The Straphanger

It's rush hour when the uptown local rolls into Penn Station. A human tide surges through the doors. I keep my seat since there are no aged or infirm to stand up for. The lady on my left pulls out a bible lesson to read, the man on my right buries himself in the Times stock market pages, and in front of me stands a strap-hanger whose crotch is a couple of feet from my face.

New York. I love it.

I'm not in the gay life, being married and all. Still, I'm interested in how other guys are hung. The strap-hanger's trousers are snug in the crotch but loose in the leg. I can tell he's carrying his cock on the "wrong" side, to his right. He's not wearing briefs, that's for sure. It's hanging down loose, not packaged in a pouch, and it swings against the fabric of his pants leg when the car jerks sideways on rough stretches of track. He's well endowed in the dick department. Probably got the edge on me there. I imagine he's got a foreskin. I've always envied those guys. No telling about his sperm factories. I won't say mine are huge, but they're heftier than any I've noticed in locker rooms.

More people pack into the car at 42nd Street. He moves closer. Our legs touch as the train pulls out of the station and stay in contact as we gather speed. We're exchanging body heat at the point of contact. He leans so close when the car yaws that I look up at him. But his eyes are not on me. He's a little older than I am, middle thirties I guess, good looking, trim and tall, with the banded finger of a married man. He puts his hand in his pants pocket. I stare at his fingers moving around his groin, adjusting himself. The lights in the car go out and when we pick up power again his fingers seems to be taking care of an itch on his prick. When he takes his hand away it looks bigger than before. By the time we reach 50th Street it's definitely on the rise. He catches me looking at the bulge.

If I see another guy hard, I go hard too. My dick becomes painfully bent trying to move from the down to the up position. I spread my legs to let it get out from between my thighs and pull at my pants as discreetly as I can to make room for it to move up. It finds a place to lie on its side athwart my groin. I'm wearing lightweight loose weave pants and silk boxers. Anybody who's interested can tell that I'm a normally hung circumcised guy with a hard on. I catch him looking.

At 50th we get packed like sardines. His dick is getting seriously hard and he's moved so close I'd bump it if I bent down. Is he coming on to me or is he just having a sympathetic erection with me? I've sometimes wondered what it would be like to have sex with another guy, but I've never been moved to try it out. I'm surprised to find myself getting turned on by the thought of an actual sexual encounter with this guy.

Here we are, two guys with hard-ons and me in a position to suck his cock. His prick isn't much more than a foot from my face. It's pinned against his thigh by the tight crotch of his trousers. I see it throb, pause, and throb again. The crown of the head is clearly outlined so I guess he's circumcised after all. Maybe not. Maybe his foreskin is pulled back. There's a grease spot on his pants leg that I didn't notice before. Grease spot? Maybe not. Maybe it's drip from his dick. Now I'm really horny. I want to see his naked loins. Compare his cock with mine. Hold it. Smell it. Taste it. Make it come. I want to find out if his balls, his navel, his tits, his pits, his private entrance are as erogenous as mine.

We exchange glances, then friendly smiles. Our eyes lock and say yes. As the train pulls out of 50th he makes his dick throb again. I make mine answer. We play this little game all the way to 59th. At one point he raises his eyebrows and nods at my lap. A wet spot is growing there. I produce a lot of syrup. My lady ribs me about having a prick that's half pussy the way it wets when I get real hot. He hands me his raincoat to cover it up.

He takes the seat beside me when it's vacated at 59th and asks me how far I'm going.

"Hi." Deep soft voice.

"Hi."

"How far'r you goin'"? he asks.

"Ninety-sixth?" say I.

He nods. I think this means he lives in my neighborhood. I wonder how we're going to handle this if his wife is at home. But nothing can stop me now.

We're in body contact from shoulder to calf. He strokes my thigh under the raincoat lying on his lap. I stroke his. Our fingers do foreplay, masturbate, fuck each other. It's all I can do to keep from reaching into his crotch. He's looking straight ahead as if nothing's going on between us. I study his profile. Up close I see worry lines around his green Irish eyes, spots of silver in his close cut dark hair, sensuous mouth, strong stubbled jaw. Handsome. He's breathing deeply, nostrils flaring like a nervous stallion, and his jaw muscles are working. He's hot but tense, a little scared I think. A bead of sweat runs down his temple into the corner of his eye. He brushes it away like a tear. His armpit aroma is breaking through the Right Guard.

At last he turns and looks in my eyes. He's pleading. For what? I feel a rush of affection for this guy. I clasp his hand tight. My pulse is racing, my face is hot, my tits are tingling, my dick is almost out of control, and my balls are churning in their sac. My whole body feels like an erogenous zone.

On the platform at 96th he asks if I have a place. My heart sinks. "No," I have to say: "you?"

He shakes his head.

"Jesus we've gotta have a place," his voice hoarse as if he's going to break up.

I think of the men's toilet and lead the way. It's closed.

We stand in the vestibule amid the scents and signs of male spoor, out of the way of people trekking to the exit. He gets in front of me and reaches around to grope. His fingers locate my prick, squeeze and stroke it through the fabric of my pants. He takes my hand and guides it into his pants pocket. But there's no pocket. What's there is a big naked prick.

This is the first time I've touched another man's cock. The sensation is even more thrilling than touching the female's sex because it's like feeling a different version of myself. His is fatter, flatter on the topside, and, most sensuous of all, it's uncut with a tit of extra foreskin at the tip. I slide the silky skin over the shaft, across the ridge of the glans, back and forth. This is the most erotic thing I've ever felt.

I grope for his balls. They're already drawn up tight to his body, one on each side of the base of his dick. Much rounder than mine, more compact, surprisingly cool in his warm crotch.

The train moves out. The last stragglers leave. I unzip my fly and pull down my boxers until the waistband is under my sac. My cock is standing straight up like it does on very special occasions. He strokes the underside with his fingertips. I stand to his rear with my hand through his pocket groping him while rubbing my prick against the seat of his pants. The material is too rough. I reach around his waist, unbuckle the belt, pull his pants down, and move my dick and balls across his bare butt. When I poke at his ass, he maneuvers to get my cock between his legs, spits in his hand, reaches down under his balls to stroke it, and then circles his fingers to make a tight ring behind the head.

While I play with his prick I hump him, thrusting in the tunnel between his anus and his sac, sliding in and out of the alternative cunt he's made for my cock. It's as slippery as a woman, a lot tighter, and his hair makes the friction intensely exciting. The tiled walls in the vestibule magnify the wet sounds of fucking. I get so close I have to stop and use all my willpower to keep from shooting my load.

I've heard that the head of a natural penis is a lot more tender than a cut one so I'm gentler with him than I would be with myself. Still he flinches a little when I massage his bare glans. I remember a film of solo sex scenes showing an uncut guy with a retracted foreskin getting off by barely tickling the sensitive spot under the mouth. I try this on him. He responds ecstatically so I keep it up until he commands me to stop. He's breathing hard and deep, his cock is twitching, and I think some semen trickles out. When he comes back from the edge he takes my hand, clamps it around his shaft, and starts thrusting in and out of his foreskin like it was his own personal cunt. I fuck him between the legs in the same rhythm.

When was the last time I made love standing up? I lick his sweaty neck, suck his earlobe, whisper things in his ear as if I'm with a woman. He turns his head around. We kiss hard, open our mouths, and fuck each other with our tongues. I break and tell him to let me go, I'm going to come. He takes his hand off my cock but makes me hold my fist tight around his with the foreskin pulled back. I feel the jism surge up the channel on the underside of his shaft just as my orgasm starts. Looking down over his shoulder I watch the sperm spurt out of his cock and while my own spurts out of his crotch. That's the most erotic sight I've seen.

Our orgasms have not fully died out when the sound of an approaching train comes down the line. We barely manage to get decent before it rolls into the station.

We stand there in a daze as people move past us, going home. He averts his eyes, says "I've gotta go" as if to himself, and walks away.

Then he stops and looks back. His expression is unreadable. He comes back, gives me a bear hug, then heads off again.

Once again he stops. He looks back at me, then down at my feet, nodding for me to look. Glistening on the platform floor is the seed we've sprinkled around. Now he grins, raises his fist in a salute, and disappears in the crowd.

I take a walk to wind down and collect myself. When I get home I duck into the bathroom. My boxers are still damp and reek of sex. My hand is still a little sticky with his come. I sniff and taste it. This gets me aroused. Adding my spit I use the residue of his juice as a lubricant and jerk off. Afterwards I put my fingers in my mouth and imagine sucking him off. I wipe my jism off the floor, stuff the boxers in my bag, wash my crotch, put on some jeans, and go to the kitchen to help with dinner.

"Something wrong?" my lady says as we eat.

"Nah, it's just that time of the month," I joke.

We make love that night. It's sweet but not fulfilling as it normally is. I lie awake for a long time, unable to stop remembering the hour that began at Penn Station and ended at 96th. Not just the sex. The parting, too. Especially the parting and what it said.

When I wake in the morning it's like a dream I had in the night. I've slept late, it's not a workday, and I'm rested. I feel normal again. Lying on my back buck naked in bed, I have an erection and its not because I need to take a leak. I throw off the sheets and make it wave at my lady when she comes in with coffee, toast, and jelly. She puts them down to play with the little man dancing up and down on my belly. We have a toss in the hay. The dream has gone away.

But it was not a dream, and it did not go away. Looking back now, I can see that it was the beginning of the end of my straight life.

written by j335

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