By Amy Grech

My penis rears its ugly head when I least expect it. I'm not always thinking about my girlfriend when I feel my pants tighten. Sometimes, hearing my ex's name uttered by someone during the course of a conversation or smelling her perfume on a total stranger is enough to set me off.

When a crowded E train finally pulls into Penn Station, I push my way on, and somehow manage to find a seat. A brawny man with a shaved head and beady, black eyes stands in front of me. His penis is as large as a brautwurst, bulging in his tight, black leather pants. I usually don't eye other guy's goods, but it's kind of hard not to when it's inches away from my face. I close my eyes and try to picture him pumping hard in and out of my ex-girlfriend, Sandra, while she holds on for the ride moaning and writhing beneath him. Thinking about it creates a bulge between my legs, which I cover quickly with my briefcase.

Brautwurst Boy gets off at 50th Street, and I watch a short, stout woman with enormous breasts wearing a red dress that leaves little to the imagination take his place. I adjust my focus, so it looks like I'm staring into space, even though I'm staring right at her. I doubt she'd notice though, since her eyes are glued to the pages of Spin. I close my eyes again and picture Sandra's breasts next to this woman's. After a moment, I decide there's no comparison: Sandra is more than a handful, but Short and Stout is two handfuls and then some! I fight the urge to reach out and give her tits a little squeeze in front of all these people on the subway. I manage to overcome my desire, though it's hard to deny my throbbing cock the release it so desperately craves much longer.

I am oblivious to nearly everyone around me, with the exception of whoever ends up standing in front of me. The subway itself is merely the vehicle through which I experience virtual bliss. I don't know if it's dirty or clean, whether it reeks of piss, spilled beer, or both.

The woman standing in front of me is my only concern right now. Short and Stout is flipping through her magazine, struggling to find a certain page before her stop. Her pale, blue eyes are wide, and her full lips are parted slightly. Seeing her there, gripping the metal bar with one black-and-white gloved hand and holding her magazine with the other makes my head spin. I rub my eyes for a moment, grappling with my senses. She gets off at 53rd and 5th, shutting Spin abruptly.

I wait for someone to take her place; sadly, no one does, so I sigh, set my briefcase down and admire my reflection in the scratched window across from me. My face is flawless --not a blemish anywhere. I run my hand over my cheeks. Smooth as my ex-girlfriend's firm ass, because I just shaved, but by the end of the day they will be as rough as sandpaper. I run my fingers through my brown hair, flattening it a bit. I look around again. My half of the car is empty. I seize the moment, sliding my hand over the bulge between my legs and start to rub, ever so slowly. I quicken my pace as the train speeds through the tunnel. When it stops at the next station, I am soaked with sweat and my crotch is wet. I pick up my briefcase and quickly set it down on my lap, hoping the spot on my pants dries before I have to get off.
Amy Grech has sold over one hundred stories and three poems to various anthologies and magazines including: Apex Digest, Bare Bone, City Slab Magazine, Funeral Party 2, Inhuman Magazine, Midnight in Hell, Shadow Writers - Volume 2, Spider Words, The Book of Dark Wisdom, The Horror Express, The MagusZine Space & Time, The Three-Lobed Burning Eye Annual Vol. III, Zombie CSU, and many others. Her novel, The Art of Deception, is available at . Two Backed Books published her collection, Apple of My Eye. She is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association who lives in Brooklyn. Stories are forthcoming in Dark Visions and the anthology. Visit her website: for a good fright.