Have you ever met a stranger’s gaze on a subway car? That’ll be your first mistake. That’s how it’ll start. You’ll be wearing something a little too loose or a little too short. It’s boiling hot out; it’s natural to show a little skin. But then you’ll meet my predatory gaze and wish you had covered up more. You’ll feel vulnerable. Exposed.

And then, suddenly, I’ll be way too close. Invading your space. Obviously breaking social boundaries but ignoring your discomfort all the same. Just like an asshole would. I’ll be sitting next to you or looming over you and you’ll try to cover up a bit better. I’ll pretend not to be peeking down your shirt. You’ll know what I’m doing but you won’t do anything. Who would help you anyway? This is America. You’ll wait for your stop. That’s your only hope.

Until an uncontrollable shiver is running down your spine: someone’s hand is on your thigh. It’s mine. You feel that pang of fear deep in your guts. Chewing on your insides. You’ll panic. But silently. No one notices. No one cares. You’re too scared to do anything anyway.

And it’s already too late. The moment passed. You had your chance. Now my hand is moving up your thigh. Almost sensual. Teasing a bit. Now another hand is draped across your shoulders. Fingers lightly, almost imperceptibly, flicking a nipple. Jesus Christ, how many more stops!

But then it happens. The train slows. You get up. You feel the giddy hope of freedom. You don’t dare look back. You don’t want to know if I got up, too. Eyes forward. Walk fast. Don’t look.

That’s the basic plan. I’m a white collar professional by day and depraved pervert by night. I want to make it real. I’m white, 6’0” and conventionally fit.

If you’re going to message me, be interesting and know what you want.