The #72 bus. Each morning at 5:36 it picked me up from the corner directly below my apartment balcony. Most days I was the first passenger or very close to it, and on those days I always chose the same seat, halfway back, facing forward, next to the window with one seat between the aisle and me. I had taken this bus to work five mornings a week for two years and I knew the regulars. They would board the bus as we made our way toward downtown: the woman in the support hose who smelled like bread, the three young guys dressed for light industrial work, the middle-aged man on his way home from the night shift, always with a Newsweek or Time magazine. Others came and went.
She had been taking the seat next to me for a week when I started to think we may have a new regular. She was always listening to her music, and I normally read a book, but I noticed her and after two weeks I expected her to sit next to me each morning.
I did find it odd that she always sat next to me. Well, not always — sometimes someone else would get there first, but normally it was free and she grabbed it. I didn’t dwell on it much though.
After about a month of sitting beside her, something truly odd happened. She was listening to her music and that morning, I was listening to mine too. We each had a bag on our lap, a hand on either side holding it in place. Our hands touched. Only, instead of pulling away, we just let them touch. My whole body went tense; I became acutely aware of my breathing and of everyone around us. Suddenly I noticed that she smelled nice, like moss and musk and spices. It was subtle but I realized then that I looked forward to it each day.
We rode, fingers grazing, until we reached my stop.
Then, I couldn’t get her out of my head. I thought about her all that day; I couldn’t ignore how turned on I was by the thought of her. I pictured her that night in bed, trying to fall asleep quickly so I would be back on the bus as soon as possible.
We never spoke. After that, things progressed as far as they could on a bus, in plain view, quite quickly. We were soon holding hands each morning, neither of us speaking, her listening to music and me either reading or staring out the window.
What a strange thing, holding hands. It seems like the most innocent of acts, but holding hands with her was one of the most sexual experiences of my life. Her thumb would trace my palm and I would feel myself grow wet. I began to carry an extra set of underwear to work with me. I tried to communicate to her, through my hand, that I wanted so badly to taste her, to fuck her, to hold her against me as she came. I thought she might be getting the message because she was communicating with me quite clearly as well; through her touch she showed me how softly her hands would explore my body, examining dips and curves, and the hard pressure she would employ as needed. And she continued to sit beside me and hold my hand.
Some days, she would tease me. A bare leg crossed in my direction, her hand brushing my breast as she settled into the seat, her foot on my calf as we rode. I didn’t know her name, I didn’t know where she worked. The more time that went by, the less it felt like I could talk to her. But I thought about her constantly.
The ride home was always lonely. After a long day behind a desk, it was a disappointment to ride home alone with just my book or music to amuse me. I tried a few times to take the bus at a different time; I left work early on a few occasions and stayed late — then really late — a few others. I never caught her on the ride home. I needed a way to break up my day, something to look forward to after work. So I joined a gym.
It was near my office, walking distance, and it had a sauna, which was one of my requirements, since a stint in the sauna could keep me warm for hours subsequent on long winter nights. I started going most nights after work, some nights taking a class and on others, jogging on the treadmill. I also went on weekends when I had the time.
It was a Sunday morning. Valentine’s Day, actually, though I tried not to think about it. I had spent Saturday volunteering at a Valentine’s Day food drive, and I was sore and tired from lifting crates of food. I decided to hit up the Sunday morning yoga class.
Afterward, muscles pliable and lengthened, back relaxed, I headed to the sauna. Everyone else from the class was in a rush to get to Valentine’s brunch or something, and cleared out quickly, so the sauna was empty as I stepped in, naked. I spread a small towel on a bench to one side and sat down, closing my eyes.
I was thinking about the rest of my day and how I needed to pick up some groceries when I heard someone enter the sauna. I opened my eyes and saw her standing there in front of me, just as I’d pictured her every night for almost two months now, only so much better, now real, softer, a more generous curve here than I had pictured and more beautiful definition there than I could have imagined.
She still didn’t speak. She just walked over, spread her own small towel on the bench beside me, and sat down, closing her eyes. As if we were riding on the bus again, her hand found mine, squeezing it tightly for a few seconds before she let her fingers trace the length of my arm, up and down, so lightly. It seemed to me that she intended to take it slowly, but two months of build-up was simply too much. We both leaned in. And that was it.
While we kissed, her hand traveled from my neck, downward between my breasts, and came to my belly, where her fingertips stroked back and forth. I tried to focus on kissing her, pretty easy as she bit my lip and kissed me the way I hoped she would soon be fucking me, but I did keep getting distracted by the thought that someone could walk in at any moment. I had been waiting for this long enough though that I really didn’t care.
Her body was so beautiful. I stopped kissing her and cupped her breast, tracing her nipple with my thumb. She sighed. I kissed and bit her neck, pinching her nipple between my thumb and forefinger and felt myself grow even wetter when she sighed again. I moved slowly and deliberately, well aware how incredible this situation was.
I kissed down her chest to her breast, kissing beneath it and in her cleavage and finally taking her nipple into my mouth. It was so hard. I flicked it with my tongue and let my hand move down to her thigh. Her legs were closed, and I ran my hand from her knee to her groin, along her inner thigh, pressing my fingers gently into the crux of her thighs. She sighed again, and spread her legs just a little, enough for me to rub her clit. She spread her legs a little more in response, and I could finally feel how wet she was. I slid two fingers deep inside her and rubbed her g-spot as she let out a little yelp. She was so wet, and I knew I was too.
I needed to taste her. I climbed down off the bench and knelt on the lower bench below her, between her legs. I slowly licked her pussy from the bottom up, circling her clit with the tip of my tongue a few times once I was there. Again I slid two fingers, then three inside her, fucking her as I sucked. She was squirming on the bench, fingers in my hair as I lapped at her. Each stroke of my fingers brought another, more appreciative moan, and I took her clit back into my mouth, sucking gently and licking up and down as she moaned louder. She tried hard to be quiet as she came but I felt her tighten around my fingers, her whole pussy pulsing around my hand. The taste of her combined with her throbbing cunt was probably the most beautiful moment I’ve ever experienced. I lingered for a minute or two, not wanting to withdraw or leave her taste or scent, her soft stomach. I knew that someone could catch us, so soon I hopped back onto the bench beside her.
She laid her head on my shoulder and whispered, ‘I come here every Sunday morning.’
I knew that now, I would too.
L. Sara Bysterveld answers to Lindsay (her very good reason for the pretentious pen name can be found on her webpage), aside from when she doesn’t answer at all because she is hiding from her five kids/step-kids, two partners, two cats, two rodents, two snails and one tarantula. She was voted ‘Most Likely to Publish a Book’ and ‘Most Likely to Be a Syndicated Columnist’ by her peers at her college Journalism graduation party, immediately before jumping into the pool fully clothed. She’s still working on those goals and feels reasonably confident, at least after a couple of drinks, that she might achieve them one day.
Places to find Lindsay:
text © L. Sara Bysterveld 2017
photography © Jennifer Weihmann
used with permission; ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
ABOUT THE PROJECT:
SCREW CHOCOLATE: 14 Queer Valentines To Help You Survive February 14 is a collaborative project by YYC Queer Writers. We get together intermittently to… write. Also, laud our lovers. Commiserate about our exes. Read each other what we wrote. Explain what we want to write. Try to justify why we aren’t writing it. Go home and write it. Come back. Share it… repeat.
Valentine 1: Mountains & Moments by T
Valentine 2:Karma, in Pronouns by Marzena Czarnecka
Valentine 3: The Long Commute by L. Sara Bysterveld
Valentine 4: It Happens Like This by Dana Stanley
Valentine 5: Try by M. Jane Colette
Valentine 6: Sunrise by Brooke Nicholas
Valentine 7: Want by T
Valentine 8: Get The Fuck Up & Love by Dallas Barnes
Valentine 9: Elizabeth by Nola Sarina
Valentine 10: Instructions by PW Zelli
Valentine 11: Unmentionables by Alyssa Linn Palmer
Valentine 12: The Shy Girl’s Guide to Sexting by M. Jane Colette
Valentine 13: Delivery by Elisa Kae
Valentine 14: Alter Ego In A Red Tie by Lotis Cervantes