When the steel doors of the commuter train slammed shut like the jaws of some mythical phallic serpent, they almost made a meal of Rick's ass. Would have, too, if he hadn't drunkenly leapt the last flight of stairs '70s detective style, bolting for the closing doors of the last train home.

Making an inebriated arc of momentum toward one of the rear seats, Rick fell onto the last pew, as it were, and collapsed in a heap. He sat for a minute and caught his breath.

"Fuckin' American Spirits," he rambled in an internal monologue in his head. "I'm just as winded as when I puffed reds."

Slowly Rick's pickled mind and body adjusted to his surroundings. Last train, totally empty. Cool. Did someone leave a paper? His row was barren, but there was a front section of the day's Chronicle in the one in front of him.

"Great," Rick muttered. He didn't give a monkey's dick about the news - why couldn't some asshole have left the Sporting Green?

He settled back down on his seat and thumbed through the fish wrap/birdcage liner, not even really reading the text. His mind rummaged through the events of the evening-his date with the friend of a friend of a friend hadn't been so bad, but couldn't have been so good if his sloshed ass was riding the train home and not staying with her in the city. He felt a vibe, alright, but this one had to be cultivated over the course of a few dates: no rim job on the first night out.

She was a cutie, though, and Rick figured it might be worth the wait. His dork twitched as he thought of how she had bent down to pick up a $5 she had dropped in front of Hobson's Choice in the Haight. Her pants were tight, and the girl had booty - and he could see the distinct shape of a black thong contrasting against the pale flesh of her hips as it crept above her jeans. Yum.

Well, as sure as eggs are eggs, Rick sticks his right hand into his pocket and starts to walk the ol' parapet. Almost unconsciously, really. He didn't necessarily get off on pulling it in public, but sometimes he couldn't help himself-and just didn't give a shit.

Oh fuck.

The train glided into Embarcadero. He took his fingers off of himself and waited it out to see who would hop on. Nobody, on his car anyway.

Rick smiled. It's on, he thought, and plunged his hand down his pants, thinking of his date's ripe ass. He had a good eight minutes of solitude in the transbay tunnel, and he intended to use it. He grabbed his cock and started pumping it like the keg tap at a frat-house sudfest.

The forgotten paper collapsed on the seat beside him, and something caught his eye. More good luck.

"Oh sweet Jesus, the lord must be smiling upon me tonight!" Smiling at Rick from below happened to be a lingerie model for Macy's, her breasts spilling out of a black lace bra. The knuckle shuffler realized that the A section was worth something after all.

Rick continued crafting his handiwork. He was getting a pretty good gallop on his gonad, but time was running out and he knew it. No more fucking around.

He leaned over and propped the paper on the back of the seat in front of him. He (carefully) unzipped his pants and let his prick spring out through his boxer flap. Our drunken hero whittled his wang like a hillbilly carving on the porch. The train emerged from the tunnel: he had mere moments. Rick concentrated on the blonde model leering at him in two dimensions. His imagination worked overtime, revealing silver dollar nipples from behind the lacey undergarment.

Rick closed his eyes. In the steam room of his brain, the model was laying on the train floor, rubbing her tits, which had been duct-taped together at the nipples. Rick was straddling her, shoving his schlong into her cleavage. In the real world, the underside of Rick's index finger knuckle was gliding along the main vein under his cock.

He opened his eyes and looked into the sweet, sexy face of the barely legal lingerie lass. And that was that. His prick was aimed right at her, and he plastered her right between the eyes with a thick strand of spooge. Rick twitched as if in an epileptic fit as he unloaded on the paper, on the floor, everywhere. What landed on his hand he wiped onto the seat next to him.

His spent euphoria was interrupted by the squealing grind of the train's brakes as it came upon West Oakland station. Shoving his pecker back in his pants, he had just managed to regain his composure when an amazingly sexy black girl strided onto the train and sat in the seat in front of him. She turned around and eyed the paper. Rick froze.

"Are you reading this?"