Who Am I Now? - Sex Stories

Who Am I Now?

He was thinking about that rickety set of wooden stairs going up the side of the house. Rickety house. Rickety love. Then the train banked at speed and Bill listed sideways into a much bigger, dark-skinned man sitting a space away. The man hardly budged. Bill was sure he was the only one in the entire car who swayed as far as the train. He mumbled a garbled apology and righted himself again, thumbing his glasses back at the top of his nose. The man nodded without looking. Diagonally across the car was a blonde in a black business suit and stockings. Heels up to wherever heels go. They made the muscles in her calves look hard and sleek. Bill looked at her without turning his head, hoping she hadn’t seen him fall over, wishing he could rub his cheek over her stockings. With her legs inside them. She was thumb typing on the face of her phone. He was sure she hadn’t seen him fall. Sure she hadn’t seen him come, go or exist in between. Fine. He could look at her from there within the dark shadow of his own nothingness and watch lifetimes of passionate happiness spiral out from the aura surrounding her fine, corn silk hair. Fine. She was the type who belonged in a taxi instead of the subway. The train squealed into the next stop and Bill grabbed the seat before he listed into the guy sitting next to him again. A blustery pair of street toughs got on with a few more late commuters. They grabbed a pole and rode standing up even though there were plenty of empty seats. Bill ...

... looked at the floor. Then he set his eyes on the blonde’s legs and heels again. Sitting down, her skirt rode high. He wondered what her skin would smell like through her nylons. He wondered if she had a spectacular yet lonely heart, and if she were going home to lie in alone in a hot bath with a glass of wine nearby while she daydreamed of being loved by a man with a perfect soul. But no. Dreams were just those flashes of bright color in the tiny spaces between days and nights of riding back and forth from one mediocre world to another. There was home. There was the office. They might as well have been the same place, except for having to lead a different life in each one. For having to be a different person. Different… No. Nothing was different. He was the same old car parked in a different garage. Running on fumes. Then there were Thursdays and Penelope. Rickety stairs. Rickety house. Rickety love. Never once on a Tuesday. Or a Sunday. Thursday was their routine. It was dependable. Easy. They never went out, as Penelope always complained about her body and not feeling right in the kind of clothes a woman had to wear to go someplace with a man. Bill never minded sitting on the couch holding hands, eating popcorn out of the same bowl, watching romances on Netflix. One of the street toughs started flirting with the blonde. One way all the way. Not getting a response, he finally grabbed the crotch of his baggy jeans and said something about the way his dick was going to blow her ...