What I Imagined on the Subway Followed Me Home

My name is Lucía, and I still can’t believe this is my life now. Three weeks ago I was sleeping in my usual room, in my parents’ house, in a city where I knew every corner. Today I leave the university on my own, backpack over my shoulder, and I’m facing a subway ride that I have to learn to fill with something. New faces, new streets, new roommates to share a tiny fridge with. There’s a strange mix inside me: independence and vertigo in equal parts.

I’ve just finished one of my first classes of the semester and I’m walking toward the station thinking nonsense. About the professor who talks too fast. About the girl who sat next to me and lent me a pen. About the guy in the back row who couldn’t stop looking at me. It’s been far too long since I’ve spent a little time on myself.

And it’s true. Between the move, the paperwork, and the nerves, I haven’t even had time to close my bedroom door in peace. This morning, breathing in that stale air from the crowded classroom, I caught myself imagining things I shouldn’t be imagining in class. I thought about how it would be if one of those self-assured guys, tall, broad-shouldered, cornered me against a wall. I confess I got a little wet while I rubbed my thighs beneath the desk, pretending to take notes.

I get to the turnstile, swipe my card, and head down the escalator toward the platform. The warm air in the tunnel tangles my hair. I look at the screens: two minutes until the next train. Two minutes that feel eternal because my head is still in the same place, in that half-baked fantasy I’ve been dragging around since morning.

The subway arrives with a screech and a burst of wind. The doors open and the tide of people pushes me inside before I can decide anything. At this hour the car is packed: students heading home, office workers on their way to the afternoon shift, someone with supermarket bags. I barely manage to reach one of the poles and cling to it tightly.

Behind me stand two young guys, also college students by the look of them, folders tucked under their arms. The train starts with a jolt and all of us sway backward. Then I notice it. Without meaning to, one of their bodies ends up pressed against mine, and I feel against my back something that leaves no room for doubt. He’s hard. And he’s hard because of me, because of the accidental brush of his hip against mine.

I should feel uncomfortable. Instead, something ignites in my stomach and sinks lower. I don’t move away. I tell myself it’s the rocking of the carriage, that there’s no space, that it’s inevitable. But the truth is I like provoking that reaction without doing anything, just by being there, with my back turned, the cold pole squeezed in my fist.

And the pole, cold and cylindrical under my fingers, doesn’t help. I grip it a little harder than necessary, slide my hand without meaning to, and my mind does the rest. It could be something else I’ve got hold of. The thought hits me all at once, shameless, and I feel my cheeks burn as I stare ahead pretending to read a health insurance ad.

The guy behind me doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try anything. That’s exactly what turns me on: that neither of us acknowledges what’s happening. Two strangers sharing a secret for four stops. I imagine turning around, looking him in the eyes, taking his hand and getting off with him at the next stop. Bringing him to my apartment. Closing the door.

I imagine it all in a matter of seconds, like a sped-up movie. Kissing him in the hallway before we even reach the room. Feeling his tongue, his ragged breathing. Sliding my hand down his chest to his belt. Hearing his breath catch when I unfasten him. I’ve never actually done it, but I’ve rehearsed it a thousand times in my head.

I’m a virgin, and that only makes the fantasy burn hotter. I imagine his weight on top of me, his hands opening my legs carefully, his mouth moving slowly over me before anything else. I imagine the exact moment when it would stop being an idea and become something real, that instant when I’d feel for the first time what I’ve so many times sought out alone, at night, with my hand and my imagination.

The sudden braking snaps me back to the world. A metallic voice announces my stop and I take an extra second to react. Fuck, this is it, I have to get off. I let go of the pole awkwardly, shove my way through the crowd, and step onto the platform just before the doors close. I don’t turn to look at the guy. I’d rather keep the version I’ve built in my head.

***

I walk toward the apartment feeling myself getting wet with every step, and the simple brush of fabric as I move keeps me lit up. I pass neighbors I don’t know, smile out of habit, punch in the building code. The elevator takes forever and I look at myself in the mirror: flushed cheeks, bright eyes, that look I get when I can only think about one thing.

I open the apartment door and hear voices in the kitchen. Carla and Inés are arguing over who bought the last carton of milk; Marta is sprawled on the sofa with her laptop; Sofía doesn’t even look up from her phone.

—Hi, Lucía! How was class? —Carla asks from the kitchen.

—Good, good, a little long —I answer without stopping—. I’m going to take a shower and study for a while.

I’m not going to study anything, of course. I reach my room and slide the lock shut with a gesture that’s already starting to feel like a habit. It’s the only truly mine thing in this shared apartment: these four square meters, this narrow bed, this door I can close.

I turn on the laptop with impatient hands. While it boots up, I strip off my clothes with the urgency my body is asking for. Off with the straps, off with the bra, which falls onto the chair. I unbuckle my belt, let the short jeans drop, and stay in my underwear, sitting on the edge of the bed. I open an incognito window in the browser and take a deep breath. It’s time to give myself a little pleasure.

With one hand I stroke my body while the other looks for something to watch. I run my fingers over my neck, over my chest, over my already hard nipples. I move down to the thin fabric of my underwear and it feels soaked even before I touch myself for real. I can’t stop thinking about the guy on the subway, about how excited I got making him hard without meaning to. I find the headphones in the drawer, plug them in, and put them on so no sound escapes this room.

I find the video: a couple, she on her knees, he standing. The actor has something in his jaw that reminds me of the stranger from the carriage, and that’s enough for my imagination to latch on. I let myself fall back onto the mattress, spread my legs, and slip my hand under the fabric.

I close my eyes and stop looking at the screen. I don’t need it anymore; the video is just a background pulse. What I see is what I invent. I’m the one on my knees. I’m the one with a man in front of me looking at me like I’m the only thing that exists in the room. Ask me, I think. Ask me not to stop.

I imagine his rough voice telling me to do it slowly, to enjoy it. I imagine the weight of his hand on my nape, not forcing, just guiding. I bite my lip as two fingers slide over me, over how swollen I am, over the thick, abundant slick that betrays how long I’ve been holding myself back since morning. My clit is about to explode and I’ve barely touched it.

In my head it’s no longer the actor, or the guy on the subway. It’s a mix of all the men I’ve wanted and none in particular. It’s the idea of being desired, of turning someone on, of having control and losing it at the same time. I want my first time to be this intense, I think, even if it’s only in my head, even if it’s only my hand.

I speed up the motion. My other hand grabs my breast, pinches it, arches my back against the mattress. My breathing turns short and fast, and I have to press my lips together so I won’t make any noise, so the girls in the kitchen won’t hear anything. The wet sound of my own hand gives me away, filthy, urgent.

A bolt of heat runs from my neck to my thighs. I’m close and I know it, I feel it rising like a wave that can’t be stopped. I keep going, keep going, keep going. My fingers tremble, grow clumsy, but I don’t stop. On the screen, with the headphones on, the video reaches its end and I let that visual shove carry me along.

The orgasm catches me with my mouth open and a muffled moan buried against the pillow. I shake all over, my legs close on their own around my hand, and I stay like that for a few seconds, rigid, suspended, until the trembling starts to loosen little by little. I’m soaked in sweat and in myself, and I laugh silently, surprised by how fast it was.

I lie there, catching my breath, with the laptop still on beside me and my breathing slowly finding its place again. I run a hand over my forehead, push away the hair stuck there, and let my body cool down. Through the window comes the noise of the street, horns, someone laughing below. A huge, unfamiliar city that suddenly doesn’t scare me as much.

I think about the guy on the subway, who doesn’t even know this version of the afternoon exists. I think about tomorrow, about the next class, about the next crowded ride full of people and possibilities. Maybe this new life isn’t so bad after all. I stretch out on the bed with a loose, satisfied smile, and decide it’s been a good morning. The rest of the day probably will be too.