"Amazon of the 212"



She was startlingly tall - - a lean and toned dark-brown goddess. Heart-shaped face with broad features, long black curly weave, amazing sculpted thighs, and an ass as "tight" as she came-off "loose" - - she was gorgeous. I'd seen her a few times before on the bus (212 south out of Hollywood); the first time I noticed her getting off at "her" stop, I thought, "... hmmm... Santa Monica Boulevard... BETRAYAL - - TRANSSEXUAL!!!" Slim hips... height... fairly deep voice (she liked to talk to the drivers), yet watching her skip down the steet as the bus continued on I noticed a two-inch gap that perfectly merged with her posterior cleft, as showcased by jeans so form-fitting that at a glance her lower region looked as if it was carefully dipped into a vat of deep-azure paint - - yep, I decided that this bore undeniable testimony to a natural state of estrogen-saturation and a 100% feminine fluidity-of-being (or - - to being a post-op with a great surgeon, I suppose).

Looking back, she didn't ease the invasion of space, she didn't make the stinking masses smell any sweeter, and the contemptible drivers were still held in contempt - - but she was a pleasure to watch, and I subsequently fell into a comfortable and gratifying fantasy relationship (within the boundaries of that spattered, pestiferous six-wheeled universe). I felt that all of my expectations were being met: I expected to see her on the bus, and she was there; I expected to be pleasured by the opportunity to watch her, and I was. Even for a fantasy it was about as low-maintenance as they came - - no "what if I were to...", or "I wonder what she'd think if I'd..." - - I was a happy little voyeur, entertained in finer style than if the MTA had screened in-transit movies and passed out tiny bags of stale peanuts. Yet, the time one spends fantasizing over particular individuals can definately have a "shelf-life"...

One day, while enjoying my dreamy view of imagined x-ray-visioned paradise (as she talked, per usual, to the driver) from my usual vantage point of a couple of seats back, and hiding behind my extra-dark sunglasses... my libido was cruelly brutalized as I was ripped from my warm, fuzzy, licentious stupor - - by sounds and sights so ghastly, that both drove stakes of revulsion through the heart of my dumb, secret, vampiric lust... first, she started to laugh. It began like a barking donkey - - rose to a sound similar to that of a large bone caught in a running garbage disposal - - and as it reached a crescendo not unlike that of living livestock being stuffed into a running garbage disposal... she launced an almost golfball-sized wad of green-grey sludge from her graceful throat as if shot from an anthropomorphically-attractive bazooka, which hit the windshield of the bus with flattening force - - blossoming outward, then unmoving - - stuck there like a gruesome congealed cancerous dead amoeba. Somebody shrieked. There was a nauseated murmur growing throughout the vehicle. After a frozen moment, she scrambled to wipe it up with a tattered tissue plucked from a tight back pocket, as the trollish, corpulent driver (seconds before an ardent admirer who was well on the way to graduating with a degree of "Sycophant-With-Honors" from the College of Silly Ass-Worship) looked on in mute, slack-jawed disbelief. She succeeded in smearing her discharge into a slimy "Nike"-style "swoosh". Hands trembling, wide darting eyes looking for escape from her rolling throne-turned-killing floor, she bounded, seconds later, like a terrified antelope from the bus at Sunset - - two stops short of her usual.

About half a block further, and seemingly endless withering moments later, the driver stopped, unscheduled - - and with body jerking (I suppose from the wild misfiring of neuron synapses born of extreme shock), wiped the remainder of the deposed Amazon Queen's hardening biology from the glass - - himself garnering an equal murmurring of disgust while using a paper towel sporting a generous and dramatically-extracted viscous amount of his own biology. Wrapped within the confines of the spent paper towel, bus driver-and-Queen-essence experienced an unexpected and unimagined "union"-of-sorts... I had an unexpected reunion with my gag reflex... and the bus resumed service.

Later, after the Amazon's sustained absence and a couple of month's musings on the subject... I had decided she probably buckled-down bought a car.



2003 by ATB