Her denim shorts are short. Her ass emerges from beneath them in all its round fullness. Her legs are dark, tan, muscular, meaty, lavishly, if monochromatically, tattooed. She wears a black crop top, pulled taut by her C-cup breasts, also tattooed. And around her belly is some jewelry.
She presses her thigh against my elbow as I sit, placidly, next to where she stands. At first, I think it’s a mistake, her distraction as she listens to her “Beats by Dre” headphones. But as she sidles back and forth, as she presses her thigh against my arm repeatedly, in this relatively empty subway car, it becomes increasingly clear she’s taking something from me, she’s collecting sensations from my arm. I’m sitting still. My arm isn’t moving. But she’s engaged in something like a dance with it. She’s not humping it – it’s the outside, not the inside, of her thigh. But she’s visibly, unapologetically, collecting touch from me.
Across from me, a sixty-something Caribbean woman watches, a scowl on her face. Is it directed at me? At my molester? I can’t tell. I turn my eyes up, multiple times. She’s not engaging. I’m not interested, but I’m fascinated. This isn’t going any further, but I’m astonished at how far it’s gone.