Blow Me, Hipsters

Taking the train to see Blanche D’Almonds is always a trip.  I saw a grown midget, schlubby foreign students, and a sexy hipster Jew in the station alone.  Also at the station was a group of what I assumed was college boys.  They had books out and were studying something.  One was super cute and another was fuckable.  I sat near them for a hot minute, and then a random old pervert made his move.  He started chatting them up and asked if they could help him activate his phone.  Old dude had a five dolla phone from the two dolla store.  The boys (and I say BOYS now because in the course of eavesdropping, I learned that they were HIGH SCHOOL SENIORS at a nearby Catholic boys’ school) claimed they didn’t have a phone themselves which would be needed to make the call to activate the phone.  The old perv kept talking to them, but I moved to start the line.  I made sure to be first in line because I’m ocd like that.  I saw some adorable little black girls whom I’m pretty sure were named Tia and Tamera.  Then there are the butt-ers.  I FUCKING HATE YOU.  I openly glared and judged them.  They are generally white entitled bitches from the suburbs.  They just saunter up to the front as if that’s the thing to do.  At least they didn’t try to get in front of me, because I will rape you to death with my words if you even TRY that shit with me.  I am not the one.  I’m also not the one to sit next on the train unless you are a sexy guy, then please, take a seat).  But I wanted to be left alone on my trip to Chicago today, so I placed a bag on the seat next to me, put on sunglasses, and closed my eyes.  This usually works, and it seemed to do the trick today.  Then this group of Apple-product-toting zombies boarded the train.  UGH.  OH and one of them is Australian.  What’s worse than an American hipster?  A foreign hipster.  Anyway, this group of maybe six kids randomly had a tall, muscular, sexy motherfucker in a hoodie and faux glasses, true to hipster style.  I’d hate fuck him.  They all started filling in the extra seats in my area, but thankfully left me alone.  Then before I even had the chance to put my headphones on and ignore the world, the hipster girl one seat up and one seat over turned around and indicating the unoccupied seat next to me, asked “can I sit here to be closer to my friends?”  I would normally be a pansy ass faggot and say SURE, GO AHEAD, DO YOU NEED MY SEAT TOO, I CAN MOVE!  But not today.  Oh no.  I scrunched my face into a combination of contemplation and disgust and shook my head without saying a word.  The hipsters were flabbergasted.  They couldn’t believe that someone would deny them, white privileged wannabe-alternative kids from good families in the suburbs of Chicago, ANYTHING.  The Australian said “did he just say no?”  And then I was over it.  I couldn’t deal with it anymore because I was concentrating so hard on not laughing in their faces.  Come to think of it, I should have.  But I quickly put on my headphones, looked out the window, covered my mouth with my sleeve and silently laughed my ass off.  This is a momentous day.  Not just for me, but against hipsters everywhere.  I deny you.  YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER ME.  I really hope I’m gassy on this train, because I would love to punish these jackasses.

It Will Be A June Wedding

Let me tell you about my boyfriend. His name is Mark. Mark R. I first spied him across the waiting room at the train station, and my heart leaped the instant our eyes met. It was love, lust, and devotion at first sight. He was busy with his computer while I pulled out my camera, putting the zoom lens to good use. Who knew that those few snapshots would one day be on the first page of an album labeled “Mark & Dan” with a heart around it? He looks like a cuter, healthier version of someone I once had a crush on. And more Latino. His surname is Latino, and there are hints of it in his features: bushy eyebrows, pouty lips, and always looking like he has on a trace of eyeliner and mascara.

After my impromptu clandestine photo session, he got up to use the rest room. If I were braver, I would have followed him in there. But sadly my bravery is relegated to other areas, so there I sat alone. Upon his return, he made his way to the line that was forming for the train, and it took me a couple minutes to follow. By this time, I was intimately familiar with the back of his head. He’s perhaps 5’11”, with a touch of muscle on him. His chestnut hair doesn’t have any product in it, and it’s apparent he hasn’t had it cut for some time. It has a sexy casualness about it that cannot be contrived. His outfit does rather confuse me: tan suede miniboots, stylish grey jeans, and what looks like a walmart uniform-issued blue sweater. It works on him though. His ass looks great in the pants. I got a peek at his underwear when he briefly sat down in line: the waistband and material indicate either briefs or boxerbriefs. My money is on boxerbriefs.

The doors open, and everyone spilled toward the train, not minding that there was a line in the first place. I made haste, and cut off several people to stay close to him. An extremely large man with nails too long for my taste and dreadlocks stayed between us, but I wouldn’t let him get in my way once on the train. The odds worked to my favor, and there were the perfect number of occupied seats. Mark sat next to a window, and I stopped in the row next to him. I saw a completely vacant row down the train, but I pretended not to notice it. Without even asking, I sat next to him. He immediately closed his eyes and slumped toward the window to sleep. The way his plump lips separated in slumber just a touch makes me burn. His two-day scruff only added to the lovable effect.

I was hoping that he would remain dozing when the man came for our tickets so I would have an excuse to oh so gently jostle his shoulder. Or should I go for the leg? That’s more intimate but more forward. When the agent came for our tickets, I hadn’t signed mine yet, so he handed me a pen. I do so on the iPad on my lap, and it seemed Mark hadn’t signed his ticket either. Instead of handing him the surface to write on, I scoot closer and indicate that he can just write on it while it’s on my leg. I swear I could feel every brief stroke of the pen through the layers of electronics and denim. It burned me, and I am convinced I will forever have his name written into my right thigh. He said “thankyou,” in the kindest voice I have ever heard. No pretense, just golden honey flowing to my ears.

Now he slept , arms crossed on his stomach, head tilted toward me. Thank goodness for that. I want to kiss his eyebrow, his eyelid, his gorgeous cheekbone, that endearing nose. Those eyelashes are two miles long and denser than a paintbrush. I want to run my lips over the stubble on his jaw, memorizing the planes and angles and noting where it gives over to the complete softness below his eye. His sleeves are slightly pushed up, and I take in the moderate amount of hair on his tan arms. His tan is absolutely natural of course; it’s just his complexion. I can tell that if I were able to peek down his shirt, I’d find chest hair. Just what I like.

I’ll leave him be for now. He needs his rest. When we stop in Chicago, we’ll both have time to kill, and find ourselves in a coffee shop. We’ll talk for hours, but it will seem like only a few minutes. His eyes will have a glow to them that I’ve never before encountered. I’ll want to nuzzle in the cleft of his chin. At one point, he’ll softly take my hand for emphasis while telling a story, but he won’t let go. His hand won’t feel sweaty; which is a wonder to me, because my hands always sweat when clasped with another’s. We’ll grudgingly part ways to go about our weekends, and it will hurt. We’ll hug goodbye: things are too innocent right now for a kiss, though we both want it. It will be a lingering hug, very tight at times, with rubbing instead of patting. It will be the kind of hug where our cheeks are pressed against each other, and the scrape of our facial hair is titillating. Eyelashes will brush against eyelashes, making me swoon. Apart for the weekend, I will feel empty the whole time, like I've had a part of my spirit removed. When we’re both back in town, we’ll meet; and this time it will start with a kiss. Then we will plan our future together, smiling and laughing. Because I know this is what will happen, I let him relax in peace on the train ride. We have an entire lifetime to live together after all.