So I've been seeing her on the subway platform for several weeks now, right, and lately she's been noticing me looking at her. She didn't seem too pleased about it either, the last couple of times.

Tall, maybe 5'10". Older than I am, perhaps 38 or 40. Always dressed for work, pretty sharp in a business suit that's always just a little tight, its neat creases tracing tight curves along the strong, lithe, perfect body beneath it. The aquiline features of her lovely face just slightly roughened by experience, something about the set of her fine jaw that seemed clamped down on a molten caldera of deep-seated urges. Made up just right-- or maybe just a little bit too much, a hint of excess about the chocolate lipstick, the rouge and eye-shadow that straddled the fine line between utter class and whorishness.

And her hair-- by God, her hair. Blonde-- a pure, magical dead-medium blonde that a very lucky few are born with, and even fewer get to her age without losing some of that lustrous, heady color to hints of grey. A straight, dense, long mane, falling past her shoulders to gather into a perfect, spectacular sheaf of slight inward curls in the small of her back. Parted carefully in the middle to cascade past her ears on either side, and again in front to yield a fringe of long, finely-shaped, downy bangs hanging low over her royal blue eyes.

The eyes that had looked at me with something resembling irritation and contempt the last time she'd caught me staring at her. Well, who did she think she was. Not the only girl in New York city. Huh.

It was the day after Memorial Day when many New Yorkers had left on their first week of summer vacation, so there were only a fraction of the regular throng of commuters waiting for the F that morning. The train rumbled up, I settled in, and found myself alone in the front-most compartment. Then, just as it was about to pull away, I was aware of someone jamming themselves between the closing doors. A flurry of swinging blonde hair, flapping handbag, perfect breasts under a firm-fitting ribbed woolen sweater pushing together and moving apart as the doors jerked open and then closed again. It was her.

My, this was awkward. Tremendously self-conscious, I wrestled my book out of my backpack and tried hard to avoid looking. Something stirred and crawled deep inside my solar plexus when I realized that, of all the seats in that big empty car, she had chosen the one directly opposite me.

Trying not to look, I was aware of her in fragmented pieces. A whiff of perfume that made my balls purr. Her legs slightly apart for balance as she set her handbag down, the businesslike skirt with a little slit in the side showcasing her firm ass. The shimmer of her stockings and glint of her high-heels as she sat down and crossed those exquisite legs.

How funny I must have seemed to her. My gaze flitting around every which way, so obviously trying to grab a glance, an impression every other second in spite of myself. But no sooner had she settled in than she deliberately caught my eye, and held my eyes for barely a second longer than necessary.

It was a dead neutral expression, I saw at that moment, very calm and direct. Pregnant with possibility, it could have gone either way-- I caught my breath in anticipation of cold dismissal, but it didn't come. Nothing positive either-- no smile, no blink. But a hint of something rode on the crests of her high cheekbones, as if she were trying not to smile. Or flush.

And her hair looked like it had just been done. Polished to a flawless cascading sheen, every strand in place with just a few gleaming strays looping over and behind and then back into the mass-- I imagined her at the salon just minutes before, her hair being brushed and brushed and brushed under the silken heat of the blow-dryer till it was just fucking PERFECT....

"Cold shower, cold shower," I thought to myself, and tried to get involved in my book. No way was I going to approach her. Damn, she was either setting me up for a shoot-down, or I was completely mistaken about any kind of signal, or I was being expertly manipulated-- and I have no time for those kinds of women. Fuck her. (And didn't I want to.)

But of course, as we moved along those long dark tracts from Roosevelt Avenue to 21st Street and then on under the river to Roosevelt Island, I looked many times.

The first time she had a little hand-mirror in one hand and was fixing her deep chocolate lipstick with the other, her lips all puckered up. She held the hand mirror straight in front of her and to one side, so that she could look from it to me without any effort. I noticed her nails, gleaming like lacquer, the same chocolate brown, and the way her fingers curled about the silver shaft of the hand-mirror. Damn but she knew I was watching!

Now I don't know about you, but there's something about girls who are really into grooming themselves that drives me absolutely crazy. When they're always fussing and preening with their makeup, their clothes, and of course their hair-- taking really great care, great pleasure, great pride in how they look-- it turns me on like nothing else. Partially because I know that at the animal level, they're really into looking good because they want to attract, and they want to attract because they want to be fucked. And partially because I want to ram my throbbing hot-rod of a cock into their carefully combed, brushed, scrubbed, painted and polished being and fuck it with abandon into a state of tousled , gasping wreckage.

And God, this bitch was into grooming. She was into it in a way that I couldn't believe wasn't exclusively targeted at my fantasies. She slipped the lipstick back into the handbag, but not the mirror...not the mirror... and her hand was emerging with something else now-- could it be...yes, please...yes it was! A black comb. One of those with a little handle and a bend where the teeth go, to grab more of a really thick head of hair.

She arched her shaped eyebrows, angled her head and slipped the comb into her bangs, drawing it slowly, slowly down through the fringe, angling her head to look in the mirror. It slipped out through the edges and she ran it through them again, the tip of her tongue slipping wetly between those chocolate lips for a split-second. My cockhead, those lips, that hair all over my balls and thighs-- for such a moment, I would have killed every other person in that subway car with my bare hands, if there had been anyone else there.

Her bangs were already perfect, but she ran the comb through them a few more times. Then, my heart stopped. I had been staring openly at her for almost a minute, and suddenly she was looking directly at me. No escape into my book now. God, I was probably slack-jawed, red-faced and breathing heavily by this point. She looked at me and knew she had me in the palm of her hand.

And then, she smiled. Archly. Slowly. And dropped her glistening, purple eyelids.

She knew me now, she had looked through my soul. She knew I was a complete, total, hair-freak. She knew what I wanted. And she was going to give it to me.

She spread her legs, bent one all the way at the knee, and put her foot up on the rim of the seat. As if she was going to frig herself off, but she wasn't going to do that. She rested the mirror on the thigh and shook her head of hair, and gave me a magnificent comb-out.

On and on it went. Stroke after stroke of the comb bringing out dazzling, natural highlights in its tracks. From the crown to behind the head, from her temples all the way down the sides, from over, from under. Flipping, tossing, and then combing again in slow, sensual strokes. She knew how she was turning me on, and she kept it up mercilessly. Straining at my jeans, my erection felt a million years old and hard as petrified wood.

Between the spread of her stockinged thighs her panties glistened. I fancied I could see a treacly wetness spreading there, soaking warmly through the underwear, blackening the navy blue of her skirt. Certainly, as she combed her hair, her breasts had begun to rise and fall faster, more heavily, with her breathing. I saw her swallow. There was definitely a flush in her cheeks now.

Yes, brothers, Sex is War. We besiege great centers of civilization and beauty like barbarian tribes, staring helplessly and uncomprehendingly, completely spellbound by the wonders we behold. Once we penetrate the defenses the cities are ours to plunder and destroy, but before... we're at the mercy of the citizens, who taunt and tease and invite and push back from behind the insurmountable walls. With this woman, I was a 13th-century Genghis Khan struck dumb by the awesome beauty of modern New York City's skyscrapers.

By the time she'd finished, my cock was slick with pre-cum, and I was acutely aware of every sweat-gland in my groin reacting to the basking heat inside my jeans. The train lurched to a halt at 63rd Street, and to my dismay, I saw her getting up.

But she didn't head for the door-- no, oh my God, she was heading straight for me! What? Was it my moment to make the move? Girls like this didn't go for sneakers-and-jeans guys like me...did they? Definitely they didn't give us openings like... like...

But she wasn't coming over to talk to me. She stood directly in front of me and bent to peer at the Subway Map on the wall behind my head.

Her nearness was driving me crazy. The scent of her perfume filled me, sent a shivering thrill from my balls to the base of my neck. The train started off again and, as she bent to catch her balance, I felt the silken caress of her hair against my cheek.

She looked down at me then. I was open to her. Her eyes rested for a moment on the bulge in my crotch, and then she smiled at me.

"You like my hair, huh?" she purred, throatily. Unbelievably, she was sitting down next to me, really close, her strong warm thigh under the hot rustle of her skirt moving against my jeans.

"Yes, I do, I think it's absolutely beautiful", I heard myself say from a million miles away.

"Yours is pretty nice too", she said, extending a hand to tousle the scrubby growth on my scalp. Sure, I thought, like freaking steel wool by comparison. But whatever. I took it as an invitation to trace her hair with the knuckle of my index finger. It was everything I imagined. Oh, to defile this heavenly silk with a splattering wad of cock-shoot.

She let me touch it, caress it, run my fingers through it. I was very careful, very gentle... she was obviously very particular about how she looked. I kept to the comb-marks that still gleamed and gathered and leaped in grooves down from the crown of her head. My fingers released the smell of her shampoo, and I shuddered again.

She was obviously very experienced, and knew EXACTLY how and where to touch a man. With just one finger she traced down behind my ear, to a point on the base of my neck and then one just under my nipple and then one to the side of my waist, each signpost yielding an explosion of pleasure in response to her caress. I could barely begin to imagine what she could do with both her hands, and her lips and tongue in the privacy of her bedroom.

She was about to show me, or at least give me another hint. She grabbed my wrist, held it up to her mouth and teased the tips of my fingers with her darting tongue. I was rigid enough to burst.

And then we rolled into 47th Street station, and a large, noisy family of Chinese or Koreans piled into the subway car, taking the entire row of seats opposite us.

Immediately she let go of my hand, stiffened and moved away a little. But she let her hand linger discreetly on my thigh, raking it with her nails. And leaned her head against my shoulder, as if she'd been my girlfriend many years...a display of domestic affection for the newcomers' benefit, rather than the white-hot seduction between strangers that they'd almost witnessed. I was flushed with pride and embarrassment at the same time-- for all those Koreans knew, we were a couple on the way to work together, and a nicer piece of arm candy I could not have asked for.

As 42nd Street approached, she gave my thigh a squeeze and looked at me, her lips pursed a little. "Bye", she said, and I fancied she said it a little sadly, as her eyelids fluttered over her Mediterranean-blue eyes. Then the train stopped, the doors flew open, and with a last blonde flurry and whiff of scent she was gone. On the platform, with her back to me, she tossed her mane one more time and walked off to the stairwell, all business. No looking back.

You can imagine I went to Roosevelt Avenue station at the exact same time and stood at the exact same position every day for the next six months. Eyes peeled with hope, throat alkaline with frustration. But I never, ever saw her after that day. Vacation week ended and it became harder to pick anyone out from the dense rush-hour crowd that began to pack the platform once again. Staring desperately over the heads of so many people, it became hard to believe that it had ever happened at all.

But who knows. Maybe I will see her again. Maybe we all will. Maybe she'll be reading this story on here, since she knows ALL about that hair stuff, and she'll start a website or something. Go for it , baby. You'll make a fortune.