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Cracking Foxy
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Cracking Foxy

by Robert Buckley



Cracking Foxy

I love public transportation. Lately I don’t have many opportunities to use it, but I’ve always had a fondness for subway trains, buses, trolleys and such. I learned early in life how to navigate the oldest subway system in America, back when the subway cars had concrete floors and wooden slat benches, and air conditioning was pulling down a window and letting the stale tunnel air blow through the car.

Various public transit vehicles are theaters on wheels where anyone can become adept at people reading. That’s putting a story to every face on board. It’s also where a male of any age can surreptitiously appreciate a pretty girl without appearing to be a creep – unless, of course, she catches you and you must avert your gaze, always too late. But your embarrassment only lasts as long as the next stop when you both blend into the anonymity of the crowd. And to be fair, I expect women do their own share of subway surveillance of their fellow passengers, especially the more athletic males in their muscle shirts. So, everything evens out on the omnibus, whether it be on rails or asphalt. Everyone gets a chance to look at everyone else.

There are of course genuine pervs, almost always men, who aren’t content to let their imagination complete the canvass presented by a pretty girl. They are compelled to touch, and their efforts range from the subtle to the startling. A friend told me of an encounter she had on a crowded trolley just as it was pulling in to a major hub station. She was standing near the door, preparing to exit when she felt a hand slide between her thighs and clamp on to her behind. At the same time she felt a rush of air indicating her skirt had risen as high as the offender’s hand.

She was so astounded she couldn’t react. The creep bolted when the door opened. And when she looked back over her shoulder, there was a pudgy soul, his face flushed and his mouth a perfect ‘O’ who had apparently witnessed the entire assault and was already filing it away for masturbatory relief at a time convenient to him.

The system has since acquired its own police force that rigorously pursues pervs with a special unit that employs attractive female officers as bait. It has become a game among passengers trying to pick them out of the crowd. It’s a bit more difficult in the summer when the standard attire of young women includes shorts, gossamer sun dresses and minis, halter tops or just bandeaus. But if you spot a pretty girl in the winter with denim shorts and tights with a cropped jacket, she’s probably a cop. You’d think a perv with average intelligence would figure this out, but pervs don’t think with their brains. The transit police haul in as many during the winter months as they do the warmer seasons.

It has gotten me thinking about the practice of using women as bait.

I work in a sort of urban no-man’s land between Chinatown and a recently much-gentrified neighborhood of elegant restaurants and bars. It’s an area where street hookers ply their dangerous trade since they’ve been rousted away from the livelier, touristy areas of the city.

Forget that whole ‘Pretty Woman’ myth. A street whore is one of the saddest, stomach-churning sights you’ll ever encounter. It’s hard to tell their age, because they all look old and worn, probably beyond their years. And while some might try to glam themselves up to attract customers, they’re just wasting their time, because the johns aren’t looking for a ‘pretty woman.’ They’re looking for a part, most likely a mouth, occasionally a pussy. They aren’t much different from the women, who are all jonesing for their next fix. Except the john’s fix is rapid relief, and perhaps even the element of danger and sleaze, the cheap thrill of doing something illegal, something dirty.

They’re risking a lot. If nailed, they are looking at public humiliation, a fine and the possibility of jail time, although that is usually substituted with a very public community service, like picking up trash, including used condoms in a kids’ playground. And in my state, if you’re caught soliciting from your car, you lose the car.

The local constabulary from time to time also employs attractive female officers to entice these losers into their net. In the summer months it used to be entertaining to sit outside on your break and watch the stings go down. The bait was always the same. A tall statuesque brunette in hot pants and heels, showing lots of thigh, and her companion, a slightly shorter blonde in a mini with its hem somewhere around the why bother zone. These ladies were gorgeous. Either one of these officers could have graced the cover of Vogue or Maxim.

So we couldn’t figure out how they managed to catch so many flies. Anyone with half a brain could tell these ladies never did any time on the street. But then, like the subway pervs, these guys weren’t thinking with their brains.

As soon as the deal was made the guy was swarmed by four or five cops who put him in the paddy wagon that pulled up at about the same time as the tow truck.

It’s been said that the prostitute carries the brunt of consequence for plying her trade, and that johns get off too easy. I think they’re two sides of the same coin. A damaged life comes up no matter how you toss it. What desperation drives a woman to sell her mouth out on the street? What compulsion, craving, and self-loathing drives a guy to seek them out?

Whatever reason you come up with, it has nothing to do with sex.

Robert Buckley
September 2010

If you have comments or question about this column, please send them to Robert Buckley

Read more of Robert Buckley's Cracking Foxy in 2010 ERWA Archive.

"Cracking Foxy" © 2010 Robert Buckley. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written

About the Author: Robert Buckley is senior fiction editor at ERWA. His stories have been published in various anthologies, including editions of Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica and the Coming Togther series of altruistic erotica.

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