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There is no sexier form of transportation than the train. The long smooth exterior, the seaman coated interior, and the loud honking sounds they make as they approach the station. Without that first sentence, you probably would have thought I was just talking about dongs or something. I like the way you think.

It was an ice cold January morning, and I stood at the train station watching puffs of smoke flow out of my mouth with each breath. That’ll happen when you smoke as many cigars as I have in my lifetime. Probably why they tell you not to inhale them as well.

The train pulled up to the station and I hopped on in a way that said, “I came here to get busy!” It wasn’t so much the way I hopped that said that, but the way I yelled it with my mouth. Unfortunately my mating call fell on deaf ears, as there was no one in this particular train car. Yet.

About 5 minutes later we pulled up at the next station. Standing right outside my window, wearing a bright red coat and clutching a suitcase was the answer to my prayers; some hot bitch about to get on the train.

The doors opened and so did my jeans. As the doors closed, so did my jeans. It was fucking weird.

She sat down a few rows in front of me and I strategized the best way to grab her attention.

I could cough until she turned around, but then she might think I’m sick, and no one is attracted to sick people. They’re disgusting.

I could try to strike up a conversation, but I’m not very good with words, so I would probably make like, a big, uhhh, you know like idiot or something of myself. I’d look stupid; you know what I’m trying to say!

I decided to throw caution to the wind and just take a seat next to her. Be assertive. Show her I’m a man! A strong confident man!

I stood up from my seat as dramatically as possible and felt every vain in my body fill to capacity with hot poisonous blood. I began to sweat profusely and grind my teeth together in a testosterone filled fury. The only thing that could have possibly made me more of a man was if I wasn’t wearing a Gilmore Girls t-shirt.

I stepped into the aisle and began to stomp my way towards her seat. This is how I imagined I would be stomping down the aisle at our inevitable wedding day. Nana Francine would be crying her eyes out if she saw this stomp.

I slithered onto her seat like a hungry anaconda from my favorite Jennifer Lopez movie.

“Is this seat taken, misssssss?” Bitches love snakes.

That’s when our eyes met: two beautiful, shimmering blue eyes with just the right amount of mascara and eye shadow. Her eyes were quite nice as well.

“Yes, that seat is taken!” she gasped. “You’re sitting on my bag! Get off of it!”

I had no problem moving. It was by no means a comfortable bag. It felt like there was a lot of broken shit in it.

“Is this better?” I moaned.

She looked up at me, a bit more infuriated than I would have hoped.

“Get off of my lap!” she screamed. I stopped gyrating and moved to the seat across from her.

“So what’s your name, baby?” I called her ‘baby’ because she was fucking acting like one.

“I’m not telling you my name,” she scowled. “I just want to ride the train in peace without you bothering me!” She buried her face in a Sudoku.

Needless to say, my heart sank faster than my father did in that quicksand.

“Look, miss, I’m sorry.” She kept her head down, but I knew I had her attention. “It’s just…I like you. I knew from the moment I saw you that I liked you. And I think that maybe, if you got the chance to know me, you might like me too.”

She put her book down and took a deep breath.

“Sir, I appreciate your apology, and quite honestly, I wouldn’t mind making passionate love to you this very moment,” I said in her voice, pointing at her while holding my temple, as if I was reading her thoughts outloud.

“I assume all of that must be going on in your head right now after hearing my apology, but you’re too shy to say it. Am I right? I’m right, right?” I smiled at her and gave her a chance to speak now.

Needless to say, she didn’t say anything.

She just mounted me and we made sweet, passionate love for hours. Sweaty, butt-naked love that you only hear about in Boys II Men songs, and to the tune of my Boys II Men Spotify playlist. It was like a scene from The Notebook.

Once all the sex was over and the rush hour crowd had cleared out, she told me she had to leave.

“But why?” I asked. Then yelled! Then asked again in a quieter voice.

She buttoned up her coat, brushed the hair out of her face, and lifted her bag. “Because if I stay any longer,” she paused to fight back tears, “I’ll never want to leave you.” (Note: During sex I made a compelling argument that she should never leave me and be my slave forever.)

“I understand,” I lied.

She paused in the doorway and turned to wave good-bye. Then she stepped off the moving train.

I pressed my face against the glass and watched as she tumbled down the hill and into the thorn bushes at the bottom. Pretty soon she was out of view.

That was the last I ever saw her.

Was she dead? Most definitely.

But her memory will live on every time I watch someone jump to their death from a moving train.

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