I Came in the Subway and Nobody Noticed

I get out of the carriage with shaky legs, upset, aroused, my cheeks burning. I’m not even sure this is my stop. I could have gotten off earlier, two stations earlier, but in my haste and daze I let the crowd carry me onto the platform without looking at the sign. I clutch the rubber handrail of the escalator and feel my thighs trembling beneath my skirt, trying to stay upright on my heels.

Uncomfortably, I know perfectly well that this warm, wet, thick sensation is slowly sliding down the inside of my right thigh. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. I draw my legs a little closer together as I climb the step and pray that nobody notices me.

At my age, any woman who has survived menopause knows how to distinguish “I’m going to piss myself, I’m going to piss myself” from any other bodily emergency. And this isn’t that. I think about looking for some decent bathrooms, the ones in a large shopping center, the spacious, clean kind where a woman can lock herself in and pull herself together. If I go through the main entrance, I’ll pass the jewelry counters, the bookshelves, and at the back on the left are the restrooms.

Come on, Carolina. Who are you trying to fool? You’re not going to piss yourself. You came. You came like a bitch in heat, with two unfamiliar fingers shoved all the way into your cunt, in front of half a dozen strangers.

I hold on to the handrail and let the escalator carry me up by itself, because I don’t trust my own knees. Better rewind. Better start at the beginning, because I still can’t believe what just happened.

***

I ran into him on the platform, waiting for the same train as me. Adrián. I hadn’t seen him since university, almost twenty years, and yet I recognized him immediately by the way he leaned against the wall, wearing that half-smile of someone who knows he’s being watched. He looked up, hesitated for a second, and then opened his eyes wide.

—Carolina? I can’t believe it. It’s you.

—The very same —I said, giving him two awkward kisses as the train came roaring in.

We boarded together. The carriage was packed at that hour, so I grabbed the vertical pole between the doors to keep my balance. He stood beside me, very close, because there was no room for anything else. I had twelve, maybe thirteen stops until the end of my journey, and the conversation flowed so easily that those stops began to seem like too few.

We talked about college, the professors who were no longer there, the people who had married and those who had divorced twice. I liked seeing him again. He had the same long hands I remembered and a deeper voice than he’d had back then. I wasn’t surprised when he confessed, laughing, that he was gay. He’d shown signs even then, though neither of us had said it out loud.

—What I never told you —he added, lowering his voice— is that women of a certain age have always turned me on. Women like you, now. Self-assured. Women who no longer have anything to prove to anyone. Women you can put your hands on without them crying afterward.

He said it without taking his hand from my waist. Because at some point I couldn’t have said exactly when, his hand had found the excuse of a sudden stop to settle on my waist, and it hadn’t withdrawn. His proximity awakened a kink in me that I had trouble hiding. It had been years since anyone had touched me like that, with such calm audacity, as if he had every right in the world. I felt my cunt throb all at once, a dull pulse between my legs that forced me to squeeze my thighs together.

I tried to keep the conversation going as if nothing were happening, tell him what I did now, ask about his life, but the words came farther and farther apart. I felt the weight of his hand on my hip, the way his fingers barely sank into the fabric of my skirt every time the train swayed. And I, instead of moving away, let myself lean toward him a little on every curve, pretending it was the carriage pushing me. A lie. It was me. I was the one seeking him out, rubbing my ass against his hip like some cheap slut.

The train emptied out a little at one of the intermediate stations and filled up again at the next. He took advantage of that shifting mass of bodies to slowly turn around the pole until he was behind me, his chin brushing my nape. I felt the warmth of his breath pass through my shoulder-length hair, and instinctively I spread my feet a little. I wasn’t conscious of doing it. I only noticed my thighs relaxing and the pressure between my legs easing, as if my body already knew what my mind still refused to admit. My thong clung to my cunt’s lips, soaked, and I knew it, and it embarrassed me, and it aroused me even more.

With his left hand he pressed my waist against the pole. Leaning against it, in a slow, brazen movement, he searched through the fabric of my skirt until he found the waistband. I couldn’t believe it. Almost without realizing it, an old friend was groping me in a crowded carriage, in broad daylight, surrounded by strangers.

—Stop —I whispered, barely audible—. Adrián, we’re too old for this sort of thing.

—That’s exactly why —he replied in my ear, his voice thick—. Because we’re old enough. Because there’s no time left to act coy.

My protests were useless. Quite the opposite, really. While I pretended to look at the subway map stuck to the glass, his curious fingers slipped through both elastic bands at once, the one on my skirt and the one on my thong, and slid down the cleft of my ass. He didn’t go straight for my cunt. First he wandered along my ass crack, up and down, assessing, getting to know the terrain, until he found my asshole and barely pressed it with his fingertip. One finger. Just the tip, pressing against my hole, playing with it as if he had all the time in the world.

I tried to suppress a jolt and almost managed it. Being surrounded by passengers completely unaware of what was happening six inches away kept me in a strange state of alert, split in two: one part of me watched every face, every glance, vigilant that nobody suspect anything; the other was completely surrendered to what that hand was doing to me. I felt my own ass opening a little wider for him, as if it had a will of its own.

The finger left my asshole and went down to seek my cunt from behind. When it found it, a silent gasp escaped me. I was so wet that its fingertip slipped at first, sliding between my lips without finding purchase. I felt myself getting even wetter inside, my entire sex suddenly flooding, and that moisture made entry easier. The second knuckle of that finger made its way in, slowly at first, more confidently afterward. In. Out. In again. A small turn to the left, pressure downward against the front wall of my cunt, that spot I used to seek out by myself years ago and that this recently rediscovered stranger found on the first try. Out again, to the tip. In to the knuckle. He kept up a patient rhythm, as if we had all afternoon, as if we weren’t hanging onto the same pole as half a dozen other people.

I pressed my forehead against the back of my own hand on the pole. I closed my eyes for a second and opened them again, frightened by myself. In front of me, a woman was reading her phone. To my left, a guy with headphones moved his head to the rhythm of music only he could hear. Nobody was looking. Nobody knew. And I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning, while I felt my own juices running down inside my thigh, warm, betraying me against my stocking.

He pulled his finger from my cunt and took it back to my asshole. Now it was coated in me, soaked with my juices, and it slipped into my ass so easily that I clenched my jaw. The tip first, up to the first knuckle, with an unhurried twist. I tightened my hole instinctively, and he waited, without forcing, until my own ass yielded and let him in. Then he pushed a little farther. His other, free hand slipped under the front of my skirt, found my clitoris through my displaced thong, and began rubbing it in circles with two fingers, unhurriedly. One finger in my ass, two on my clit. Me leaning against a public pole, my skirt badly rearranged, pretending to read the subway map.

—You’re soaked —he whispered, so softly I almost read it in the air—. It’s running down your thighs. Like a little girl.

About halfway through the journey, at one of the large stations, he pulled his finger from my ass and shoved two of them into my cunt at once. Index and ring fingers. The same movements as before, the same unhurried cadence, but now the burning was doubled and I had to put more weight on the pole to keep my balance. The palm of his hand pressed against my mound, squeezing it, and with every thrust of his fingers the base of his thumb struck my clitoris. My head was spinning. I felt sweat forming at the nape of my neck, right where he continued brushing me with his chin, whispering things I couldn’t even quite make out.

—Look at you —he murmured—. So dignified, so proper, and you’re trembling. Your cunt is coming in my hand, Carolina. And there’s nothing you can do.

He was right. I was trembling. I, who had been so fierce when I was young in situations like this, so much in command of myself, was now holding onto a metal pole in a public carriage while a man I had just run into again was taking me to the edge with two fingers and a surgeon’s patience. The indignation I felt toward myself only heightened the kink. It was forbidden, ridiculous at my age, exactly what my body had been asking for years without my wanting to listen.

—Tell me you want to come —he insisted—. Without a voice. Just squeeze.

And I squeezed. I clenched my cunt around his fingers, unable to stop myself, answering him with my flesh. He smiled against my nape, I felt it, and sped up his two fingers inside me, curling them upward, searching for that spongy spot, while his thumb shredded my clitoris from the outside.

I felt myself getting close. I felt it rising from very low down, from my belly, a tension knotting inside me and loosening in jolts. I squeezed my thighs against his hand without meaning to. He noticed and sped up just a little, just enough, and I let the air out very slowly through my nose while pleasure swept through my entire body. The orgasm caught me standing, my knees bent, my cunt squirting against his palm and contracting again and again, squeezing his fingers as if I never wanted to let them go. A long shudder escaped me, which I disguised as best I could behind a cough, while I felt a wave of hot liquid spill out between his fingers, soaking my thong, the inside of my thigh, the lower part of my skirt.

I came right there. Standing up. Clinging to a pole. My face turned toward the glass and my eyes fixed on my own disordered reflection, while the train braked at the next station. A complete orgasm, right through the last contraction, with two unfamiliar fingers buried in my cunt and my asshole still throbbing from having been invaded.

***

And then, right then, I felt him yank his fingers out.

—Fuck, my stop! —he said, as if suddenly waking up.

He rubbed them carelessly along the inside of my thigh, wiping the remnants of my own orgasm on me, leaving a shiny trail that would be hard to conceal afterward, and made his way toward the doors as they opened. Before getting out, he said something else in my ear, an “I loved seeing you” or a “we have to do this again,” I don’t know, I didn’t register it, because I was still hanging onto the pole with jelly knees, my cunt throbbing and my heart racing.

I watched him cross the platform with a light step, without looking back, while he brought the two fingers to his mouth and sucked them with all the calm in the world before the doors closed between us with a hiss. And I stayed there, stunned, surprised, hot, dazed like a ghost in the middle of a carriage full of people who had no idea what had just happened.

The train started moving again and I stayed there, afraid to look at anyone, certain that anyone who observed me closely would read everything that had happened on my face. My cheeks were burning. My breathing was ragged, my thong stuck to my flooded cunt, and there was a tingling in my clitoris that wouldn’t quite go away. I let one station pass, and then another, unable to decide where to get off, until my body decided for me and pushed me toward the doors at some random stop.

That’s why I’m climbing this escalator now with trembling legs, not quite sure which station I got off at, with that moisture sliding down my thigh and the shameful certainty that I’m not pissing myself.

I came. On the subway. With two fingers belonging to a fag inside my cunt and one stroking my ass. And nobody noticed.

I search with my eyes for somewhere to pull myself together, some spacious entrance with clean bathrooms where I can go in, pull down my soaked thong, wipe away the imaginary semen that isn’t there and the real orgasm that is, and meanwhile I think, against all logic, that I hope I run into Adrián again on the same platform. Horny as a bitch, at my age, after swearing to myself that these things weren’t for me anymore.