I've still got it!
Last night, after inexcusably sleepwalking through most of tinellaq's game -- despite his having dragged himself there to run it after a however-many-hour workday -- I was so foggy that I transferred from BART onto the last J train of the night instead of the last N Judah, fell asleep, and was carried off dreaming toward the south end of the city.
It might have turned out still worse for me, but luckily I made an attractive enough picture slumped across the seat that, not too far south of Dolores Park, a gentleman in top-to-toe denim awoke me by running his hand up my thigh.
He was all beer-breath and rubbery limbs but, when I rebuffed him, he immediately sat up straight, got out his cell phone, and began having a bright, animated conversation in a perfectly normal tone of voice. I envied him his apparent ability to switch at will between different levels of functioning, a trick I can't manage at all myself.
Anyway, I was able to hop off the train at 30th street (as I passed my admirer, a single one of his arms assumed its previous languid posture -- the rest of him remaining upright -- and reached out to caress my flank). I walked up to Market street and there caught the N night street bus, getting home not too much after three. So I have him to thank for not ending up at the end of the line in Balboa Park and having to walk all the way back to my neighborhood.
It now occurs to me that my most recent previous brush with romance was that skinhead from the halfway-house -- who was also impressed with my charms as I huddled in the corner of a Muni train late at night, although in that case I was not sleeping but nursing a really bad stomachache. Why am I so sexy on trains?
It might have turned out still worse for me, but luckily I made an attractive enough picture slumped across the seat that, not too far south of Dolores Park, a gentleman in top-to-toe denim awoke me by running his hand up my thigh.
He was all beer-breath and rubbery limbs but, when I rebuffed him, he immediately sat up straight, got out his cell phone, and began having a bright, animated conversation in a perfectly normal tone of voice. I envied him his apparent ability to switch at will between different levels of functioning, a trick I can't manage at all myself.
Anyway, I was able to hop off the train at 30th street (as I passed my admirer, a single one of his arms assumed its previous languid posture -- the rest of him remaining upright -- and reached out to caress my flank). I walked up to Market street and there caught the N night street bus, getting home not too much after three. So I have him to thank for not ending up at the end of the line in Balboa Park and having to walk all the way back to my neighborhood.
It now occurs to me that my most recent previous brush with romance was that skinhead from the halfway-house -- who was also impressed with my charms as I huddled in the corner of a Muni train late at night, although in that case I was not sleeping but nursing a really bad stomachache. Why am I so sexy on trains?