The mirror
was flawed and distorted my torso, making me, I am certain,
much heavier. I had stood naked for some time, contemplating my
forthcoming dinner engagement with a new secretary in the neighboring
law
office. I was excited by her walk. I stood trying to decide which
suit to wear
for the day.
It was a Saturday, I remember clearly. I had gone in a little
late to tie up
some loose ends and make an appearance. I knew my presence would
be
noticed, if just for a few hours. It was already hot and Baltimore
muggy. The
walk to my stop left me soaked; another oppressive day in the
long Baltimore
summer wrapped around me like a rubber suit. Sigmanns, Engalls,
and Roth
expected our legal uniforms to be impeccable; foresight had furnished
a
fresh shirt at the office. I had entered my bus, crowded with
late morning
shoppers. Pushing through the firm but yielding mass I found a
sling for
support and began reading the Sun, glancing over the front page
while
thinking of the prospects for my day after work. I had apprehensions
about
my dinner engagement with Miss Thormfahl. I didn't think we would
have much
in common. I glanced around the bus, looking for familiarity among
the
sweltering crowd, then down at my right shoe, the lace of which
refused to
stay tied. Agitated, I stared at the loose strands lying in the
filth of the
public carrier and the naked, dirty toes almost touching my shoes.
From the
floor, she drew herself up on her knees, her arms stretched behind.
Slowly
her legs slid apart. Resting her head on the cushion, her hands
guided him to
her. Her fingers grasped firm, squeezing, pointing the way toward
warmth:
penetration. With her hand between her legs she moved back into
his
advance. They coupled until her cheeks pressed to his loin. His
sack, cradled
in her palm, was drawn forward and pressed against her body. The
union had
no blank spaces. He grasped her slim waist to be closer, to hold
the moment.
At the instant of solid union she recoiled as if stung by a bee.
He rose slowly
to his knees with his projection pointing jauntily skyward; he
throbbed as she
touched, feeling his firm mass. She was ready, his wet kisses
over her back,
for more. He drew her back as she guided his entry. His pulsing
head
disappeared; they were attached. She pulled him to her, filling
her more and
more until his trunk snugged to her behind. She pulled him closer
to mate
their shapes as one, her head softly cradled on the seat.
A collective sigh hung between them as quiet passion built to
lust.
Mindless animal recoils titillated their arousal. They lurched
to consume
each other, lost from the present from reality sharing
a sensual refuge
from their surroundings. Their rhythm coalesced in unconscious
cooperation. The unabashed intimacy progressed; the carnal spectacle
evolved in quicker lunges. Their bodies worked toward a single-mindedness
of
purpose. Her mantra of prolonged uoooh -- uoo -- uoooh's sang
out erotica,
hali- lujah, broken only by the meter of the impact of their bodies.
Time
stood still. Their swaying lurching carriage, like a boat at sea,
aided their
quest. Their search for the moment sustained turned their writhing
into a
slippery lather. They shone with a glistening as of horses run
too hard.
Lurches and quivers accompanied his orgasm. His ejaculation came
swiftly, charged with jolts of involuntary euphoria. In pulsing
moans he
dropped to the floor; they reveled in the slime of their collective
passion.
Dripping from their labor, they beamed at each other with accomplishment.
We lurched to a stop. My shoe lace, still untied. More passengers
boarded, pressing even closer, compounding the heat of the day.
As I
stumbled to make room, my vantage disappeared in the jostle. I
heard a
scream: someone must have stepped on them. I hung from my strap,
dropping my paper as I strained to see. I heard more screams as
someone
pulled the bus-stop cord. A large Negro woman, dressed in black,
rose from
her seat. With her umbrella, she began poking at the prone figures.
The
clubfooted woman in her forties and the young hunchback wriggled
on the
floor of the bus as we barreled to the next stop.
The passengers were incensed and fell upon them, kicking and screaming.
I watched their misshapen bodies writhe in the filth of the bus
aisle floor. A
wad of chewing gum stuck to his elbow and she lay in a slurry
of semen and
cigarette ashes. The black woman landed a square blow on his still
erect
penis; the hunchback recoiled in a shriek. Snatching clothes,
they wormed
under the seat, covering their heads from the abuse. Next stop,
the couple
bolted for the rear door. Pushing through the crowd, the door
burst open
and the pair stumbled in their disfigurement down the steps onto
the street.
Clinging to the remains of their discarded articles, they attempted
to hide
their nudity. In a blast of diesel smoke our carriage pulled away,
leaving the
couple to themselves in the sultry Baltimore day: fall from Eden
onto
shimmering asphalt, July 24th, 1959.
In one week, I will retire, a full partner in the firm of Sigmanns,
Engalls,
Roth, and Rosenthal. I have no family and plan to move from my
brownstone
townhouse and take up a new life in Florida. The neighborhood
has changed; I
haven't felt safe. My street is not the same with the new neighbors
and the
noise of children. My investments have been good to me. With my
financial
security I plan to embark on a new life in a retirement community
near Silver
Springs. Frugality has its rewards. I have never purchased a car,
preferring
to ride my bus these years.
Since that hot Saturday morning, I must confess, I have looked
forward
to my commute to work each day. There has not been a day in my
professional career when I have not thought of that Saturday's
spectacle. I
ride today: glancing the Sun, scanning aisles for that passionate
pair.