Friday, August 28, 2009

First Look

Friday, August 28, 2009

I’ll never forget the first time I saw pussy.

I was sixteen-years-old, on my way to the city on a commuter train. I wasn’t supposed to go into the city alone, but seeing how there’s a train station right near my house, and my parents wouldn’t be getting back home until after 8 p.m., it’s not like anyone was there to stop me.

As I boarded the train and took my seat, I noticed there was an attractive woman seated across from me. We made brief eye contact, though I was much too shy at that age to make conversation. I’m still not sure how old she was -- perhaps her early thirties -- but at sixteen that put her in a completely different category than the girls I was used to socializing with.

“You’re skipping school, aren’t you?” she said.

I could feel my face go red. After averting my gaze, a slight grin spread across my face. Looking back at her, I nodded, saying that my parents had left that morning for a funeral that was two-hours away from home. By the time the service was over, as well as the kind of “after party” at the deceased person’s house, it would be well into the afternoon. And fighting rush-hour traffic, well, that could add another hour-and-a-half to their overall commute time.

“I don’t blame you,” she added. “Besides, it’s almost the Christmas season. Not like you’re going to do anything useful anyway.”

“It’s nice to finally meet someone who understands how things work.”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, we settled into the silence of the train ride. The station near my home was about thirty minutes away from the city, with a few stops along the way. Oddly, the train itself was deserted except for us. True, it was the middle of the afternoon, meaning a majority of people were already at work.

It was then I noticed she had uncrossed her legs. At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at. Then, it hit me -- she wasn’t wearing any underwear, and I could see between her legs. It’s funny, because I had just watched Basic Instinct on late-night cable the night before. Just as I’d been aroused at the sight of Sharon Stone’s bush, I now had one peeking out from a woman’s skirt before me.

I’m fairly certain I made some sort of noise -- a gasp, a soft moan -- because the woman asked if something was wrong. As if she didn’t know what she was doing! Yet before I could do anything (or at that age, attempt to do anything), she got off at a stop before mine. Without so much as a word, she gathered her things, slipped on her coat and walked out the train door, leaving me alone in a state of stunned silence.

Whenever I take the train back home, I think of that woman. I think of how in today’s child predator obsessed-world, that woman might be labeled a sex offender, and sentenced to live the rest of her life under that national registry. Yet I didn’t feel “victimized” by her little flashing at all. In fact, it’s one of the more pleasant memories I had from my high school years, which were largely filled with boredom and melancholy. Lastly, my parents never found out about that trip to the city, let alone what I’d seen on the train. I was able to keep them in the dark (for their own good) then, and I’m still able to do it now.

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