You’re lighting a cigarette using a thrice-borrowed lighter on its last legs. It takes four flicks and a little hope before you can coax the flame. The cigarette is one of those godawful things with the ball of menthol you smash to suffuse the smoke stick with cooling mint. It’s a ridiculous concept, but it gives your fingers something to do in the cold. The snow is coming down quietly, just a hint of what the city might endure tonight, and for now it’s beautiful. The wind sets it swirling in eddies through the air and everyone on the trolley platform watches the flakes twirl for at least a moment before the novelty sours.
You wait with five strangers for the trolley to come rolling in: a high school girl in clashing colors, a young mother and her kid, who’s bundled up so tightly against the cold that it seems impossible for him/her to move, a university kid with an overstuffed backpack, and a guy in sweatpants and a hoodie. This guy looks like he’s on a personal mission to flip off the weatherman. He must be cold, but his stance is defiant, a pissed-off supplicant in the church of “it’s not that serious.”
When the trolley rolls in you feel relief for him, if not yourself, but his expression doesn’t change once he’s seated on the train car. He looks over and catches you staring, so you avert your gaze and watch the city slide by through melting snow on the window panes. The driver announces one stop after the other and the people shuffle on and off leaving their wet tracks. You get to the end of the line and the automated announcement isn’t shy about informing you. The robotic thank you follows a stern warning to leave the premises so you get up. The guy gets up too, he gets off the train behind you and tells the driver goodnight by name. He’s got an ‘around-here’ accent and a deep, gruff voice. You catch the snowflakes melting in his dark hair before he throws up his hood again. He’s looking at you again and you’re looking at him.
But you don’t say anything and neither does he. You both walk off, he shuffles through the accumulating snow and you lose sight once you cross the street.
You get to your building, ascend the flights of stairs in the old converted school, and reach the apartment. Your roommate is wrapped up on the couch listening to jazz records and smoking pungent weed. Your greeting is friendly, but you bypass chitchat and head straight to your room to strip down and get into bed.
That guy is in your head. You see him so clearly, the shape of his body, still defined through his bulky clothes. The way the snow sat on top of his hair. His lips pursed tight.
Your hand finds you excited, already contemplating what’s next. You squeeze your cock: it jumps in recognition, in desire. You rub and it sends a shiver through you that is unrelated to the chill of the night. Your mind’s eye visualizes the bulge in his sweatpants, the way it moved, the suggestion that bare flesh was pressed up against the thick cotton. The idea that perhaps the spot of moisture on the front of his sweats might have been something beside a dissolving snow flake.
In your imagination he’s undressed on the train, sitting naked with his legs spread, relaxed and still defiant. His face hard and his swollen dick lying on the seat. The trolley is empty, the driver has shut off the train and gone home. The only light coming into the car is from the hospital parking lot across the street, it covers him in half-shade. He slowly fondles himself, his actions mirroring your own as you masturbate with your eyes closed and your head pressed back against the pillow.
The light cuts across his chest in such a way that it is bisected, one side illuminated and the other in darkness. His free hand pinches the lit nipple between forefinger and thumb, he applies increasing force against it as he jerks himself off in the dark of the train. His expression is still tight, his eyes are faraway.
Your drooling cock enjoys this fantasy, you smooth the natural lubrication into the head and continue in earnest. Your attention centers on his legs, his thick calves and thighs, the sweatpants strewn carelessly about his ankles, his feet planted against the cold floor. He’s like some atlas, unchanging in his erotic pose. Except that his body tenses slightly, his tongue flicks out minutely against his lips, it’s possible that his eyes grow slightly glassy. The hunger is on him now, his hands move with purpose and the thick cord in his forearm pulses with each stroke. His hips start to slide in the chair. You can imagine the scent rising off of him. The smell of his pubes charged with desire and friction. His sweat is thrown into relief by the light.
Your eyes are squeezed shut. You’re harder than you have a right to be. It takes work to keep your breathing quiet. You know what’s next.
He leans back in the chair, gets comfortable, breaks his studied pose. His hips are thrusting in time to his strokes. The muscles rise in his neck and his pecs are rigid. He inhales sharply and shoots. His seed arcs into the light and finishes in the dark. Each pulse landing audibly, but aside from his labored breathing, he orgasms quietly.
You do the same. You empty your balls recklessly. It shoots up over your head, it hits your face, your chest, the sheets. You keep jerking through the orgasm and it seems to take forever to end. When it does, you lie back and open your eyes. You lie there listening to your own breathing, smelling the fresh cum and watching the smokestacks billow outside your curtainless windows.
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