by Sondra Pazzo
(05/05/04)
Is it the prickly legs of a hungry insect, or the dancing of fingertips over my skin? What normally would startle me, doesn't. It feels good. Very good.
She sat in the worn seat, with her pillow upon her lap, staring out the Greyhound bus window. He sat close -- too close. Much too close for two people who only met as they ascended the metal stairs onto bus #632 headed to Cincinnati. But he did it anyway.
And what harm? What actual harm could it really cause, to touch? To touch in secret places hidden in secret spaces while ignoring one another’s faces? Who will care?
Beneath the rectangular puff of cotton and goose feathers, another advance was made. Determination took control of the spider-fingers, which appeared to have a mind of their own within each of their five digits, but with one common goal.
Amazing -- I could stop this right here. Smack the face of the faceless stranger and utter the proper, “Well I’ve never!” into the air and leave his fingers to fondle the threads of the tattered seat upon which I sit.
But I don't.
One inch, two inches...four inches...six. Her skirt rose under the pillow where only the goose feathers could observe in heightened anticipation.
Why don’t I stop the five fellows that freely fumble flirtatiously? Like they own me? Like they belong beneath the billowing pleats and bulky pillow?
“Stop, I say!”
The words stuck in her throat as one of the five fellows found their way around her thigh and under the elastic of her Victoria Secret panties that she got five for twenty-five dollars. He played the elastic just right. Caressing the flesh beneath as if massaging from the elastic’s harsh squeezing. It felt good, once again. She knew it and so did he.
And no one can see. Not a soul. The pillow took care of that and he everything else. But I must stop, mustn’t I? I long for outside counsel to offer unseduced advice. “Excuse me nice lady across the aisle, sleeping with your very unattractive husband, I presume. Mustn’t I cease this activity? This obvious insanity that we are told throughout our lives that we must never partake?”
But as the digits drew deeper, desire drenched her better judgment. Every little kiss of his fingertips fleeted fittingly, completely capturing the correct location with each stroke—each brush—each immersion.
Why mustn’t we partake in the pleasures at present? We are advised against such acts based solely on one account -- it is pleasurable. And so be it, may pleasure prevail!
As the slow thrusting began, she looked around. The interior was dark, as was the exterior as the bus rolled somewhere over the Virginia-Ohio border. Inhabitants rested to their rhythm as the twist of the transport’s axels turned in unison to their pulse. So she closed her eyes.
What...does he look like? How...oh...can I let this...ah,happen? Oh...
...that’s how.
She thought this a few times but then gave into the tempo of the five fellows, a five-piece band in itself, playing a masterpiece that was yet to be imagined. An uncharted hit that was yet to reach number one. But given time, and energy, its bounded destiny was just moments away.
The patter of rapid raindrops now brushed upon the window, drawing her attention momentarily to this distraction. Their wetness fell in unison with the metrical penetration deep within. The moisture created by his flesh and her desire creating a slight sound of excitement, camouflaged by the splashing sound of the tires as they entered and retracted from each pothole upon Route 71.
Then the bus sped up. Ten or so miles per hour over its habitual speed, to pass a slow going Winnebago, as she felt a surge begin. Slowly, slowly it built as the rain from the black sky and slosh from the enormous tires splashed upon the side of the metallic bus exterior. He knew. He felt her thighs tighten and widen at the same time.
Who’s looking? Who cares...
She didn’t and he didn’t. And the lady across the isle with her snoring, drooling husband didn’t. So she spread her legs further. She felt his hardness under her right hip as she placed her right leg over his lower torso. She wondered what the stiffness looked like, but knew she would never know.
Beyond the drenched glass of the bus window, car lights appeared. Then the neon lights of a Denny’s restaurant sign lit up the horizon. Sunocos and BPs dotted the sky like floating signs signaling civilization was returning. Harbor lights calling his ship of rubber tires and silver metal home. Her journey would soon be over.
With the brightening of her surroundings, the inhabitants within the cabin began to slightly stir.
Someone is going to see...oh. They just might, and...I don’t care.
The rubbing quickened as his fingers slipped around within her panties with no particular destination in mind. But she didn’t care where they went—all directions, any movement or penetration felt good at this point. Quicker and quicker, wetter and moister she and he became together. Two strangers brought together by a Greyhound bus and a twenty-dollar pillow from Sears.
The wetness of sweat dampened her body as their rhythm became more in sync like a secret salsa dance that only they could share. She could hear his deep breathing and smell the aroma of his hair.
Head ‘n Shoulders, I think. And a hint of Dial soap.
Faster and faster they became one as her abdomen began to tightened until it finally exploded in convulsing shudders that she couldn’t stop. He continued his thrusting and rubbing until all activity from her ceased, and until a light from the lady across the aisle illuminated the interior.
Her breathing slowed as he gently helped her replace her leg back onto her side of row G. She lowered her cummerbund of a skirt and ironed it with the palms of her hands. A quick smoothing was required of her straight black hair that was knotted and damp at the roots. Her actions seemed to signal something, for the cabin bustling grew as lights were turned into the on position throughout.
“Columbus. Next stop. Columbus, Ohio,” hollered the driver in true bus driver-fashion.
She glanced out the rain-streaked window at the faintly lit terminal arriving slowly within her view. What seemed like only a moment proved to be enough time for his escape. As she turned back, he was gone. Gone somewhere in Columbus. Maybe visiting his girlfriend who is away at college, or returning home to see his parents. Or possibly returning home to his wife and two kids after an important business trip. She knew she’d never know.
But do I care?
“Is anyone sitting here?” asked a young male with shoulder-length, wavy, brunette hair and green eyes.
“No,” she responded shyly, drawing his eyes to the black bra that peaked at him from under the two opened top buttons of her white blouse.
No, I don’t care at all.
