The Psychology of a Good Cling novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: Hard Push
The five-forty bus left Santa Cruz Meyehualco so full that the driver had to close the doors with his shoulder.
It was my first day of classes at UNAM, and I was standing, squeezed against the pole in the aisle, with my backpack in front.
I was twenty-one years old.
I'd started college late, after two years frying suadero at a taco stand to save up for tuition and half a year's bus fare.
That Monday I'd put on my only skirt, a gray plaid one I'd bought at the flea market for thirty pesos.
It was too short, but it was the one that made me look best, and I wanted to look good.
Most of all, I wanted no one to notice that my underwear had a hole next to the seam, the size of a ten-peso coin.
The bus braked on the avenue and the crowd pressed tighter.
Someone pressed against my back.
A broad, warm chest, the smell of shaving soap and freshly brewed coffee.
I thought it was the usual six-in-the-morning shove, and I didn't move.
Then I felt it wasn't normal.
He adjusted slowly, hip against my hip, and waited.
He didn't touch me with his hands.
He didn't say anything.
He just waited, like someone tapping a door with one finger and standing there to see if you'll open.
I could have moved aside.
There was a half-step gap toward the driver.
Instead, I pushed my ass back, just barely, as much as I could.
Behind me I heard him exhale through his nose.
Then yes, a big hand grabbed my waist over my jacket.
The other one lifted the edge of my skirt with two fingers, under my backpack where no one could see.
And something hard, enormous, pressed between my ass cheeks, with the thin fabric of his pants in between.
My knees went weak.
The bus took a curve and he rubbed against me with the inertia, a long push that sent heat all the way up to my ears.
"Sorry," he murmured, so low I almost didn't hear him.
"It's okay," I said, and bit my lip.
He rubbed against me again.
This time he didn't wait for the bus.
This time he moved himself, with a slow rhythm that made me exhale through my mouth.
His fingers slid down my thigh and found the hole in my underwear.
They stopped.
I felt his index finger touch my bare skin, right through that opening, and a shiver ran all the way down to my heels.
My face turned red, but not from desire.
From shame.
Poor guy, I thought, what's he going to think of me.
And he pulled back.
He moved half his body away, fast, as if he'd been burned.
"Forgive me," he said again, now with a hoarse voice. "I'll leave you alone."
He was about to take his hand away.
That easy, I thought, it's over.
But it pissed me off that it was over.
I'd gone two years without touching anyone, watching my pesos and my reputation, and a stranger who smelled like coffee had made my whole body tremble.
I wasn't going to let him apologize and get off.
I reached my hand back, grabbed his wrist hard, and put his palm back on my hip.
I turned my head just enough to see a piece of his face.
A young man, dark beard, glasses, dark circles from not sleeping.
He was looking at me with wide eyes.
"Sir," I said, low but very clear, "push hard, don't let go."
He swallowed.
His glasses fogged up.
And then the driver hit the brakes again.
All the bodies lurched forward at the same time, and in that sway I felt him unzip his fly.
I didn't see anything, but I felt it.
His hot, bare skin sliding along the back of my thighs, along the edge of the hole, searching.
"Hold on tight," he whispered against my hair.
"Yes."
He pushed the fabric aside with his thumb.
He entered slowly, all at once, all the way.
I covered my mouth with my jacket sleeve.
I was so wet he met no resistance, and at the same time he filled me so much I saw stars.
The hand he had on my waist held me so I wouldn't fall.
He didn't move.
He waited for the bus to do the work.
Every pothole, every sudden brake, every start, pushed him a little deeper inside me, and pulled him out a little, and pushed him back in.
A forty-minute ride, standing, among forty strangers staring at their phones.
I gripped the pole with both hands and gripped him with everything I had.
"You feel so good," he said through clenched teeth. "Like that, squeeze."
I squeezed.
"Oh, God," I whispered.
I felt it hit me all at once, from my belly, a wave that buckled my legs.
I bit my sleeve, closed my eyes, and came trembling, silently, with the bus bouncing beneath us.
He followed half a second later.
He pulled out of me in time, panting against my neck, and finished against the fold of my skirt, hot, abundant, a long stream that soaked the fabric underneath.
He zipped up with a trembling hand.
I pulled my skirt down with the other.
No one had seen us.
The bus stopped at University City and people started getting off in a wave.
He got off before me.
He didn't dare look at me.
I waited for the crowd to clear, and when I took my first step, I saw something on the floor, next to the pole.
A laminated ID that had fallen out of his pocket.
I picked it up.
It had his photo, his glasses, his beard.
"Ulises Cordero Vega. Graduate Studies in Psychology. Teaching Assistant, Introduction to Psychology, Group 1104."
My first class of the day was Group 1104.
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