Saturday afternoon. A Saturday when there’s a Cub’s game so the platforms are crowded with people who seldom ride the Red Line. A mix of people, including the regulars.
I’m waiting on the northbound platform at Fullerton. Across, on the southbound platform is a typical Chicago man. Typical for a non-work day. Ball cap, sunglasses, backpack, headphones, t-shirts, gym shorts. Dark hair. Olive complected. Latino maybe. Arabic perhaps.
He’s pacing a bit. Not along the length of the platform but rather in place. I can see he’s freeballing because the head of his penis is defined by the shape of the corona and it’s creating a dick print in the flimsy fabric of his gym shorts.
I sense that he’s slightly aware of this himself because he flexes one leg a bit while the other is kept slightly bent and this keeps the draped cloth in a state of flux. It’s this back and forth with the legs that gives him the appearance of pacing.
Freeballing is a thing in Chicago summers. Likely because winter keeps us cooped up, bundled up, and essentially hidden behind multiple layers of clothing. Most likely, however, because it feels so good having nylon fabric caress the shaft of the dick. Even better when the flaccid penis pushes gently against this fabric, when the most sensitive part of the cock is stimulated by something so innocent as one’s own clothing.
Occasionally he looks down at his feet so that as he brings his head back up he can evaluate his own crotch and how prominently, or not, his dick print is showing. He has no idea that I’m evaluating this myself from the opposite platform.
What was at first barely noticeable is now enlarging and more visible. It’s caused by the alternating movement of his legs and how the nylon fabric is creating arousal for him. The head of his cock is now more pronounced, a result no doubt because of the turgidness of the shaft. This relationship exists, the relationship between the head and the shaft because the head is transmitting the sessions to the brain which is sending the signal to continue and prolong the state of arousal.
The four minute wait for the next train is now less than two minutes. All of this activity of a stranger on display during the short window of time that is synonymous with city living. Four minutes being an eternity for passing pedestrians in a city where fast-paced walking is a known commodity. It’s funny actually, that the most efficient method of movement, the trains, creates pockets of time where we are more motionless.
He’s dialed up something on his iPhone that’s desirable – music no doubt, because he’s now moving with a rhythm that’s metered and syncopated. Though I cannot see his eyes, he’s entered a state that’s more euphoric. He’s feeling the beat. His head and his upper body move in a way that demonstrates he’s enjoying himself and less concerned with those around him, though still reserved because he knows this is a public space.
This state, the state of intake from the senses…. the warm moist air of an August Saturday, the music delivered via his headphones, the nylon fabric brushing his cock, and the slightest bit of exhibitionism leaves him standing there is a state of glory and self acceptance.
As the outline of his dick becomes more prominent still, my train arrives and blocks my view. I contemplate waiting for the next one so I can watch him some more. But a southbound train will be arriving and he’ll soon be whisked away in the opposite direction.
Urban In-Fill 