Random. Train. Sex.

Hooking up abroad is scary, dangerous and a little delicious

My six-week traipsing about India came to an end. It is midafternoon. I board the 38-hour train to New Delhi. Necessary travel provisions had been packed—water, diet coke and a flask of cheap whiskey. 95 degrees at night—no AC or private bedding berth waits. I greet my neighbors with a smile, definitely more than the allotted five to the suite, ranging from 2 to 60 years. Hand gestures confirm the lower berth on the right as mine.

Hours later I walk to the end of the wagon and step outside, between wagons; sunset. The flask makes the oppressive heat bearable. Random European boy wanders out, extracts a cigarette and motions towards me. I decline; he is cute, I share my flask. He accepts, smiles; we take in the orangish red horizon in silence. He has the standard heavy French accent but it is too hot to talk; I am slightly buzzed.

We walk back to my sleeping quarters…. his added presence stirs excitement in my neighbors; questions and stares are left unanswered.

The fact that he is random intrigues me. Night falls. Another sip of my flask and I am prepared for his move. It is now dark and we are touching; exploring. Random. We are quiet yet fully aware that we are the scrutiny of attention; the audience adds a layer of risqué that I find alluring.

French fingers aptly find my vagina and I enjoy; the oppressive heat is forgotten. —Alol H.