It’s 5:53 p.m. on a Monday. I’m tired, angry, sweaty and standing within makeout-distance of at least five people. I’m on a Chicago Transit Authority (CTA) train headed home after a hellish day at work. And there, lurking in the deepest, darkest piss-drenched corner of the train is that couple.
After riding the CTA enough, you start to recognize patterns in the riders and are able to group them into cute little dehumanizing categories. Sure, you have your regular old crazies—yelling about the end of the world, masturbating in the open, giggling uncontrollably as they come down from their meth high—but there are so many other kinds of people for your sick and twisted viewing pleasure. In a city as diverse as Chicago, you could literally spend all day in one foot-traffic heavy spot and witness a surprisingly accurate and depressing sliver of mankind’s general worthlessness.
And try as I might, I cannot seem to escape those who fall into the “PDA Obsessed CTA Couple” category.’
They are everywhere. It’s 8 a.m. on a Saturday and I’m on a bus ride of shame wearing last night’s attempt at “sexy.” I look like a hot mess, but it’s nothing compared to the freakshow going on across the aisle from me. There’s that goddamn couple; his arm is around her, and her leg is thrown obsessively, desperately over his. He’s smashing his face into the top of her head, frantically gulping in her scent of needy desperation. Her face is burrowed in his neck beard, and she’s making some hopeless cooing noise that is incredibly unsettling to me. She whispers into his second chin and he warbles something back then slops a wet kiss on her forehead.
Pause, vomit in my mouth, switch songs on my phone, un-pause…and now they’re gazing deeply into each other’s watery red-rimmed eyes as if to say, “yeah, baby I’ll definitely shave your back after we have wild pig sex while my cat watches.” [pullquote]“yeah, baby I’ll definitely shave your back after we have wild pig sex while my cat watches.” [/pullquote]She wraps her arms around his sizeable midsection and gives the left side of his muffin top a clingy squeeze. He starts to rub her back as I think to myself, “he better be careful, or he might actually lose his shit all over the place.” I wonder how many more points of contact they can manage before he’s railing her from behind as abuelas on their way to the Saturday morning famer’s market gaze on. We’re on a bus. This is a public space. I have my rage face on.
This fucking couple. I cannot escape them. They stalk me. They haunt me. No CTA experience is immune to their perverse hand holding, repulsive ear nibbling and gut-wrenching pillow talk. I want to slap them in the face. Yell profanities at them if only to get them to release the death-grip lip lock they have on each other for one minute.
“YEAH? DOES IT FUCKING FEEL GOOD? WELL FUCKING GREAT, BECAUSE WE ALL FEEL IT TOO. TELL ME WHAT HIS EAR TASTES LIKE. I’M DYING TO KNOW. DO US ALL A FAVOR AND DIE AT THE NEXT STOP.”
We get it. You fucks are totally head over fucking heels for one another. And you know what, that’s fucking delightful, but please do us innocent bystanders all a favor and GET FUCKED…in the privacy of your own godforsaken home.