I’m on the platform of crowded Shinjuku Station in Tokyo, waiting for the Limited Express to Yokohama, when the 7:20 p.m. train arrives promptly and impatient commuters scurry for available space. A new Haruki Murakami novel in English translation from Kinokuniya Books remains firmly in my grasp. An efficient, uniformed conductor in his mid-30s packs us in tightly before doors shut and the train leaves quickly for the southern suburbs along Tokyo Bay.

Circumstances present a young Japanese woman standing directly before me, facing the door, and there is little room for movement. I’m the sole gaijin (foreigner) in the vicinity, yet no one takes any special notice.

Train etiquette in Japan discourages most social discourse; even cell phone conversations are taboo. I imagine that the faceless woman before me is in her late 20s because of her soft, black hair, and the pleasing scent of Calvin Klein’s Euphoria along her neck and earlobes. She listens to an iPod nano, and wears a short dress at mid-thigh with long high-heeled leather boots. My cock is already hard and this embarrasses me a little.

The woman moves back slightly, right up against my chest and at once endows me with new hope. Lately I’ve nursed the typical heart-ache over a busted affair and I’m still swallowing down my disappointment. Yet my unidentified companion instantly stirs me to persistent arousal. It’s good to be alive, I acknowledge in age-old male fashion.

With discrete audacity I use my free hand to massage the young woman’s derrière and, surprisingly, she offers no resistance. In fact, she is compliant and the absence of panties is apparent with each continuous stroke of my adoring palm. I love this physical trait of a female, yet this young woman’s ass is perhaps without equal. My enchantment is profound.

The crush of people around us is unavoidable as the Limited Express speeds toward Yokohama, zipping past one platform after another of commuters waiting for the local train. As my hand attends to the cleavage of this young woman’s inviting ass, working its way toward her moist labia, I can’t help but recall a snippet of Auden’s As I Walked Out One Evening:
“You shall love your crooked neighbor
With your crooked heart.”

Many British can’t forgive Auden for his defection to America in 1939 – but his gift survives it all.

In this moment I do love my neighbor, and for encouragement she widens her stance by a fraction. The evidence of her approval is clearly on my fingertip. There is nothing as delectable as a wet cunt.

It’s true, I have fingered many women. I have fucked most partners, yet only loved a few. Funny, how I think of only you as I finger this stranger on the train. But, I do. I think of how I love you – still.

Obviously I’m in an Auden mood, and with revision I think:

“You were my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

Ten minutes from Shinjuku the conductor announces in English our arrival at Yokohama Station, and the Limited Express glides to a smooth stop. Before the compartment doors spring open, I withdraw my finger reluctantly from this strange young woman. My hand is enveloped in the exquisite smell of her unique femininity. She doesn’t bother to acknowledge me and disappears quickly among the crowd.

None of this means anything. What matters is that I still look for you everywhere I go.

erotica, sex, sex blogs

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