Summer Fantasy

Wake up hard as hell, my dick tenting the bed sheet like it's trying to pitch a friggin' camp. I peel off the sheet, strip of the PJs, and stare at the ceiling. It's not even 10, and my room's already an effin' oven, the damp August heat pressing down on me like a horny priest. An old table fan just pushes the hot air around and fills the room with a static hum.

Everyone's gone off to their 9-to-5, got the place to myself. I yank my sorry ass outta bed, stretch, stagger down the hall, pee, stagger back. The sign on my bedroom door slaps me upside my effin' head. Gabriel! I stand there a beat, scratchin' my balls, then go in and flop back down, grab hold of my hardon, start a slow jerk.

Gabriel, that's me. To some, Gabby. Gabs to the few friends who think they know me. Nobody really does. Named after my great grandfather. Named after that effin' angel. I'm anything but. I guess there are a few babes and a few guys that would say I'm an angel, if ya catch my drift.

Twelve years of catholic school and then two years away at college. Design and art. What the fuck was I thinking? Now I'm back in my childhood bedroom in Dorchester, the crucifix above my bed watching me beat off every morning. The irony isn't lost on me. I lay here, guilty as sin, Jesus lookin' down on me.

The thing about growing up Catholic is that guilt. That guilt follows you everywhere, even into your own head. Especially there. Sister Mary Francis would say I'm going to hell just for the thoughts I had last night--about the guy at the corner store with the tight jeans, and then later, about the girl on the T with the see-through blouse. But hell seems worth it when I'm in the moment, when I'm watching someone's lips wrapped around my cock or when I'm buried deep in someone else's heat or when I'm workin' my meat like I am now.

And the funny thing about guilt is, it's kinda' like the weed I'm about to smoke. In time, exposed to enough of it, you work up a tolerance. Damn, I've felt guilty so many times I've built up an immunity. Most things, minute, ten max, forget about it. Pleasure trumps anguish every time.

Maybe I was just letting off steam after 12 years of Catholic school. Thing is, left to my own devices, I just can't resist my vices. I was partying more and studying less. This golden boy crashed and burned. Lost my scholarship. It was time to call it quits. That's one guilt I can't shake off. See, I'm not a total asshole!

Shit, I've been this way since foreva', or at least as long as I can remember, getting turned on by pictures of tits in National Geographic or adds for underwear or bikinis in the Sunday paper. Later, finding out about Playboy and Penthouse. Shit, I couldn't help how good it made my cock feel.

Then, when I was around ten, me and some friends found a stack of porn mags in a dumpster at the freight yard, shit got fuckin' nasty. We sat down at the tracks, smokin' our Winstons, passin' those porn rags around, our rascally, prepubescent minds blown by the explicit images. That's when I realized I got hard looking at both the men and women. The other guys never knew. Nobody did. Not until college, when I finally acted on it. What can I say. Babe, I was born this way.

I thought about some of my favorite images in those old porno mags. Images of hard cocks, spread pussies, threesomes, blow jobs, cum splattered bodies, wet, open mouth, tongue kisses, chicks gettin' fucked every way imaginable all shuffled through my head. Fuckin' A, man, those were some good times. We were such fuckin' hooligans.

Enough with the brain yoga, it's wake-n-bake time! Haulin' my ass outta bed, I rise and stretch, muscles popping. I grope for my toiletry bag in the top drawer of my desk, then with my dick gripped tight, I drag myself down the hall to the shitter. The cool touch of linoleum against my bare feet is a brief respite from this hellish heat.

Flick of the switch, the bathroom fan groans to life. I splash some water on my face and size myself up in the mirror--eyes looking like stoplights from too much weed and not enough sleep. Nineteen years old, blonde hair sticking to my forehead, pinkish tan lines from yesterday's trip to the Charles marking my skin.

Unzipping the bag, I fish out my pathetic stash, the discards that I've bummed off friends or roaches I've snatched. Packing a small pipe with just enough green for a couple of hits, I spark it up. Strokin' my hard-on, I hold in a lungful of smoke until my head spins before exhaling into the fan's draft. Rinse and repeat, then douse myself with dad's Old Spice to mask the dank smell. Leaving behind only the hum of the fan as evidence, I tuck away my gear and shuffle off towards breakfast.

In the kitchen, I haul the gallon of milk outta the fridge, take a few gulps to cool down. I make myself a quick breakfast of eggs, Pop-tarts, and iced instant coffee. Sitting at the table, I stare out the window and watch the cars and the people pass by, fantasizing about the day ahead. Unemployment gives you time. Too much of it. After college, I spent a few weeks looking for work before giving up. Now I spend my days wandering the city, secretly hunting for thrills while telling my parents I'm job hunting. They're disappointed but patient. Good Catholics.

After cleaning up, it's back to the bathroom to brush and wash my face. For a moment, I think about just staying home, getting high, and jerking off. But today feels like it could be something. The heat, the restlessness in my bones, the way my skin seems too tight for my body--it all points to one of those days where somethin's gotta give.

In my room, I rifle through my drawers for something to wear. It's too damn hot for much. I pull on a pair of cutoff jean shorts, frayed at the edges, so short they're damn near crawling up my motherfuckin' ass. Up top, a beat to shit BC tee, the neck stretched out and hanging loose. No underwear. Goin' commando! I like the feeling of the rough denim against my junk, the possibility of someone catching a glimpse.

I eyeball myself in the mirror on my closet door. The shorts make my package look bigger, my tanned legs look longer. The tee's loose enough to flex the tan I've been frying myself for. I look hot as shit. Fuckable? Hell yeah. I snatch my wallet and keys, cram them into my pocket with a couple crumpled bills I've been hoarding. Ain't much, but it'll get me through the sloppy-ass day I've got lined up.

Out the door, the wet heat hits me like a slap. August in Boston is brutal--humid, sticky, the air thick enough to chew. But I love it. The heat makes me a little looser, a little more desperate. Skimpy clothes stick to skin, revealing shapes usually hidden. Inhibitions melt away in the summer swelter. I love it!

I walk the few blocks to Ashmont station, sweat beading on me, my mind already racing with possibilities. The city is my playground, and I know all the best spots. Like Filene's Basement, where the air conditioning makes nipples hard under thin fabrics, and where sometimes I catch a MILF or some dude watchin' me as I walk along the racks. Boston Common, where college boys play frisbee shirtless and secretaries eat lunch with their skirts hiked up for relief from the heat. And of course, the Combat Zone--those few blocks downtown where the rules don't apply, where sex is currency and desires aren't questioned.

The train pulls up, and I get on, feeling the artificial cool of the air conditioning wash over me. I take a seat, spreading my legs just enough to be comfortable, just enough to draw eyes. The car is mostly empty--a mix of housewives headed downtown to shop, and kids like me with nowhere better to be.

My mind drifts to my final destinations: Filene's first, then the CZ and The Scene, a God forsaken sleazy dump with the cheapest private viewing booths. A quarter gets you five minutes. Last time I was there, I watched a flick where a woman serviced ten men in succession, their faces contorted in pleasure as they took turns with her. Damn, if I didn't cum twice for just fifty cents! Gobbled up all that nasty fuckin' cum!

I'm getting a goddamn boner just thinkin' about it, squirming in my seat, enjoying the pressure of the denim against my stiffening cock. There's a fucked-up rush I get being horny as hell out in the open, teetering on the edge of polite society and straight-up filth.

Damn train lurches forward, the familiar rattle vibrating up through the vinyl seat and into my tailbone. I settle into a corner seat, the plastic sticky against my bare thighs. The car isn't packed--Tuesday mid-morning means no rush hour crowd--but there's enough people to make what I'm thinking dangerous. That's when I see them, sitting right across from me: two hot honeys, dressed like they just crawled out of a music video. My mouth goes dry, and I feel that familiar tightening in my groin, like a fist slowly closing around my insides.

The train rocks side to side as it picks up speed, the wheels screeching against the rails. The sound should be annoying, but today it feels like the soundtrack to my racing pulse. I shift in my seat, angling my body for a better view of them.

One's a redhead, her hair a copper waterfall down her back, catching the fluorescent lights every time the train jerks. The other's blonde, but not like me--platinum, almost white, cut in one of those new wave styles, shaved on one side, long on the other. They're dressed like Madonna wannabes--the redhead in a black lace top that's practically see-through, her black bra visible underneath, a short denim skirt riding high on tanned thighs. The blonde's in some kind of oversized mesh shirt, slipping off one shoulder to reveal a hot pink bra strap, tight white shorts hugging her ass like they were spray-painted on.

I'm not the only one who's noticed them. An older businessman in a wilting suit keeps glancing over his newspaper. A teen boy with a Walkman has turned down his music, his eyes fixed on them from behind dark sunglasses. But the girls either don't notice or don't care. They exist in their own bubble, a world where they're the sun and we're all just planets in their orbit.

The redhead leans over to whisper something to her friend, her top gaping open. I catch a glimpse of cleavage, the shadow between her breasts dark and inviting. The blonde throws her head back and laughs, the sound cutting through the rattle of the train, her throat a long, elegant line. As she laughs, she places her hand on the redhead's thigh, just below the hem of her skirt, her red-painted nails stark against the tanned skin.

It's innocent, maybe. Just friends being physical. But my mind doesn't do innocent. My mind takes that touch and runs with it, imagining those red nails sliding higher, disappearing under denim, the redhead's breath catching, her legs parting just slightly...

Fuck, this boner's tryin' to escape. Too soon, I choke it back and look away, like a goddamn saint. But then the blonde shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, and I'm drawn back like a magnet. Those shorts? Riding up her ass crack, revealing the curve where thigh meets ass. I'm picturing my face in there, running my tongue along that line, tasting salt and perfume.

The train takes a sharp curve, and everyone sways. The redhead falls against her friend, their shoulders touching, their faces close enough that I can see the blonde's tongue dart out to wet her lips. Are they together? Lovers? Or just friends who know how to put on a show?

It doesn't fuckin' matter. In my head, they're whatever I want them to be. And right now, I want them to be curious, adventurous, willing to take a random guy--me--into a bathroom stall or a darkened alley and let me worship them. Nah, scratch that. Let's just rip it up right here, right now, in the fuckin' open, for everyone to see.

My dick is rock hard now, straining against my cutoffs. I'm glad I chose the corner seat, where the angle hides my lap from most of the car. I press my thighs together, trying to create some friction, some relief. But it's not enough. I need more.

The redhead stands up as the train slows for a station, reaching for the overhead bar. Her skirt rises dangerously as she stretches, revealing the bottom curve of her ass cheeks, a hint of white panties. The blonde looks up at her, saying something I can't hear, and then--holy shit--she reaches up and tugs the skirt down, her hand lingering on her friend's hip. Their eyes meet, a silent communication passing between them, charged with something that makes my breath catch.

The doors open, a few people get off, a few get on. The girls stay. So do I, even though this technically woulda' been my stop if I'm going job hunting like I told Ma. But today isn't about jobs. Today is about following the heat, the want, that feeling in my gut, wherever it leads.

As the train starts moving again, the redhead stays standing, swaying with the motion, one hand on the pole, the other playing with a strand of her hair. The blonde sits below her, her face level with her friend's hips. They're like something out of a Playboy centerfold, posed just right to make men ache.

And I do ache. My balls feel heavy, tight against my body. My cock is throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I can feel the dampness where pre-cum has leaked through my shorts, creating a small dark spot. The danger of being caught only makes me harder.

I let my hand fall casually to my lap, fingers brushing over the bulge in my shorts. The touch sends electric currents up my spine. I do it again, slower this time, pressing down slightly, feeling the shape of myself through the worn denim.

The redhead looks around the car, her gaze sweeping past me without stopping. But the blonde's different. She catches my eye for just a second, her mouth curving in a slight smile before she looks away. Did she see? Does she know what I'm doing? The thought makes my dick jump.

I slide my hand further into my lap, cupping myself fully now. If anyone's looking directly at me, they'll know what I'm doing. But the car's attention is on the girls, not on the scuzzy guy in the corner with his hand in his lap.

The train lurches again, and the redhead almost loses her balance. She laughs, steadying herself against the pole, her body arching in a way that makes her breasts push against the lace of her top. The blonde reaches up to steady her, her hand on the back of her friend's thigh, higher than it needs to be.

In my mind, they're putting on this show for me. In my mind, they know exactly what they're doing to me, to every man in this car. In my mind, later, they'll find me, pull me into an empty car, and let me taste every inch of them.

I'm rubbing myself openly now, my hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes over my shorts. The risk is intoxicating. Anyone could look over. Anyone could call me out, have me arrested. But I can't stop. Not with the redhead now bending down to say something to her friend, her top hanging open, giving me a clear view of her bra, the swell of her breasts pushing against black lace.

The blonde responds by running her hand up her own thigh, adjusting her shorts which have ridden up again. Her fingers linger at the edge of the fabric, and for a wild moment, I think she's going to push them underneath, to touch herself right here on the train. She doesn't, but the possibility is enough to make me throb.

I unbutton my cutoffs, careful to keep the movement small, hidden. The relief is immediate as my cock pushes against my zipper, begging for freedom. I can't take it out--that would be too much, too obvious--but I can slip my hand inside, feel myself skin to skin.

The zipper comes down tooth by tooth, the sound lost in the noise of the train. I slip my hand inside, wrapping my fingers around my shaft. I'm burning hot, already slick at the tip. I start to stroke slowly, my thumb gathering the wetness and spreading it down.

The redhead finally sits back down, next to the blonde, their thighs pressed together. They're looking at a magazine now, something with Madonna on the cover, their heads bent close, shoulders touching. The redhead points at something on the page, and they both laugh. The blonde's hand comes to rest on the redhead's knee, casual, possessive.

I'm slowly jerking off now, my hand moving steadily in my open shorts. I keep my movements minimal, my expression neutral, like I'm just some guy riding the train, thinking about nothing special. But inside, I'm a storm of need, each stroke bringing me closer to the edge.

The train announces the next stop--Andrew. Three more until Park. I don't have much time. The girls will probably get off there too, I'm guessin', heading to the common or into the heart of downtown. I need to finish before then, need to see this through.

The redhead shifts in her seat, her skirt rising up again. She doesn't fix it this time, letting it stay hiked up her thighs. The blonde notices, her eyes dropping to her friend's legs, her tongue darting out again to wet her lips. Their faces are so close they could kiss. In my head, they do, their mouths meeting in a slow, deep kiss while their hands explore each other's bodies.

This is driving me fucking wild, I'm close to spillin' it. My dick's fully hard, throbbing in my hand, the head of my cock pushing out of my fist with each stroke. I can feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, my balls drawing up tight. I ease off, not wanting to finish yet, wanting to draw this out until the last possible moment.

The train pulls into Broadway. A bunch of townies get on, rowdy and loud, and run down to the other end. In the racket, the blonde looks around again, and this time, her eyes find mine and stay. She sees my arm moving slightly, sees the flush on my face, the parted lips. She knows. Yeah, man, she friggin' knows.

And she smiles--a slow, deliberate curving of her lips that says she approves, that she's enjoying the show as much as I'm enjoying hers. For a heart-stopping moment, we're connected, conspirators in this public act of rebellion.

Then she turns back to her friend, whispering something in her ear. The redhead glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes widening slightly before a smile spreads across her face too. She giggles, turning back to the blonde, their heads close together as they whisper, occasionally glancing my way.

They know. They both fuckin' know. And they're watching me, egging me on. The realization is too much. I feel the orgasm building, no stoppin' it now. I'm trying to keep it in check, stop it, but it's like trying to hold back a tsunami with my dick.

The train pulls into South Station, the suit gets off. Aside from the townies at the other end of the car, we are alone.

Alone, it seems the girls feel free to start showing their real slutty sides. The redhead tosses a leg over the blonde's, so she's spread open. Just those tiny-ass panties barely hiding her mound. Damn, that cameltoe's begging to be fucked, and I see a wet streak running right down the middle.

With a sly, filthy grin, I whispered "More."

They smiled, then locked eyes, and bam--the blonde grabbed the redhead, pulling her in. They went at it, mouths wide open, tongues tangling, like, full-on. Holy shit, that made me blow my load. I came, hard, my whole body clenching as I gripped myself. It was so intense, almost painful, and I bit my lip to keep quiet. My eyes were glued to them, and they were watching me, these matching looks of amusement and pure, hot arousal on their faces.

Cum spills over my fingers, soaking through my cutoffs, pooling on the vinyl seat beneath me. More than I expected, too much to contain. A muffled groan escapes me, disguised as a yawn. Fuck, man, it was awesome! The filth, the cum, out in the open on the train in front of these hotties. Wicked awesome!

The aftershocks ripple through me as the train pulls into Washington. One more stop until Park. I button my shorts with shaking hands, aware of the dark, wet stain spreading across the front. There's no hiding it now. Anyone who looks will know exactly what I've done.