Streetcar

byMurray©

Saturday in Toronto. Hotter than hell. I'm drinking Cuba Libres with Alexis at a sidewalk cafe on College Street in the full glare of the afternoon sun. I'm beginning to squint, so I put on my sunglasses. In the reflection on my glasses, I know Alexis can watch the clouds slide from my left eye to disappear behind the bridge of my nose, then reappear in my right eye.

There's a guy sitting on a cement tree pot; he has spiked hair and a dog asleep at his feet. The pot holds a dead sapling and a bunch of cigarette butts. The guy smokes and asks people for money between drags. I look at people and imagine I'm them. I imagine that, for five minutes each, I've been everybody I've ever seen. Five minutes from now maybe I'll be sitting with my dog, looking for spare change, thinking I've always been this guy. I'll look across the street at a man with Ray Ban sunglasses sitting on a patio, drinking Cuba Libres with a beautiful woman, and I'll hate his guts.

"Another one please," I say to the waitress. She's wearing tight black shorts, an apron, a white T-shirt with a beer logo above her left breast. White tennis shoes. Her butt's hard and firm, her legs toned. My eyes flick between her legs and Alexis', comparing. Alexis has better legs, I think, smoother but not as tanned. The waitress is taller, though, more my height. Alexis watches me stare at her legs -- or rather, she watches drifting clouds stare at her legs.

"Well," I say finally, "we could go to the beach."

She doesn't say anything. Alexis is giving me the silent treatment again. I've been a bad boy. I'm biding my time, waiting for it to blow over. I'd rather not wheedle, so I peel off a few bills, leave them on the table, and get up.

"Come on if you're coming," I say. She gets up. If she was really mad she'd have left by now. I know she's looking for me to make up to her. I owe her, she's thinking. I'll make it up to her. We pass the waitress on the way out, who's just bringing me my next drink. "Thanks," I say over my shoulder, in response to her puzzled look. We leave her holding the drink and cross College. I give the guy with spiked hair a last look before we begin walking.

"It's pretty hot," I say casually, wrapping my arm around her waist. She's stiff and unresponsive. "Mmm," is all she says.

I can feel the twitch of her short sundress under my wrist as we walk. I know how that looks to anybody behind us. I raise the hem of her dress an inch or so by shifting my arm. She pulls away sharply and folds her arms over her chest.

We turn south on Spadina to walk through Chinatown. The place is crowded, noisy and full of strange odours. Produce stands are piled with fruits and vegetables, some familiar, some exotic, all of them being pawed by throngs of shoppers.

We stop at a stall piled with zucchini. I take Alex's hand and wrap it around one of them. She lets me, for a moment, before she pulls her hand back and continues down the street. I watch the sweltering breeze flutter her dress, and pick up a zucchini. I palm it and try to slip away, after Alexis. The elderly Chinese vendor nails me before I can melt into the crowd, so I shrug and hand over a dollar. She stuffs the zucchini in a bag and gives me a lopsided grimace and my change.

I catch up to Alexis at the corner of Dundas and Spadina. She's watching the men on a large red fire truck stopped at the light. It says "Pumper No. 8" on the side in fancy gold lettering. Four men in suspenders are watching Alexis watch them. She doesn't say anything as I slide my arm around her slim waist. We continue south.

At Queen Street we get on the eastbound streetcar for the beach. It's packed, and Alexis and I give up pushing through the crunch of bodies just short of the rear doors and grab the overhead rail. I'm right behind her, sandwiched between strangers. My chest presses into her back, and my pelvis rests against her rear. I grow hard at the feel of her. At Yonge Street, a whole throng of new people squeeze on board and the car becomes hopelessly claustrophobic and hot. Alexis strains to keep her balance, clutching the overhead rail with her right hand and the back of a seat with her left. She leans forward on her little high heel sandals, her back arching just a tad, her ass pushing into me. She isn't doing it intentionally, but she knows I'm enjoying it.

As the streetcar lurches away from Victoria Street, I snake my hand down and rest it against her bare leg. Her skin is cool, soft and dewy. I slide my hand along, up the back of her bare thigh towards her tush, bringing up her skirt with it.

"Stop it!" she hisses over her shoulder. These are the first words she's spoken to me in an hour. I don't stop.

The backs of my fingers graze her thighs where they meet her rear, the flesh swelling out in two perfect globes, her panties bunched up between them. I let my big finger nestle in, pushing at her panties.

"I...said...stop it!" she hisses again, but she can't move away. Now her panties have a wet spot, and I let my other fingers join the first. I begin to massage her panties, working them up into her a little at a time. Rubbing and kneading, I push them between the folds of her labia, letting the lips emerge around the edges of the cloth as they swell. Her panties become increasingly wet, and I rub back and forth, letting the wetness spread. Alexis breathes deeply, her shoulders sagging as she exhales.

When I have her panties pushed up into her as far as I can, I rub her swollen, slippery flesh in little circles. Alex looks out the window, over the tops of people's heads. I can't see her face, but I see her squeezing the rail, her knuckles turning white.

Now I think she's wet enough, so I pull her panties to the side. I slide my finger into her wet, bare crease.

Alexis shudders and pushes back onto my finger, up to the knuckle. I follow with a second finger, in, then out, sliding along the crease. With my hand safely hidden under her dress I can finger her and look the other way, out the window, my Ray Bans betraying nothing. Alexis has dropped her head forward and slowly, imperceptibly, moves her hips in time with my finger thrusts. Now she's warming up, just as I knew she would, rocking on her toes, hips pushing against my fingers. Each push rocks the heel of my hand against my own crotch.

When she's nice and loose, I withdraw my fingers. Checking that my movements have gone unobserved by anyone, I bring the zucchini up between the back of her thighs and insert the tip.

Alexis snaps her head up with an audible intake of breath and goes rigid. Her left hand leaves the seat and comes around to find out what's trying to penetrate her. My free hand intercepts hers. She tries to look behind her.

"What the fuck are you..."

"Don't turn around," I whisper. I continue holding the zucchini just inside her. I wait for a moment, wait for her to relax and open a little more, wait for her to trust me. I can tell she doesn't really approve, but I continue anyway.

I ease the zucchini into her bit by bit, so as not to hurt, giving her time to open up and take its width. It's not large enough to be dangerous, but big enough that she'll feel every ridge and bump as it slides in.

Her hand fights mine briefly.

"Relax, relax," I whisper.

After a moment she does. I begin sliding it out, then in. She makes a funny swallowing noise at the back of her throat each time it pushes in. She holds perfectly still for the first few slow thrusts, balancing on her toes, legs taut. Then, as lubrication makes it easier, her hips move again, cautiously, back and forth.

They move in tiny spasms, speeding up, and now I worry about someone noticing, so I stop. I take my hand off the zucchini, but leave it in her. She tries to reach behind to pull it out, but my hand pins hers to her side as the streetcar jerks to a stop at River Street. I hold her this way until the car starts up again and bumps and sways across the Don Valley bridge.

At Broadview, when my hand returns to the zucchini, she's sopping. I begin to push further in. I feel with satisfaction how she begins to rock her hips against me, harder now. As she nears orgasm, she grabs the pole with both hands. Her head drops against her arms. Her jaw clenches. A couple of people stare curiously: she looks like she's about to faint. Then I feel her body rippling as her insides spasm.

She goes limp.

She straightens up again, brushing the hair out of her eyes. The car reaches Greenwood Avenue.

"You still mad at me?" I ask. She shakes her head.

The streetcar trundles until we reach our stop at Woodbine. Only then do I withdraw the zucchini. I pull her panties into place. We emerge from the streetcar into bright sun.

Free of the crush, she grabs the bag from me. She pulls out the zucchini, slick with juice, and stares at it incredulously.

"You're such a bastard," she says, and I laugh hysterically. She waves it in front of my face and hisses, "When we get home, I'm going to make you eat this!"

We head off down the boardwalk, working our way through another hot Toronto afternoon.

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