An Ode to Women Who Selflessly Produce Erections on Lonely Train Rides

14 Nov

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An Ode to Women Who Selflessly Produce Erections on Lonely Train Rides

 

            “A few minutes after I thought of Rita, her private and extraordinary quim, I was in the train, bound for New York and dozing off with a marvelous languid erection.

–          Henry Miller

 

            Consider this: sitting in solitude; bound to the seat of a moderately crowded subway train car; dozing succulently amongst all that lack of space – when all of a sudden your serpentine appendage slithers loose into the area separating the skin of your thigh and whatever cloth is constructing the set of pants you’ve chosen to wear on that particular day. You look across, you look to the side, you look to the other side. You monitor your surrounding area to seek the cause of this occurred bouleversement; this disruption from the former slothful tranquility between your loins.

            Consider this: at first all you see are elderly black women reading their pocket-Bibles on their long train rides back home, back to work, back home, back to work – predictably adrift as a cradle. Then, like arcana no longer enshrouded, you see her: she could be a brunette, a blond (dirty, colored, or natural), ginger-haired, or possessing a too-faded-to-adequately-evaluate-placement-within-a-standard-color-codex hair-tint; she could have blue, green, hazel, brown [like Lilia’s turmoil-colored irises; globose, filled with a depth for which there could be no comparison], gray, liquid, mad, vulnerable, squinted, sanguine, broken, large-as-pools-of-water eyes; she could be sitting braced, straight up as an envelope, cross-legged; the skirt taut or tauntingly rising to showcase the beach in low-tide, lower thigh revealed; she could be sitting loose, motionless or dextrosinistral in her seat, jerky or just spastic, or graceful as a debutante is taught; she could be her, just not the her you want, just the her that’ll have to do.

            Consider this: what if it will never be the her that you want ever again. What will be then? Just sit quietly and patiently enjoying the blessing of this given erection. It is all that can be done. It will not matter because soon we will all be dead and deaf; but for now – in the hunt – the willing prey is still fresh and perky, expecting or unexpecting. Feel blessed that there are still women sitting across from you; lacking features because they all eventually, inadvertently blend together, but yet they still produce something to imagine worthy of an ode.

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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