That Guy

Careful. Don’t sit across from that guy. The one who looks like every other standard-issue Starbucks-sipping, Times-toting, Casual Friday khaki-crotched, subway-commuting workaday wanker. The one behind whose casual glances lies the cruel analytical gaze of a person who thinks of nothing but what everyone looks like naked.
He’s thinking about the sag of your tits, nondescript lady. Their color, too. Imagining the folds of flesh between your polyester-clad thighs. The shape of your “bush”. (He’s sure you don’t groom.)
If you know what’s good for you, go into another car. But then again, there’s another just like him there, too.