Riding the Moscow Metro can be a nightmare, but during rush hour, it’s the only way to make it to an appointment on time. Sometimes it’s the heat. Sometimes the smell. And sometimes, it’s the Russian women who make the experience absolutely maddening.
If you opt for a car, you’ll spend hours stuck in traffic, as the city’s roads are unpredictable at any time of day or night. The Metro, as Muscovites call it, is far more reliable, but during peak hours, it’s hopelessly overcrowded. Nearly 10 million people are trying to get to work and back.
I’ve been toughened up by New York’s subway, but Moscow takes it to another level. It’s cramped, you’re pushed and shoved, and you’re forced into uncomfortably close proximity with strangers. Your neighbor might reek of vodka or garlic. The worst are the old babushkas. Their elbows are sharper than any teenager’s, and they push harder too.
Yesterday, I found myself back on the Metro. The trip to my meeting was grueling enough, and I didn’t want to think about the return journey. At least the meeting had gone well. Feeling upbeat, I bounced down the steps into the station, only to find my mood evaporate at the platform. Rush hour was in full swing, and the crowd was overwhelming. Finding space in the next train was going to be a challenge.
The train arrived, and by sheer luck, I was standing directly in front of a door. The throng behind me surged forward, pushing me into the already packed carriage. It was as tight as ever, and I barely managed to turn toward the door before getting wedged in place.
In front of me stood a tall, long-legged blonde. I couldn’t see her face, but her figure was breathtaking. She wore a short satin skirt, a fitted white blouse, and a snug little jacket – the perfect “secretary” outfit. Her high-heeled black boots completed the look. Moscow Metro rides often feel like visual torture, and this was no exception. Women here seem perpetually on the hunt for their dream man or sugar daddy. He must be rich, handsome, intelligent, and a gentleman. They flaunt their charms more than any culture I’ve ever encountered.
As the crowd shoved more people into the carriage, the blonde was pressed tightly against me. The doors finally closed, and the train lurched forward. My nose was almost buried in her neck, and I had no room to move. Her perfume was intoxicating, and her hair brushed lightly against my face. Then I felt her – her derrière, right against me. The old train clattered and swayed, and it almost felt like we were dancing.
I started to get aroused, trying desperately to control myself, but the rhythmic motion only made it worse. Was it the train’s movement, or was she doing it on purpose? Her movements were too slow and deliberate to be random. Surely, she could feel my breath on her neck. She had to know I was there. It felt like a sensual salsa dance. I wanted to hold her, to kiss her. My breathing quickened. I silently prayed for the ride to end – or maybe not, because despite everything, I was enjoying it.
The ride to the next station lasted only three minutes, but it felt like an eternity. My thoughts were consumed by her long legs, the firmness of her figure, and the satin fabric that separated us. I love satin – it feels so good. My hands, however, were pinned between me and my neighbors, making any movement impossible.
As the train slowed and the doors opened, the pressure in the carriage eased. She turned to face me. Her face was stunning, and for a brief moment, our eyes met. My heart skipped a beat. Then, she smiled – not a mischievous or seductive smile, but a soft, sweet, almost innocent one. Without a word, she stepped off the train and disappeared into the crowd.
I had to transfer to another line and continue my journey in yet another overcrowded train, suffocating in the heat and stench. But despite everything, I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.
Photo by Ivan Akimenko on Unsplash
