Subway Story: Hand to Behind

The woman didn’t yell or scream she just tried to move back. There wasn’t much wiggle room on the 5:15 D train as it sped from 59^th St to 125^th St. She never expected to get a seat after all it was rush hour. But she did expect to get off the train without having a hand go up her dress. This was New York and anything could happen on the train.

Embarrassed by the invasion and trying to keep that “nothing can bother me cause I’m a New Yorker” face she could hear her mother’s voice wafting in her head. “What do you expect when you wear such short skirts? They wanna look and if they can they gonna feel.”

 It had been a two fold invasion. First the hand had slapped her butt at 42^nd St. causing her to jump and look around. She was near the center of the cabin holding on to a pole with both hands, an old trick she had learned since her first days in NYC 25 years ago. Two hands on the pole and you created more space for yourself. Obviously it wasn’t enough since this wandering hand had smacked her bottom with too much familiarity. It was hard to see who it could have been the sardines were packed so tight. After scanning the faces all of them lost in thought, listening to headsets, a couple holding on to the metal strap with their eyes closed she realized she wasn’t standing close to any males. Did one of these women get off on slapping her ass? She hoped gay women didn’t take liberties like that on the train.

At 59^th St as the car was held in the station to add more strained souls to the uptown train ride she got pushed to the left and almost lost her two hand hold on the pole. She remained firmly in her spot, feet slightly apart so as not to fall when the train pulled out of the station. But as she took her stand she felt something strange between her legs and almost snapped them closed. The hand got as far as her inner thigh when it disappeared. She still stared at the women around her. Was someone managing to crouch down in this sea of people and actually stick their hand that far up her skirt? No one near her had moved. Was there a midget in the car playing havoc with those who hadn’t noticed his diminutive stature and pushed him around? Maybe it was her imagination.

Then she felt the hand again. On her butt, under her skirt. It rested for a second before it went flying out. Someone must have caught her assailant. She turned to look around at the faces. All of them unmoved save one. That face was looking down and frowning. Frowning at something below her and making silent angry words with her lips. She looked up into our victims face and said: “I am so sorry” then looked back down again.

Our victim pulled on her short skirt and followed the frown of the angry woman. Almost lost beneath the skirts and coats was a small boy, no more than four. He was wide eyed and unapologetic with a look of mischief painted to his smile. At 125^th St. the train began to empty and his mother held tight to on hand while he touched the behind of another departing passenger with the other.

“Will you just stop it?” The mother yelled and the boy nodded as she drug him away from anything that looked feminine.

“What a monster.” An older woman said as she plopped down into one of the few available seats. “She got her hands full with that one if he’s touching women’s behinds already.” She emphasized the ‘be’ and a few of the passengers nodded.

Our victim stood at her pole and looked about glad she had not actually been accosted by a sexual predator. Was the child just playing, seeing what he could get away with or had she been the first victim of sex fiend in the making?

When she got off at the next stop she adjusted her skirt before getting on the escalator that took her two flights to the station’s booth. Walking up stairs wasn’t a problem except she was beginning to feel very naked in her outfit. Conscience of its shortness she waited until every one had climbed the stairs to the street before she made the short jaunt. No wolf whistle or curse from her mother could have made her put her short skirt away, but a four year old with cruising fingers could. Dresses this skimpy were better for dates.

Then she wondered where did he learn to do it? Was it from his father teasing his mother? Or did he see someone do it on the train? Was that pervert still out there?

She knew she would have to take the train as long as she lived on the isle of Manhattan and wasn’t rich but she also knew she wasn’t going to be that kind of victim. She rushed home swearing never to wear a short dress on the subway again.