My classmate touched me on the crowded subway
It was two in the afternoon when I left the architecture school after the last class of the morning. Like almost every day, Tomás was waiting for me at the door so we could go down together to Universidad station and head home by subway. I’d known him since adolescence, from the neighborhood gang. For a couple of summers I was stupidly in love with him, but he never gave me the slightest bit of attention, so it faded on its own and we stayed good friends. In fact, he was the one who pushed me to study architecture when I was still torn between a thousand things.
That day he wasn’t alone. Beside him was a girl I didn’t know, and he introduced her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
—This is Yamila, she’s in class with me —he said—. She lives near your place, by the way.
Yamila was a mulatto girl with cinnamon-colored skin, very pretty, medium height, about my size, maybe a little taller. She wore her hair pulled up in a loose bun with a few strands escaping, and she had a calm way of looking at you, unhurried, as if she already knew something I still didn’t.
We greeted each other with two kisses. When we touched cheeks, she brushed me almost at the corners of the lips, first on one side and then the other, lingering a fraction of a second longer than usual. I felt a little embarrassed, not knowing whether she had done it on purpose, but she kept talking as if nothing had happened and asked me what year I was in.
—Fourth year —I answered—. One below you.
—You can tell you’re ahead —she said, and smiled in a way I didn’t know how to read.
***
We went down to the platform and, as every day at that hour, the station was packed to the rafters. All the university students finished class at the same time and threw ourselves onto the same trains. We waited crushed among the crowd, bags pressed to our bodies and bodies pressed against bodies. We didn’t manage to get on the first train and had to wait for the next, edging closer and closer to the platform edge, with more and more people pushing from behind.
It was unseasonably hot, still summery, and we were all dressed lightly. I was wearing a miniskirt and a thin T-shirt. That feeling of being surrounded by strangers who are literally crushing you is suffocating, but you get used to it. The worst part is always the smell: so many people together, mixed sweat, hot air that doesn’t move. You learn to breathe through your mouth and think about something else.
When the train finally arrived and the doors opened, we got on among the first. Then the flood of people behind us dragged us inward, until those boarding last had to crush themselves against the others so the doors could close. I ended up wedged between bodies, with no room to turn around.
Yamila ended up pressed to my side and Tomás was standing opposite us, a little farther away, holding onto the pole. I felt her thighs against my hip and her face very close to mine. She smelled good, of something sweet and clean that, somehow, softened every other smell in the carriage. I focused on that scent and, as if by magic, the rest disappeared. The truth is, I liked having her so close, breathing what she breathed.
At the first stop, some people got off and the pressure eased a little. I noticed my chest stopped being crushed against Tomás’s, and only then did I realize that for several minutes I’d had him pressed against me without being aware of it. I regretted not noticing sooner. How stupid, I could have enjoyed it. Yamila, on the other hand, stayed pressed to my side even though there was room to move apart, and she didn’t move away.
***
Two stations later, at Las Torres, Tomás got off. It turned out he changed trains there, and we continued to the end of the line, the two of us alone, because we lived in the same neighborhood without ever having crossed paths.
—See you tomorrow —he said, making his way to the door—. Take care.
At Las Torres the carriage filled up all at once, and once again we were crushed against each other. Yamila took two lollipop candies out of her bag and offered me one.
—Strawberry? —she asked.
—No, thanks —I said.
She shrugged, unwrapped one and put it in her mouth. Now she was a little farther behind me than before, and with the train’s swaying I could feel her breasts rubbing against me every time the carriage braked or started again. I didn’t move away. I wouldn’t have been able to even if I’d wanted to, and I didn’t want to.
Then I felt a hand on my thigh. It moved slowly up the front, beneath the hem of my skirt. I looked down as much as I could between the bodies to see whose it was, my heart racing.
—Don’t worry —she whispered in my ear, so softly I could barely hear her over the rattling—. It’s me. No one can even move in here.
Her breath smelled like strawberry. This isn’t happening. But it was happening, and I wasn’t saying anything.
***
The hand kept going up until it reached my pussy and pressed over my skirt, with the whole palm, unhurried. Heat climbed up my neck to my face, and I knew I’d gone red, but among all those people no one was looking at anyone else. Everyone was minding their own business, eyes fixed on their phones or lost in the void. Yamila noticed I wasn’t pushing her away, that I wasn’t even trying, and she dared to hike my miniskirt a little higher to stroke me over my panties.
I started moving my hips, just a few millimeters, just enough to feel the pressure of her fingers better. She understood the answer. She pulled the edge of the fabric aside and touched me directly, sliding her fingertip over the clit in slow circles. I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t make a sound. I was petrified by where we were, by the number of bodies around us, and at the same time I couldn’t remember the last time something had felt so good.
She slid her finger lower, felt the entrance and pushed it in for an instant, just one. She pulled it out right away and, with a motion no one could have seen, brought it to her mouth. Then she took the candy out, holding it by the stick, and her hand disappeared down again between our bodies.
I felt something on my pussy again, but this time it wasn’t her finger. It was something thicker, harder, rounded, cold at first and wet. It took me a second to realize it was the candy. She ran it slowly over my clit, tracing the same round shape she’d made with her fingertip, and the contrast of the smooth surface against my skin sent a shiver through my whole body. I ground myself against it, seeking it, and felt it slide downward again.
***
Something the size of a marble went inside me and started moving up and down within, while the nail of a finger brushed me right in the center, in exactly the right spot. I couldn’t understand how she managed to do both things at once, wedged in as she was, with hardly any room to move her arm. I only knew pleasure was rising in waves and that it was getting harder and harder to breathe without anyone noticing.
My breathing turned frantic. She must have felt it in my body, because she started moving it inside me more often, in and out, while still pressing up top. I squeezed my eyelids shut and sank my teeth into my lip to swallow any sound. The carriage braked, lurched, and each jolt pushed her fingers against me a little more.
The orgasm hit me all at once, silently, with my whole body rigid and my forehead resting against the shoulder of a stranger who didn’t notice a thing. I clamped my thighs together without being able to stop myself. When I started to relax, still trembling, the marble went back to wandering over my clit in slow circles, stretching the shudder until I had to part my legs a little to bear it.
A metallic voice announced our station. There was no time for more, and I was left half-finished, my body still on fire and asking for more. Yamila pulled her hand out from under my clothes, put the candy in her mouth and rolled it around with the stick, thoughtful.
—It tastes really good —she said, as if commenting on the weather.
***
We got off the train and let the crowd carry us toward the exit without saying a word. We climbed the stairs, went out into the street, and the fresh air hit my face like a slap that brought me back to reality. My legs were still trembling. My cheeks were still burning.
Yamila stopped in front of me, came closer, and kissed me on the lips, brief and sweet, tasting of strawberry.
—Next time —she said, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes— we’ll switch roles. You owe me one.
And she walked away without waiting for an answer. I stood frozen on the sidewalk, watching her go with a sway of her hips, certain that I was looking at her, knowing I wouldn’t lose sight of her until she turned the corner. And I didn’t.
I got home with one single thought in my head. I locked myself in the bathroom, leaned against the cold wall, and finished alone the orgasm the train had denied me, imagining it wasn’t my hand but hers, that it wasn’t my fingers but that candy slowly working its way over me. When I finally felt satisfied, I opened my eyes and, almost out of habit, sucked my fingers.
They tasted like strawberry.