Memoirs Of An Invisible Man Read Online Free Page B

She sucked in her breath to let it pass. My fingertips ran onto the delicate pubic hairs. I pushed my fingers gently down and felt her hips tilt forward. She slid down a little in the seat, turning further sideways so that her head rested against the window, thereby twisting my hand backwards under her waistband. We were not having an easy time arranging ourselves on the seat. With some difficulty I extracted my hand and pulled her up until we were both more or less standing in the narrow space between the facing seats. As I pulled her toward me, she spread my shirt open to expose my chest and wrapped her arms around my torso and I felt her naked breasts against my skin. We kissed. I pushed my thigh hard between her legs and twisted my pelvis against hers.
    Half releasing her, I reached down under the hem of her skirt and slid my hand slowly up the inside of her thighs. She was leaning against the window now. I pushed the palm and fingers of my open hand back and forth between her legs, feeling her perfectly through the thin, moist material of her pants. Her legs opened and her pelvis twisted slowly under my hand. Reaching down with the other hand, I hooked both thumbs over the waist of her pants and pulled them down to her knees. She lifted one long naked leg out of the pants and, snagging them with her toes, pulled them down into a little heap on the other foot. I gently slid my fingers over the soft pubic hair and into the crevice. She began yanking open my trousers, and when she encountered the expected boxer shorts, she yanked them open too and, seizing me with both hands, pulled me erect out into the open.
    Writing this now, I see that I owe you, the reader, an apology — or rather a warning — since, knowing that every pornographic novel has a scene in a railway car, you may be misled by my adventures in that railway car about what is to follow. What does not follow — and I confess to some regrets in the matter — is a succession of sexual encounters of ever increasing frequency and acrobatic complexity between ever increasing numbers of participants. In fact, one of the rather melancholy aspects of my present situation — and far more melancholy for me as protagonist than for you as reader — is the relative difficulty of encounters of any kind. Nor do I want to mislead you about the quality of my life prior to that day. This was not a typical scene from my daily routine. I did not often— did not ever, except on this one day — find myself in a sexual frenzy, half-naked, with a beautiful half-naked woman in a public place. If nothing else out of the ordinary had happened that day, it would still have been one of the most extraordinary days of my life.
    Or, on the other hand, you may feel that I owe an explanation or even an apology — although I am not sure to whom — for relating this incident at all. Or for the incident itself. And, to be honest, I am not altogether comfortable as I write these things down, since although on most days and in most moods I do not have particularly strong moral feelings about the behavior of eagerly consenting adults like Anne and myself, I understand that there are a great many other points of view on the subject, and I generally disapprove of offending any of them unnecessarily with public displays of sexuality or emotion. I am not at all an exhibitionist — although this may seem a rather empty boast given my present condition. I have no idea what possessed us that day. Rather, I know exactly what possessed us, but not what happened to the usual inhibitions and moral scruples. I am not sure why, that day, we were standing half-undressed in that railway car, in a sexual delirium, gripping each other’s private parts and shoving our tongues into each other’s mouths. But we were quite alone in the railway car: we had not seen anyone since New York but the conductor, and him only once. And the various feelings we had for each other were probably quite strong. There was