An accidental vixen on my train ride: young girls who play.


Ah you know, they are out there. All over, if you look.


Beckoning, enticing, but ultimately it’s a gestural game because they don’t want you, and you won’t get them.




There is that implicit gamble, a wayward chance, that one in a million unfolding, that it may turn into more than just an enticement. Who knows. If you play your cards right and don’t come off as an old, desperate lecher, but instead, act somewhat disinterested, but a disinterest that issues from a confident suaveness, from blase, from apathetic cool, she might take notice.


You know she’s curious, to some degree, or she wouldn’t play such games.


Thing is, most 16- or 17-year-old girls don’t play the game to begin with because they are so wrapped up in their own chittering-chattering little giggly worlds that they don’t even notice there is a world out there beyond the one that beams out from their phones. Most girls this jail-bait age aren’t even registering your middle-aged appetites on their underage radar. It’s not that they aren’t interested in hooking up with you. It’s that the possibility is not even a physical property of their world, this strange planet called Not Quite Legal. Most of them fall here.


But there are those, the few, the sinister, the sadistic, that know their tight little bodies are howling at your gonads with their forbidden fields of romp.


These girls are particularly dreadful. They are aware that you will do just about anything to get in their panties, and would be inclined to do so in spite of the expected condemnations of your wife, girlfriend, priest, grandmother, if it was legal and they were receptive. Such dastardly girls will spin you around and around their hot, teenage totem poles of yearning. They desire the attention and the lascivious stares they provoke from grizzled old men. Some of them will even play a game of flirt if you are somewhat cool or even average looking paired with adequate threads. And if you’re really, really good and steep yourself in PUA principles, or perhaps are a “natural,” you might be able to talk yourself into some high school skin games and you may get a taste of their silky, ecstatic nubile flesh.


But this is the stuff of fantasy.


Most of the time, it’s just a flirting game.


A hidden little duel of tête-à-tête in which you both play that primal hard-wired role. She, the young, inadvertent seductress, the accidental vixen; you, the hungry, voracious pining old man who craves young flesh like any normal man does (but fewer admit). You engage in this silliness, this incomplete exertion of stunted sexual energy. It’s exhilarating, frustrating, and a little dismaying.


On the train this morning, she entered the car after we locked glances through the window where I sat in the sideways seats.


Slender, long wavy black hair, she sauntered (the car was empty) and chose to sit in the opposing sideways-facing seats, directly across from me. Rather than sit normally where she would have to face me, she turned sideways, propped her legs up on the seats rudely (for the next passenger to have to sit there). Her pants, tight, clung to her legs which she fabulously lifted into a semi-bent position clearly in my line of vision.


One leg, she kept bent at the knee, accentuating the shape of her thigh, while the other rested flat on the bench. Profiled across from me, I played the cool, disinterested daddy. I don’t know if she glanced at me, for I never looked at her. The train sped its way toward the stop where she, and scores of other high school classmates, would exit. She wore heeled boots with buckles. The folds of her snug jeans darkened and shifted as she moved her legs. I peered out the window behind her, refusing to commit to outward desperation DEFCON level 1.


Mr. Cool was I!


As the exit approached, I finally looked at her. She was a cute Latina. Full lips, lively, sparkling dark eyes, adult make-up adorning her sexy late teen face. She turned and looked at me when she sensed my stare. I did not look away cause once I’m in, I’m in, baby.


We looked at each other for about 3 seconds. We remained expressionless and betrayed nothing; but the length of the look betrayed everything.


It took a concerted turn of her neck to look at me, and she did not surrender that uncomfortable position for a bit. We finally parted eyes and I looked at my watch.


The train stopped and I checked out her ass as she left for first period.


Not bad for a girl a third my age.