The White Overall - Sex Stories

The White Overall

... She was one of those subway vendors to make a seemingly easy buck that involved standing around for hours and being crushed by waves of people spilling out of trains and storming to appointments that they are late for. But now it was night. They were all peaceful, calmly awaiting their bed at home.

For half an hour, she waited in her seat. Now was her time to get up and walk out. The platform was empty and abandoned. She climbed up the stairs into the pitch-black of the night. A dollar store was on the corner, a 99-cent pizza place was still open, and a store offering to buy any gold was shuttered. You knew right away that you were in a poor neighborhood because all the signs were old and dirty. The sidewalk rim was cracked all over. Cars blew through the intersection. From somewhere, she could hear the dum-dum-dum-bam of bachata music playing. She was in the Little Republic, the largest Dominican community outside of the island at the northern tip of Manhattan.

Most people had left the street already this late in the evening. That was a good thing. Rachel was Puerto Rican. Usually, everything was fine, but sometimes she got called unpleasant things. There was friendship and rivalry between Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, the dominant Latin groups in NYC. She preferred to get quickly off the street. A discomfort was in her belly. With quick steps, she walked uphill. The terrain at the north tip of Manhattan was wavy like the land didn't want to be flat to make it easy ...

... to cover it with buildings. A lonely traffic light played with itself changing the colors and shining the colors out into the night. A compact car blew down the street blaring bachata music. You could feel the island everywhere here. There was a flag in a window. There was a sign for a breakfast place offering sancocho.

Her breath got more winded. The barren trees got more elaborate crowns as she got higher up. Looking back, she could look down the straightness of the street to almost see the Hudson River. In the near distance at the peak of the hill, a wave of bachata music reached out to her and invited her. A door standing open with a golden glow flowing outside and lighting up a circle of people standing outside.

She approached and entered their circle. On their cheeks, she could see the joy. The cheeks were bunched up round from smiles. Sparkles were in their eyes. They had the bachata fever. Their bodies were hot and humid, almost venting steam into the cool night air. Quick words flashed over their lips telling how excited they were. The man at the door whistled an "oh la la!" A forbidden cheer in American culture because it constituted sexual harassment, but up here it had the sound of appreciation and celebration of femininity. She felt the wave of tingles running over her body in all the spots that she felt she was being evaluated on. And the warmth in his voice made her feel good about herself. She felt the research-in-the-basement identity slipping off and ...