CTA Celibacy

It's funny how an everyday thing can change the way you feel about the rest of your evening. On an otherwise boring bus ride to my grandmother's house, I ended up with the prime seat at the very front of the bus. Of course, despite the vast availability of similarly appealing seats, the one right next to me was immediately occupied by a statuesque vision of walking sex. I did my best to ignore his presence and was fairly successful until he discreetly rested his fingers against my thigh. My vagina began to throb and pulse like an obnoxious samba beat. All of a sudden, four months of unintentional celibacy seemed very important to me. Important in that there was a willing and able subject with which to explore the failings of said celibacy. I felt as if a lifetime of gratuitous sex had been denied me for reasons unknown, but most certainly unfair. So of course, my first defense was to try to be reasonable. He was sitting beside me on a bus with a route in a shady neighborhood for Christ's sake. He obviously didn't have a car and was perhaps even a little poor. But then of course my vagina, in it's moment of (completely understandable) wild abandon reminded me that if he could fuck, none of that was going to matter. At that moment I came up with a complete scenario that was going to play out. I was going to look down at his hand, and then into his eyes, very briefly of course, and then look away. Several French films on late night IFC have taught me these coquettish behaviors. Unfortunately, by the time I came up with this cunning plan, I was four and half blocks from my stop. I decided for the shorter version. I looked down at his hand, shook my head and looked away.
"You not gonna say nothing?"
"Yeah, why are you bothering me?"
"I've been doing this for the whole ride."
"I didn't realize it was your hand, otherwise I would've said something sooner." I know. The words "Liar" and "Pussy" come to mind.
"It is my hand."
"I see that now."
After that of course the usual name and number inquiries were made by him and for some reason, I couldn't help but laugh.
"That's funny?" He asked, with slight attitude.
"Yeah, it is." I had finally realized how ridiculous I was being. It had been more like 2 and a half months, not four. And was that alcohol I was smelling on his breath? And the red bandanna, the explicit, yet alluring tattoos? No, I think there should only be room for one Superthug in one's sexual history, and I'd already had mine at 17. And again at 18. Then again a few months later. It was a vicious cycle of rough sex and bullshit. Was I really in a position to go through that again with a whole new version of my worst affair? Not hardly.
"Give me your number so we can get to know each other!" He breathed.
"This is my stop."
"Hurry up and tell me what it is, then."
I shook my head and prepared to exit. "I don't talk that fast."
And I ascended the steps with mingling feelings of regret, posterity, and success... completely unsure of what any of it meant. I walked down the block glancing back towards the bus with the fingernail of my thumb teetering between life and death in my jaws, trying to assure myself that I had just dodged a major emotional bullet yet hardly daring believing it. The Amazing Technicolor Fraud strikes again.

END.