Archive-name: Places/parismet.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Paris Meeting


It was the end of the month of May, a Wednesday, about 6:30, in the metro.
It's extremely uncomfortable to take the metro then, because of the enormous
crowds in all the cars--pressed against each other, sometimes in direct contact
with people less clean... I had no courses that afternoon, and I had gone
to Paris to shop in the big stores.

Coming back, I had an adventure which, even in  my  imagination, which
is sometimes quite lively and a little crazy, I could never have invented.

I got on at Chaussee d'Antin, direction Levallois; I was thinking of changing
at Saint-Lazare. Terrible crowd, packed cars, you push as hard as possible in
order to get into the car. Outside it was very hot, and it was hotter in the
metro, so I was wearing a mini-mini-skirt and a blouse; no underwear, as
always, but a bra, very light, which didn't hide much of my chest.

I was carrying a paper bag in my hand with a sweater I had bought, and I had
my handbag over my shoulder.

I climbed into a car and was pushed toward the back by all the people who
wanted to get on behind me; when the door closed, we were all packed like
herrings in a can. I thought of a song that I heard one time: "If We Could
Unpack the Sardines."

My arms were trapped against the length of my body. I could not make the
slightest movement, held fast in front, behind, to the right and the left by
other passengers. I was almost against the back door of the car; there was
only one other person, behind my back, between this door and me.

In my unhappiness, half-asphyxiated, I found that I was in luck, because the
people surrounding me seemed nice, as far as I could tell by appearances. By
chance, after everyone pushed on, I was left facing, as squashed as I was, a
woman about my age with a face sort of like mine. We exchanged smiles which
seemed to say "We can only suffer in patience."

The metro moved about a thousand feet or so, when I sensed very clearly a hand
behind me, placed on my buttocks. This sort of thing had never happened to me
on the metro, although my friends have told me of having such "attacks," from
which they vehemently recoiled, but I thought they were lying, because I had
never been the subject of such "adventures," as they say.

But there it was. A hand, firmly pushing against my buttocks. You should know
that it isn't my nature to protest against a thing like this--au contraire.
By contracting the muscles of my behind, I tried to make understood to this
hand, that I appreciated its audacity.

But whose hand was this? I knew there were three men behind me: one immediately
behind and another at each side. Which of the three? I didn't dare turn around
in fear that the man would take my movement for a rebuff.

After all, it wasn't important whose hand it was. I was delighted that this
was happening; I forgot the extreme inconveniences of the metro at 6:30 in
seeing, or feeling, the enormous advantages that came with it.

The hand caressed my behind, constantly. A well put together hand, moving
with gentleness and firmness. I closed my eyes in order to better taste this
caress, and I don't have to tell you that I began to get rather wet. The metro
would be on time to the next station, so not too many people would get off.
For me, in this mood, there was no further thought of changing at Saint Lazare,
if the hand continued its work.

I was hoping the hand would dare to go under my skirt. I was pressing myself
more and more backwards, in order to better make understood my accord. The hand
moved more quickly and firmly on my behind.

The metro entered the next station. When it stopped, the hand grasped my
buttocks, and rested on my behind, without caressing me.

Happily, at this hour, when 10 people get off, 10 more get on. The shuffle
literally plastered the woman in front of me against me.

--Excuse me, she said.

--That's OK, I said. There is nothing you can do.

I tried to tell her with my eyes that I did not find this disagreeable. Her
pelvis seemed overly pushed against mine, with respect the rest of her body.
I did not object to that. That day, the metro seemed to bring me everything
at the same time.

As soon as the metro started up again, the hand went directly under my skirt;
I imagined the man's joy in finding I had nothing on underneath; the hand
didn't have to go down very far in order to pass under my skirt, of course.

Between my thighs, the man lost no time, burying his finger in my vagina, which
was all wet; he moved it quickly, right away. I closed my eyes again, and
opening them for a few seconds, I saw the face of the woman in front of me. She
was observing me curiously, becoming aware that something was happening. 

This finger in me and the excitement it gave me made me lose all prudence; 
I moved my pelvis forward and backward, almost instinctively, imperceptibly,
but enough that the woman felt it. She pressed more strongly against me, and
began a light, oscillating movement. A wonderful pleasure was born--enhanced
by this special situation--I managed to slip my free hand up against the lower
pelvis of the woman and, outside of her skirt, I felt for her clitoris to rub
it; her eyes were smiling at me.

Fabulous. A finger in my sex from behind, and my finger caressing a woman in
front of me, right in the middle of a crowd, who might discover everything,
and cry out in scandal!

I was going to climax, I knew this, surrounded by dozens of blind people.
If they could only have guessed...

At the next stop, the three of us continued as if nothing were happening.

I imagined the man and the woman were as excited as I was, and had also
abandoned all prudence. But how could we fear being noticed in this crowd,
if we kept a certain minimum of apparent calmness and impassiveness?

The woman's dress was a maxi with buttons in front; I easily unbuttoned the
one above her sex--because I wanted to touch her skin--and passed my hand
through the opening and placed it on her panties.

They didn't cling. I moved my finger between the cloth and her skin, and my
finger reached her sex; a lot of hair, but I quickly found her clitoris
and her very wet vagina. I wet my finger there and started to caress her
seriously. Now, she closed her eyes. 

I looked nonchalently around me, and saw people who seemed to be ignorant of
everything that was happening, each with eyes fixed in front, lost in thought,
no doubt.

Solitude in the crowd. Liberty to do everything without being seen; more
easily perhaps than in open countryside where one never knows if, some distance
away, behind a tree or a window, a man or an old woman is busy watching. 
(I am not against exhibitionism, but I like to choose my voyeurs.)

Three stations already. I decide to go to the last stop.

In me, this finger is moving, always; pleasure builds little by little
within me; a new pleasure, unknown till this moment, coming as much from
the finger of the man and the sex of the woman as from the place where we are.

The finger excites me terribly fast. My climax comes in three seconds,
brusquely.  I hold back a scream with great difficulty and bite my lips hard.
I have rarely come so quickly. Normally, this pleasure grows in me gradually,
gently, arriving at the paroxysm more slowly; but here, everything came in
three or four seconds. Incredible!

I began to caress the woman in front of me furiously, and I sensed her about to
come too, under my finger. A sexy one, for sure. But no more than me! Her eyes
flutter, then totally close; I begin to take back my hand when she reopens her
eyes, extremely gently, and stares at me:

--Again.

Incredible. This word she has just pronounced galvanizes me, and I begin to
caress her more beautifully. I regret she cannot return this. I took the
risk of making us noticed, because I never knew whose hand was in me, but I
hoped it would continue to caress me.

But the man took back his hand when he felt, by the pressure of my buttocks,
that I had climaxed. It was finished, I sensed.

Once more the metro stopped, at Malesherbes, nearly the last stop. The car
would stay full. So much the better.

Why did the man stop caressing me? Was he satisfied? Did he only want to make
me climax? I knew that sometimes men could come this way too, by simple
intellectual excitation, and that after this, men lost, for a certain time,
all their erotic ideas...

But I was wrong to make this of it. The man hadn't climaxed. Not yet. Then
he did something that was difficult for me to believe, at first. I sensed
between my thighs, no longer the man's hand, but his penis. I was sure that it
was that, but for two seconds, I told myself that this was impossible. He would
not possibly dare to do this! He could not have done this in such a crowd!
Or else, he was completely crazy. But what a marvelous fool!

I continued to caress the woman, having decided to make her come at least as
strongly as before.

I knew now it could only be the man directly behind me who could take his
penis out of his pants and lift up my skirt and put it between my thighs.
I tried to spread myself more to make the task easier.

The man clung strongly to the lower part of my skirt, and he pressed himself
as straight as possible against me. He only let me move very lightly forward
and backward, which gave me a chance to caress his penis, rubbing
between my legs.

In front of me, the woman swooned, her eyes happily closed. Except for that,
our neighbors would certainly have noticed her condition.

The metro entered Wagram station. Few people on the platform. Few people
would get off here. Three people got off, two got on. Perfect, we were still
deliciously crowded. The metro left.

Immediately, the man put his penis in my vagina. Marvelous! It was of normal
length, but with an rather imposing diameter, it seemed to me, from what
I could feel inside me. It seemed impossible to me, now, that the men on
either side of me sensed nothing. I glanced to the right and the left behind
me, and I saw the eyes of one man fixed on my buttocks. They were seeing
everything. And they said nothing. Metro, Liberty is thy name!

Secure in all these complicities, the man moved in me, scarcely discretely;
in front of me I caressed the woman, who in turn, passed a hand under my skirt
and caressed my clitoris, while introducing her finger in my vagina, with the
man's penis. No one could come more strongly than I did. I came continuously
between the Wagram and Pereire stations. I came like a crazy person. At this
hour, the metro moves in slow pauses, because ahead, the track is not totally
free. It sometimes even stops between stations. I came for about 3 minutes,
continuously, and fantastically. I no longer knew where I was, and I didn't
know how--a sort of instinctive desire kept me from screaming--but in part
because of this, I moved my hips as much as possible.

Behind, the man makes love to me savagely. At one moment, a finger in my anus.
Is it his or one of the other men? I do not know. And that isn't important. 
I want all of the people in the car to touch me, to fuck me, to kiss me, to
lick me, to crush me, to caress me, to rape me.

And I caress the woman: still masturbating her clitoris, I bury two fingers in
her sex and she comes intensely, too. She bites her lips, and under my skirt,
her frenetic finger translates these sensations.

The finger in my anus enters me deeply and marvelously, but this big penis
in me gives me an inexpressible pleasure.

A little before the Pereire station, while the metro was slowing down, the
man held me plastered against him, strongly, and pulled violently on my skirt. 
I couldn't budge, not even a half-inch, and he came in me in long hot spurting
jets, leading me to inacessible summits. I had believed in this before that--
in the great climax.

I was exhausted, and surely would have fallen over if the crowd around me had
not held me up. The woman under my fingers came again, wetting herself
insensibly. My fingers, my hand were entirely engulfed in her liquid of love,
which flowed down the length of my arm. I withdrew my hand and dried it a bit
against her skirt. Her eyes said "Merci," with excessive sincerity, and I
wanted well to believe this. (I believe I caress in a more than excellent
manner, and I take pains to caress other people particularly well.)

The finger withdrew from my behind and the penis left my sex, my warm sex, 
almost as soon as the man came.

It is over, and I have just known an unforgettable sensation.

--You get off here? a voice behind me asked.

--No.

I spread my legs out. In front of me, the woman gave me a small glance of 
complicity and turned around to get off, while the man who was behind me 
passed in front of me, giving me the very slightest attention.

Incredible! (I repeat this adjective often, but remember the circumstances!)

Truly incredible! He could have looked at me. Looked for my face. To see who
he fucked. No. He went by quickly. Incredible.

"Are you getting off here?" he asked another person ahead of him.

I hadn't even seen his face. I only saw the back of his neck. The long hair
on his neck. He had blue jeans and a brown leather shirt, under which I saw the
collar of a colored shirt. He wasn't very tall, about my size, no more. That
had made it easy for him to fuck me standing up, from behind, without gathering
too much attention around us. I had nothing more of him, than his hands and his
penis and the sound of his voice when he asked "Are you getting off here?"

No, I'm not getting off here, and what good would it do to follow him? 
His attitude invited nothing, and what would we say to each other?

The train stopped. The door opened: Pereire. Five or six people got off in less
than a minute, among them the woman that I caressed and the man that fucked me.

And incredible! I tell you that is the only word that fits. I see the two of
them join hands and walk off the platform talking and smiling. The man kissing
the woman on the neck. 

The metro leaves. I see the face of the man. Blond, gentle features. I find
him beautiful. He is no more than 23 years old, I guess.

She and he, two little gentle lovers, one would say. The people who have met
them, the people whom they are meeting and the people whom they will meet,
would take them for two little young adorable people who simply love each
other. And in fact, that seems to be the case. She and he, conniving together,
made love with me in the middle of the metro. The two of them seem like little
angels. 

What is behind the face of each one? And the people hiding behind the wise
faces of this man and this woman, are they exceptional? Isn't it the same thing
for the rest of the world? And for the next man who passes? What of the dream
of the next woman to cross your path, a little farther on? What will you think
of and what have you done, you who seem shameful? What do all couples hope for?
What do their faces hide?

Open yourselves, faces. Speak to me. Tell the truth, impassive eyes. With whom
do you like to make love, all of you? And how? And where?

We have only illusions about people, and if we do not read, we guess past the
faces. 

I think again of the two men who are still behind me and who "witnessed" this.
I dare not turn around. But I do not wish to dissimulate. I want to be youth
who dares, who has no shame of her body, who considers that making love is
marvelous at any moment, who wants to live all lives in one only, and who wants
to do all that she wants without blocking and repressing in her, later having
thoughts which she would not dare explain.

I turn around and look at the two men to the right and left. They were each
about 40, suit and tie over a white shirt. They could be brothers. I see other
men, suit and tie and white shirt, the uniform of city life.

The two men avoid my look. One reads a paperback book. The other pretends
to be interested in the headlines of a paper being read by a woman six feet
away. Look at me. Have the courage to look at me. I know that you saw. This
evening, if they are married, they will make love to their wives and think
of me, I am sure. But here, they pretend they saw nothing. Poor men. When
I get off the train, they will make out my silhouette on the platform,
undressing me through the windows of the train. 

So, get off. There is nothing to do with them. None have the courage to do
what the man just did, even if they often imagine that. And if they reprove,
then they should have protested. Capable of nothing, I tell you.

What a marvel, this little metro trip. I feel a little sperm sliding gently
between my legs. Incomparable memories of the extraordinary climax that I had.
I go near the door. The metro stops. I am going to get off. Between my thighs,
wet with sperm and my own juices, I still feel the man's penis and the woman's
hand. I put the hand that caressed this woman to my lips, and the wild odor of
her sex assures me that I was not dreaming. A certain aphrodisiac. 

Now I am on the platform. This is not a transfer station, Porte Champerret,
it only remains for me to leave again by the opposite platform. This I do
in an other worldly state, lost in the memory of what just happened, my body
annihilated by happy fatigue. Going the other way, the metro is almost empty.
Going back, I think over my voyage of eroticism and climax. I go over
these unforgettable moments in my mind.

--