Subway, Sex, and the Porn Star
A chance encounter on the New York City subway unlocks an experience worthy of 80s pornographic cinema.
It was a hot August day in the summer of 1986 – and as I boarded the New York City subway that morning, I never dreamed I would be having sex with a porn star by day’s end.
I was a naïve 24-year-old, recently out and not that experienced sexually, heading home on a Brooklyn-bound train at the height of rush hour. Typical for a steamy summer day, the train was hot and loud and smelly -- and of course, crowded. It seemed dozens of people boarded with every stop, and just when you thought not another passenger would fit, several more managed to squeeze on.
And then I saw him. A young man so perfect, I thought, he was living proof that God must indeed exist: a 20-something twink with beautiful blond curly hair, piercing blue eyes, perfect skin, and a hunky compact body that fit perfectly underneath a snugly fitting t-shirt. I quickly thought: “What I wouldn’t give to stand close to him,” and before I knew it, my prayers were answered. The train quickly became so crowded that he was finally pressed up against me -- his shoulder pinned against my chest, the back of his hand pressed against my crotch. My dick quickly got hard inside my jeans – and I suddenly felt “exposed,” wondering what my fantasy-boy would do if he suddenly realized that he was the cause of the raging hard-on bulging inside my pants.
I remember thinking how happy I’d be if this moment lasted all the way to Brooklyn (hell – I wanted it to last the rest of my life). I longed to touch him, but I didn’t dare -- besides, the train was so packed that I could barely move my arm. I remember how incredible he smelled (was it cologne? Shampoo? Or maybe just the smell of sex?) All I knew is, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. Yet he played it very cool, and just stared straight ahead, not looking at me for even a moment.
Finally, as we reached Times Square, something amazing happened. As the train emptied out, neither one of us moved, and his hand still lay firmly pressed against my crotch. He took this as permission to amp things up a notch. Slowly, discreetly, he began moving his index finger up and down the length of my dick, which was still bulging inside my jeans. He began to glance at me through the corner of his eye, and a mischievous smirk grew across his face. As the train raced downtown, we were suddenly playing this private, naughty little game, to which every other passenger on the train was completely oblivious.
“Talk to him, get his number,” I remember thinking to myself, but I was too overwhelmed to say a word. Suddenly, it was his stop. He exited and glanced over his shoulder, waiting for me to follow. I didn’t need too much prompting; there was no way I was letting my fantasy-boy get away. A minute later, we stood on the subway platform, engaging in small talk (“What’s going on? What are you up to? Do you live around here?”) and before I knew it, I was following him up to his place.
As we entered, I quickly realized this was no normal New York City apartment. The room was a wide-open space, with almost no furniture, except for a few large pieces of equipment – which I soon realized were film-editing machines.
As we stripped naked, and I embraced him from behind - my hard dick pressing against his butt - I noticed the room’s walls were covered with movie posters of hunky shirtless men. The editing machines all sported large screens, all parked on a movie’s still image. One was a close-up of a young man, who looked exactly like the boy I had just picked up. Then it dawned on me: it WAS him. This was no “normal” edit room. All these movies being edited were PORN films -- and my fantasy-boy was the star of at least one of them.
You’d think I would have stopped and asked him “What’s the hell’s going on here? Are you a freaking porn star?” But the sight of this gorgeous boy, now naked in my arms, was just so much, I could barely speak. “Fuck me,” he moaned. “I want that big fucking dick inside me.” As we fell to the floor, our naked bodies intertwined, he quickly spread his legs, and I remember suddenly feeling inadequate; this guy was clearly much more sexually experienced than I was, and it wouldn’t be long before he figured that out.
As I thrust myself into him, he moaned loudly – so much so that I nearly covered his mouth with my hand. I remember thinking: “Am I really that good? Do I really know how to fuck that well?” And then it hit me: were all these moans of his simply performative? Were they the same moans he had done for the camera just the day before? Was this really happening to me? It was all like an out of body experience -- like I was starring in my private little porn film -- an ultimate fantasy with a plot so far-fetched, nobody would ever believe it. Yet it was happening – and there I was: naked with a porn-star, and the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life.
Minutes after we were done, he was on the phone, arranging his next appointment, and I was back on the subway, headed home – my head still spinning after my crazy afternoon tryst. I could still smell the scent of his cum on me – at first a lovely reminder of my insane encounter – until I suddenly felt “exposed” once again. People on the train seemed to be staring at me. Could they tell? (“I recognize that smell, you goddamn slut. It’s porn-star cum! You ain’t foolin’ nobody. Couldn’t you at least shower before you headed home…???”)
For years to come, whenever I rode a crowded train and a sexy man boarded, I fantasized about being pressed up against him, with him stroking my hard cock through my pants as no one else noticed. Maybe he’d invite up to his place for sex. It was a fantasy that played over and over inside my head for years -- like my own private little slutty movie -- hotter than any porn film I’ve ever seen, or probably ever will see -- even if I ride crowded subway cars every day for the rest of my life.
(Submitted by a subscriber of The Sapio Files.)