The suit was navy blue windowpane plaid struck with thin lilac lines, cut slender like a ‘60s blade; insouciant, the jacket hung from the man’s shoulders as armor from Caesar’s statue. The man in the suit held the subway pole a foot up from Taylor’s hand. They studiously avoided eye contact, but Taylor admired the suit. It was beautiful wool. It held a sheen, like money does.
The train shuddered to a stop, throwing the man in the suit forward; his crotch mashed against Taylor’s hand. Taylor felt the wool—smooth, frictionless—and, beneath it, like a secret, a rolling. A thick rolling, ineffable and unmistakable. The suited man’s cock felt hot and real against the back of Taylor’s hand.
Taylor looked up, surprised. The suited man read his Wall Street Journal, and the train jerked forward, propelling the man. Again, his crotch mashed against Taylor’s hand. For one extra second, it lingered, pressing like the forehead of a dog—and then it was gone. They rode, like strangers.
Taylor’s stop was next. The car shuddered forward, the besuited man lurched, sleek wool pressed close, tight as a seventh-grade slow dance, the cock hot and urgent, one second, two, three. Taylor waited. The doors closed. The car lurched, the hips jutted, the pants mashed Taylor’s hand. Warm and sleek, the suit pants and the rolling cock below it lingered. Taylor would be late to work.
Chelsea G. Summers gives us a rise, as blissful as it is succinct. Come back on Fridays for Flash Friction—a literary series of brief, erotic encounters.
Illustration by Melissa Dowell.