by the philosopher
Thursday, 8 February 2007
Some people are afraid of crowds. . .agoraphobia it's called. . .but not you. If anything, you find them boring: masses of people, all hurrying this way and that, looking at their shoes as they rush to some dreary appointment or another. You have actually been groped a few times on the subway, an anonymous hand taking shocking liberties with you, and your reaction was. . .boredom. How pedestrian, how ordinary. A perfunctory grab, and then withdrawal. Even the perverts are drab and colorless.
The rush hour crowd is worst of all, a million identical drones all jostling to get by, ignoring everyone and everything that doesn't impinge upon their immediate progress. It seems the more people that gather, the less human they become.
You much prefer the absorbing company, the warm intimacy of a small group, or best of all, a single individual that you can spend a happy hour with.
But, unless I am very much mistaken, your opinion of crowds is about to be greatly transformed.
2,000,000 people a day filter through Union Station, and it seems as if most of them are here now. The nervousness that you feel, while out of the ordinary for you, is justified, if you have followed my instructions carefully. It's cold, so I had you meet me wearing your warm fur coat, your favorite boots. . .and nothing else. A single layer of soft fur separates you from the teeming masses of humanity, and any frotteur who tries his luck today will hit the jackpot. So you are blushing slightly. And then you are blushing a LOT, as the first buzz, short and sharp, takes you by surprise.
"Nothing else" is not quite right. You are wearing one more item, although it doesn't quite qualify as clothing. A lacy g-string, just enough fabric to hold a small vibrator in place, buried deep within you.
A remote control vibrator, whose button is in my hands, a man you have never seen face to face.
But I said I would be here, somewhere in this crowd, and that we would play. The range of the control is a hundred feet, so I could be anywhere; I could be anyone.
You are still recovering from the first buzz, and you glance around quickly, both to see if anybody has noticed your condition, and to see who might be responsible.
That well-dressed business man, talking into a cell-phone: is his mind really somewhere else? That grungily dressed college student: is he exploring some extra-curricular interests? That cop, twirling his baton with practiced skill: is he interested in more than protecting and serving?
The second buzz makes you gasp out loud, and several passers-by look your way, thinking you are in distress, but quickly lose interest and hurry on. But one of them has not lost interest, one of them is focussed entirely on you, and the second buzz lasts a bit longer to prove it. You reach out to steady yourself against a wall.
You are beginning to regret agreeing to this little game. . .or at least you would regret it, if you could think clearly. But the bustling of the crowd, and the buzzing between your legs, make thinking difficult.
The third, fourth, and fifth buzzes come in quick sequence, the fifth one lingering for a full three seconds. You inhale sharply through clenched teeth, trying not to scream. You are now leaning with both hands against the wall, in the posture of a prisoner about to be frisked (and that thought alone nearly drives you wild), as you shift your weight from foot to foot, trying desperately to maintain control.
"Are you okay?" A hand lightly taps your shoulder, and you turn to see an attractive young man. His words don't register immediately; your first thought is to throw yourself in his arms and kiss him deeply. . .he must be the source of your agony.
But no, there is only concern in his face, a kind stranger offering to help. You find your voice eventually: "N. . .no. . .I'm fine. . .I just need to sit down."
You stagger over to a nearby bench and sit there, blushing, sweating, fidgeting. You are unaware, although anybody watching you could not help but notice, that you are sitting with your legs spread, a very un-ladylike pose. It's as if you are inviting strange contact to your most intimate parts; offering them to anybody who wants them.
Your mind is racing now. Who is it? Who has the button? You have taken a new interest in these people now, no longer drones, each of them a potential ravisher. That bike messenger, his ebon skin wrapped around wiry sinew, is he the one? The uniformed soldier, on anti-terrorist duty, muscles bulging as he hefts his gun? You never realized there were so many types of men, so many colors and shapes to run your hands across, to lick, to taste.
The seventh buzz breaks the nervous tension that has held you so far. You enjoy the sensation unashamedly, without embarrassment. You don't care if everybody sees your pleasure. . .your body is common property now.
As the orgasm hits you, you have a thought that is not a thought, but a flash of raw, ragged lust: You want to be picked up and tossed into this sea of people, to surf this swarming crowd, as a million anonymous hands. . .soft and hard, man and woman, grubby and clean, black and white and tan and brown and every shade there is. . . strip you of your coat, and grope your body, and take you, again. . .
and again. . .