to him as smoke wafting into his mind through some etheral miasma.

My other hand was extended outward across the back of the seats, so was his. The aisle separated our hands but I made him feel it. I made him yearn. Slowly his hand would crawl closer and closer.

I nodded my head to the tempo of a non-existant beat. I was in a trance. It was a compulsive hypnosis.

I was just thinking that I was the shit when the bus slammed to a stop and he got up.

Were we done? Was that it?

This is an old piece of writing that I did in 2009.