I met a boy on the train ride back to New York from a weekend away with a friend. I saw him first walking through the compartment, asking about an outlet for his laptop. He didn’t find any in this and walked on. 

He carried a bag that looked like it might have been Burberry, wore Raybans and a perfectly fitted blazer, skinny jeans. He looked like he might have gone to Yale—that was what I fantasized, anyway. I was in Conneticut and it didn’t seem impossible. That was sexy and romantic in a way that only an idealized Ivy Leaguer could be.

I got off the train for a transfer and there, on the platform, I saw him again, smoking a cigarette. There was my approach. I said hello. I asked for a cigarette. I was wearing all black, a coat and tights and combat boots. He said he’d just bummed his cigarette but offered to share it. I took him up on his offer and my fingers grazed his as I handed it back after a drag. We talked. Do you work? He asked. For American Apparel? I laughed. I didn’t think I looked particularly like anything AA might have favored. But maybe I was wrong. He was a hipster, but one who went to film school at a community college in Jersey, who took few credits to allow himself traveling time. Weekends away. New York, New England. 

We sat together on the train and he suggested we watcha movie on his laptop. Changed his mind a few times about what we wanted to watch. Especially after I mentioned the book of violent hardcore gay sex I just read. We switched to a bizarre nineties movie with ridiculous outfits and ridiculous drugs and ridiculous sex. We shared headphones and I thought about placing my hand on his knee and running my fingers up his thighs. That would have been a fun start. My dream romance turned to real life. A stranger on a train. We talked about the right things—movies, books, interests. 

He ended the phone calls he got with Hey but listen, I’ve got to go, I just met this amazing girl. At Grand Central we exchanged information and he hugged me goodbye. I couldn’t stop smiling on the subway back home. This was too easy. Impossible. Perfect.

That night a friend invited me to a show by bands I hadn’t heard. But I felt like dancing and the show was cheap, the venue nearby. I went. Dancing was exhilirating. But even more so when the tall man in front of me, seemingly with a beautiful, skinny tall blonde girlfriend by his side kept glancing back towards me, and smiling.

I hoped that she was his girlfriend. That made our flirting looks more deviant, and delightful. I loved the idea that he’d so obviously display interest with a girl at his side. In a bit, I shuffled up front and he shuffled next to me, then behind me, danced with me. I’m from Denmark too, he leaned down and shouted into my ear. Just like the band. He had a cute accent, but I didn’t stay for the afterparty.

*

All week I woke up early for work and found unexpected forms of entertainment, everywhere. I could no longer keep count of the numbers of stares or comments on the street I got walking to work—it was spring, I wore skirts and dresses, but it shouldn’t have been extraordinary. I kept getting texts: from Bad Idea, from the Teacher, from another redheaded old friend of mine I’d been meaning to fuck, and emails, emails planning a different sort of indecency. I was brimming with plans and expectations and everywhere I turned desire met my eyes.

Was it really this easy? I had trouble believing it. I didn’t think about the boy from the train much. I wasn’t sure I had the time. (Once upon a time, I’d have obsessed.)

It’s stupid, but, I’ve always had this fantasy. Of being the girl that stopped a room filled with the hip and beautiful, of being chased after by ten sought after guys. I’d step into a party and minutes later they’d be by my side, smiling, competing with wit and innuendo. It doesn’t happen like that, of course, but I suppose this is some what close. I like attention. Adore it. Especially the elation that I get from knowing how much (and how many) men want to fuck me. Maybe they have lower standards, but there are plenty of girls who walk down the street, and ones with longer legs and bigger breasts, impeccable makeup and hair. 

I’m not one of them. I’m not jawdropping gorgeous. My body is imperfect. But it doesn’t matter when there’s this bizarre validation, this surprised ease. For maybe a year or two I didn’t fuck anyone and only rarely fostered heartbreaking crushes on boys who just weren’t interested. 

Then, somehow, this. I think a part of me will still be forever surprised. My whole life is a fantasy. 

But I guess all of it is still so easily shattered by the minor annoyances of reality. A small but irritable infection made sex painful the last time I tried and had me, for a few days, panicked and paranoid. What if I could never enjoy sex again? I imagined my life without any of this—or with all of this and no way of acting upon it. It’d be a wreckage. Despair. I hadn’t realized, truly, how important this is to me. The attention, attraction, the lust. The arousal and giving in, this beautiful, brutal surrender. 

With luck, though, my fears will be settled soon. I have so much lined up on my agenda. And in a few day’s time, rather than soaking in daydreams and ideas, I’ll be back to being a full time debaucherous slut, in my very real and very extraordinary reality.