Kobi discusses the sexually charged glances whored around on public transport.
Public transport is a breeding ground for sexual tension. There seems to be unspoken laws; a kind of code of sexual conduct. During peak hour on a bus, any kind of sexual morals are hurled out the window faster than #UrMum. Let’s be frank: the shit that happens at 5 o’clock on any bus or train or paid transport is basically a $2.20 orgie. Hands on hands/hands on face/hands on chest/armpit in face/armpit in had/feet on feet/crotch in face/hand on crotch/chest to chest/breast to chest/ chest to loin/ loin to loin. Nobody gives a fuck. Anything goes.
I am a very flawed human being. Amongst many social interactions which should be considered basic (if not instinctual to a human being) is my inability to give appropriate eye contact. On public transport I have two approaches A) I will fuck you stupid with eye contact. It will be strong enough strong enough and filthy enough to repopulate planet earth. It is very possible that I have mothered at least 19 public transport babies. B) I give a kind of sticky eye contact much associated with a pervert or psychopath. Neither of these go down very well, particularly when the other person is A) elderly B) disabled C) of different sex D) of same sex (I literally can not think of one person who enjoys my eye contact). Another favourite past time of mine, is listening to phone conversations while making type B) (Sticky, perverted) eye contact. But I suppose that is another story.
We all have our coping mechanism; our public transport celibacy strategies if you will. I pretend to listen to music. I say pretend because if you perchance to see me on route 111 going outbound from the city to eight mile plains I most definitely will not be actively engaging in the apparent audible experience I am having. I will most likely be listening to a bit of Let’s Get Retarded as I sit behind a couple of tween love birds trying not to look like a pedophile. I have learnt that pretending to listen to music makes you seem disinterested in the people around you. If you are rammed hard between a pole and an armpit which reeks of greasy salesmen and McDonalds while also being licking distance from the nape of a strangers neck; at least you have ear phones in. Sometimes it even creates a lovely soundtrack to the librarian plagued with whooping cough and crusty lips across the aisle; it is under such circumstances that Jesse McCartney, Beautiful Soul begins to make sense.
I don’t really know what I am trying to say here. Perhaps you should just avoid me on public transport, or engage in sexually provocative eye contact. We should sensually undress each other with our eyes.
I’m fairly easy, either way. Besides, we are both paying for the experience, let’s make the most of it.