Tsaurah Litzky
Reading Lolita on the 9:25

I elbow a fat old lady with white hair out of the way in order to get a window seat on the Amtrak 9:25 Silver Eagle, non-reserved, to Washington, D.C. As I push past her, my shoulder bag rams into her side. Her mouth opens wide in a surprised "O" but she says nothing, probably pegging me as violent, confrontational and deranged. She shakes her head, closes her mouth and moves down the aisle.

A long scream is rising inside my throat but I force myself to push it back down into my belly as I put my bag under the seat and get out my book. I am traveling down to Maryland to spend Thanksgiving with my family but am not feeling at all thankful; I am reading Lolita as I have to lecture on it for my erotic lit class next week. I find this to be an excellent manifestation of the Jun-gian law of synchronicity, for certainly I am as obsessed, as craven, as whacked out by love as Humbert Humbert. My lover is no longer in love with me. He is planning to move to Alaska, near the Arctic Circle, to study Eskimo creation myths. Perhaps he was never more than a myth of my own creation, because when I phone him he says, who are you, why are you calling me, I don't know you, and slams the receiver down.

I open Lolita and begin to read. I am at the place where Humbert has spent his first night of bliss at the Enchanted Hunters Hotel with his Lolita. He does not share the mechanics of this coupling, instead he waxes romantic. He says the vision he saw when he orgasmed within her was of a fire opal dissolving within a ripple-ringed pool.

A woman with her bleach blond hair in two girlish pigtails, which would be far more suitable on Lolita, pauses in the aisle and asks, "Hi, anyone sitting here?" "Yes," I grunt, but she does not hear or pretends not to hear me. "Goody-goody," she says, "I have to take a load off my feet." She parks her substantial bottom in the seat next to mine. I wonder how much of my anger and rage toward other people has to do with my failures in love? Is it sexual frustration that makes me want to push this woman out of the seat, grind her under my shoe? I think there is no help for me and I immerse myself in Lolita again, though I fear I will find scant comfort there.

When the conductor comes to punch our tickets he tells us that a magician will be coming through the train to do tricks as part of a promotion for the new Amtrak advertising campaign: Amtrak-the magic railroad of your life.

My seatmate bats her overly mascaraed eyelashes at the conductor. She is wearing a big, cheese-colored diamond engagement ring and matching diamond wedding band. She giggles, "Tee-hee, tee-hee, maybe he will pull a rabbit out of his hat and I can bring it home for the kids, but my husband would just kill me, tee-hee, tee-hee." I try to imagine the husband; is he a good old boy or a would-be serial killer who wears black nylon panties under his golf suit? The conductor smiles blandly at the silly woman and moves on down the car.

I return to my book. Lolita reclines on the bed next to Humbert Humbert. Her soft lips part, she whispers in his ear. I wish for an exotic new obsession to replace the would-be Arctic anthropologist; maybe a twelve-year-old boy a la Mary Kaye Le Tourneau or a sweet ten-year-old lass with the tiniest swell of budding breast, her pink nipples the size of a dime. I have a modest reputation as an erotic writer but for the past few years my love life has been so meager, puerile, and psychotic, I have to do all my research in my head, the pages of the tabloids, or the amorous confidences of my friends. I am beginning to feel like a fraud and am desperate for real flesh and blood inspiration, but right now all I have is Lolita.

My neighbor pulls a book from her shopping bag, Five Days in Paris by Danielle Steel. We read as the train stops at Newark, at Metro Park, at Princeton Junction. Then my neighbor gets restless; she squirms in her seat like she has a diaper full of ants. She pushes her elbow into me, breathes her tuna fish breath into my face, "What are you reading?" she trills in her squeaky voice, and leans over even further, almost poking her nose into my chest. When she sees Lolita printed on top of the page, she starts to squawk, "Why, why,… that's a dirty book!" I want to do violence to her again, grab her by her twin pig tails, twist her head off her neck, but I control myself and pull back. I force myself to look hard into her small, glassy eyes. "You better believe it," I say, grinning ferociously and I have scared her now. She cranes her head out, looks up and down the aisle. All the seats are taken. She picks up her book, opens it in front of her face, stares at the pages. We move down through the morning past Trenton. At the Philadelphia stop, she gathers up her bag, trying not to look at me, and moves to a just vacated seat down the aisle.

A new set of travelers, bustling with suitcases, shopping bags, back packs, enters the car. A shadow falls over me and a low-pitched male voice says, "Excuse me, Miss, anyone sitting here?" I look up to see a huge, black man. His hands visible at the level at the top of the seat are the size of baseball gloves. Because he is so tall and his head is above the luggage rack, I can see his stout neck, but not his face. The russet corduroy fabric of his trousers is exceeding fine. "No, sir," I say, "this seat is not taken." He shoves his satchel and what looks like a tripod onto the luggage rack.

"Thank you, Miss," he says and he sinks down into the seat next to me. I really want to look at him, to see if the face matches the elegant voice, but I am too shy. I start to read again. In an effort to amuse and perhaps excite her, Humbert takes Lolita to see the world's largest stalagmite. I am thrilled the dark stranger called me "Miss" instead of the dreaded "Ma'am," which makes me feel old and spinsterish. Despite my romantic disappointments, I am as eager and curious for the world as I was when I was the same age as Lolita. The stranger did call me Miss; perhaps he finds me blithe, artful, a nymphet. I read on: Humbert and Lo quarrel because she asks him how long they are going to live in stuffy cabins, doing filthy things together and never behaving like ordinary people!

I allow myself to look at my neighbor. His heavy-lidded eyes are half shut as if in meditation, his small, slightly beaked nose is a bit too delicate for his broad face. His large, full lips seem puckered for a kiss and there is something about the strong, forward thrust of his jaw that excites me. His skin is a creamy light caramel color, his mouth darker, almost chocolate. I wonder if this is the color of his cock. Perhaps he likes to be pursued, perhaps he would like to be seduced. I wonder what he would say if I leaned over and, making my voice sweet and girlish, softly whispered in his ear, Please may I rest my head between your manly legs? Would he let out a slow, surprised sigh, then nod? Would he lift the corner of his long suit jacket up so my head could burrow inside? Would he jump up and yell This woman is a sex fiend! and then rush away down the aisle? I am not bold enough to try, so I return to Lolita.

It is a bright, fall day and the leaves on the trees outside the train window are turning red, gold, colors of passion and heat. We cross the Delaware River. The sight of water, the slow, undulating waves make me think of the ebb and flow of sex, and I can not help but steal another glance at my fantasy lover. His head is leaning forward, his chin resting on his chest. He is asleep.

His skin is oily and his face shines like new copper. I want to place my cheek against his and let his oils moisten my dry face. His arm, under his brown suede blazer, is as wide as my thigh. In repose, with his massive frame, he has the dignity of an ancient monolith. I close my eyes and on the screen inside my head I see him turning toward me, his arms open. Suddenly I am naked with him on a bed in a dark room lit by a single candle. His vast self is glistening, shining in a corona of light. I am on my back and his huge body covers mine totally, maybe in the way Humbert covered little Lolita. My imaginary lover knows just how to support himself on his elbows and knees so that his weight is off me. The top of his big, meaty sex taps against my pubes, teasing me. We are kissing in a tender, lingering way, his big mouth envelops mine, holds it open. His tongue moves inside, dances a slow and languid rhythm, a samba. He has one giant hand cupped beneath my ass. The middle finger, high inside the deep fissure, is moving to that samba beat. He puts a second finger inside and then a third and I want more. I wonder if I could expand to contain his fist, his arm, his whole being?

Such thoughts are driven from my mind as he swallows my entire mouth in a juicy kiss. Then he moves his great head down; first he kisses my inner lips, then he sucks them; he kisses, he sucks. He moves his tongue high inside my vulva and finds the tiny button there. He tongues it a bit roughly, matching the increased rhythm of his fingers moving in and out of my butt-hole. I am going to die with pleasure but then, he spares me. Keeping his fingers solidly in place, he raises his head, his whole body over mine. He kisses my eyes, my neck, then very slowly, he pushes his giant flute inside me so I am filled by him both front and back. I have never been so full. His fingers and his sex stitch to and fro as he strings me up on a thread of fire, but I feel no pain. My arms cling to him, my flailing legs fan our heat. We come together, melt, as he explodes into me. Beneath our magic room the earth spins to a stop. He holds me, enfolds me. We sleep.

" Wilmington, Delaware, Wilmington, Delaware," the conductor calls out, "Passengers departing the train at Wilmington, please make sure you take all your personal belongings."

I return to the conscious world, damp, sweating, my legs spread wide so my knee is touching his. He is still sleeping, does not seem to notice. I can smell myself, even through my tights and heavy, velvet leggings. The smell seems so strong it could wake him, wake a pack of wild dogs, wake the world. I clap my knees together trying to contain it. The train pulls out of the station, leaving the city spires, the smokestacks of Wilmington behind.

I look around for my book; it has slipped to the floor between his feet. Do I dare reach between his legs to retrieve it? What if I wake him? I observe his breathing is deep and regular, he seems totally zonked. I decide to go for it. As I bend down, my arm knocks against his calf muscle, which is hard as a boulder. Slowly, I reach out for Lolita. My fingers are just closing around the spine of the book, when suddenly he sighs, shifts in his seat, clamps his legs shut. He's got my arm and head in a scissors lock! Directly in front of my eyes, on the grimy, gray carpet beneath the seat, is a white business card with a picture of the top half of a smiling woman whose naked breasts are the size of basketballs. Right beneath the woman's humongous breasts in bright red letters it says Dial 1-800-Big-Bust. What I really want to do is dial up a genie to get me out of this mess. I squirm my ass back on my seat and gingerly pull my head out from between his legs. I think that this has got to wake him and it does.

He opens his eyes, which are a surprising blue. "Who are you?" he says, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" I manage to straighten myself up into some semblance of a sitting position. I scramble around in my head for the right words, knowing full well there are none. "I-I-I dropped my book," I stutter, "I didn't mean to wake you." "Nah," he says, "You just like to dive between strange men's legs." He's not annoyed, he's amused, he's even smiling at me. His teeth are big and white as sugar cubes. I like this, I haven't met a man with a sense of humor since 1992.

"That was a lot better then a "Do you come here often?" he says. He's still smiling and I realize he's giving me the old once-over. His eyes rest on my small breasts, made more prominent by my padded bra, then he eyes my crotch. His nostrils swell and he, very faintly, sniffs. I close my legs tight, try to squeeze my sex up high inside me so he won't smell me but it must be already too late because he sniffs again. I introduce myself, tell him I'm a writer. I start to chatter nervously about Lolita. I am still clutching the retrieved book in my hand. I wave it about as I talk at him, but what I'm really saying is; please don't find me ridiculous, please don't take my pathetic chatter for desperation, even though it is. "I know Lolita is about an old guy and a young girl," he says, "but I never got around to reading it, there's got to be more to it then that; what's is it really about?"

"It's a one-sided love story," I tell him.

"I know how easy that can happen," he says. "When I meet someone I like I want it to work out so much, I try to ignore it if we're not compatible." He adds, "I've been in too many of those one-sided things." "So have I," I respond, thinking of the would-be Eskimo anthropologist and the one before him, the one who would only do me doggy style.

My seatmate looks at me very seriously, "So, you've been around the block too," he says, "It's hard to find someone who sees you how you are and is not trying to make you into their private fantasy." "I'll say," I answer, surprised and delighted at the turn the conversation has taken, "That's part of what Lolita is about, that and not knowing that real love is about give and take."

"My last girlfriend was a looker," he says, "she was forty with the body of a twenty-five-year-old, but her eyes, her eyes were old and tired; they said, she'd been everywhere, done everything, there was nothing I could give her." He sighs, "But you," he continues, "You have young eyes, like a girl, you're open to life. That really attracts me."

I know this is a miracle. I put my hand out and tell him my name. He immediately grasps it in his. His palm is sweating, maybe he is as nervous and thrilled as I am. When I ask him his name, he tells me that it is Jimmy Horn and he is a jazz flautist.

He is returning from a concert in Philadelphia to his home in D.C. He collects flutes, and he says, has over eighty of them. "I'd like to see your flutes," I say, smiling up at him, widening my eyes, flirting. He smiles back. "That could be arranged," he says. He pulls a card from his inside jacket pocket and hands it to me. The card has a picture of a long, silver flute and his name and phone number. I slip it inside the waistband of my tights so I won't loose it and Jimmy leans over, leering, trying to peek inside. He is so cute and sweet I want to kiss him. Before I can, an unhappy-looking man in tails and a top hat comes down the aisle of the train toward us. It is the magician promised by the conductor. When he stops by our seat, he pulls a bunch of red paper roses out of his sleeve. "For you, madam," he says, bowing from the waist, "thanks for traveling Amtrak."

I take the roses from him and then he makes his way down the car. "Can I have those roses," Jimmy says, his face opening into a big grin. "Sure, but why?" I ask. "I'll stick them in my flute to remind me of you." He rolls his eyes at me. I want to tell him that I want to stick him in my flute, but instead I place the bunch of paper roses across his knee. I put the copy ofLolita, which has been resting in my lap, away in the pack by my feet. Then I move closer to Jimmy, put my hand lightly on top of the nice, big bulge between his legs and, gently as a nymphet, I squeeze.

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Tsaurah Litzky lives in a Brooklyn waterfront apartment with a view of the Statue of Liberty. This is her fifth appearance in The Best American Erotica. Her work has appeared in Penthouse, Paramour, Pin\ Pages, Longshot, and many other publications. She teaches erotic writing and erotic literature at the New School.

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" Reading Lolita on the 9:25," by Tsaurah Litzky, © 2000 by Tsaurah Litzky, first appeared in The Blacklisted Journalist (The Blacklisted Journalist, 2000); www.bigmagic.com/pages/blackj. Reprinted by permission of the author.