Episode 1: “Cold Hands, Warm Heart”

Sarisob, cold and impatient, jumped on the balls of his feet. He needed to be at work earlier than usual, as he had a 10 a.m. new patient—a throat cancer pt. referred by Dr. Morganstern—and hadn’t yet read the progress notes. Feeling his calves stretching, he appreciated the exercise: a recent snowstorm had kept his bike indoors, and he hadn’t lifted weights in a couple of days. It was a January morning, well below freezing, and he cursed himself for forgetting his gloves. He breathed warm, visible air into his hands while bouncing in place.

The first to arrive at the Inbound platform—a narrow spit of concrete edging both sides of the train tracks—he figured he’d been waiting for a trolley for the past 20 minutes, although it was in fact only half that time. Several others were now waiting as well: a group of cute college girls, blonde, bundled in puffy parkas with “B.U. Terriers” headbands warming their ears; a pair of Brazilian men in painter’s outfits, both underdressed for winter; a woman with a vintage leather jacket and red hair, sporting those ubiquitous white headphones. Sarisob thrust his hands into his pants pockets, as his jacket pockets were poorly insulated.

Jumping less actively now, he felt the heat of his legs begin to warm his hands. All of a sudden, without realizing it, he farted—loudly. The jumping must have loosened a gas deposit in Sarisob’s colon. One of the Brazilians laughed at the ass-blast while the other pretended not to notice. Both of their reactions changed, however, the instant they smelled it. The one who feigned ignorance assumed an expression of shocked disgust and walked further down the platform, while the laugher, whose face was clearly given to expressing joy, took on a grimace of pure disappointment, shaking his head at the offender.

“Que pena.”

“Desculpe me, senhor. Eu tenho uma problema com meu colon.” Sarisob pointed to his ass.

“Valha-me deus!” the man exclaimed with a wave of his hands, picking up his lunchbox and following his friend. By now the gaggle of college girls smelled it too, and had begun to shriek. These girls knew each other as closely as college girls are wont to: they were aware of every rank smell and bodily eructation that each other were capable of, and knew that none of them could possibly have launched such an atrocity. Because Sarisob’s farts are his own recipe—a home-brewed form of biological warfare consisting of an entire head of garlic and a hearty squirt of chili-garlic sauce flavoring the shrimp-and-veggie stir-fry he has almost every night—the stench is 100% his own. The redhead with the headphones acknowledged the situation by lighting a cigarette and dragging deeply, keeping her eyes lowered.

The sunrise began to expand, bringing the prospect of future warmth. Feeling now returning to his numb hands, Sarisob decided to warm them further by gently playing with himself. His left hand grabbed for his penis, owing to its list, while the right hand fondled his balls. Two hands are better than none, chuckled Sarisob, as his member gained mass. He had neither shame nor fear, freely stroking the stiffening cock that rubbed painfully against his pantleg, because he was alone, having cleared the area with his industrial-strength flatulence. The wind-chill was biting out there on the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Chiswick Street in Brighton, but Sarisob was creating plenty of heat in his chinos.

While he generally didn’t favor coming while standing up, Sarisob dared himself to come in his pants before the trolley arrived, thinking that that might hasten its arrival. It surprised Sarisob to think that he had never before beat off on a subway platform. (Often on the trolleys, but never on the platform.) Accepting the dare, he set to stroking the rim of his penis with his index finger and thumb. The delicious flesh-on-flesh masturbation was well-hidden, because Sarisob had cut the left hand pocket of his pants to enable moments like this one.

Thus engaged, he employed a Hall of Fame fantasy: his 8th-grade math teacher, Mrs. Silvia. He began getting hot as he always did when he bent Mrs. Silvia over her desk after class and gave it to her good. Her full, hairy Portuguese ass was hungrily swallowing Sarisob’s prick; after about a half minute, he didn’t have to do as much work. The heat in his loins began to concentrate, and he knew it wouldn’t take much longer.

Just then, the B-Line trolley pulled up with a loud squeal of brakes; he was oblivious to its arrival. The entrance to the second car eased to a halt right in front of Sarisob. Luckily, those gathering behind him had no visible evidence that he was stoking his erection. The door opened and an elderly couple alighted, shuffling by Sarisob as he grunted, feeling the heat rise into his balls and up the shaft of his cock. He imagined himself fucking Mrs. Silvia’s eager mouth, and felt his muscles clench, preparing for release. Stepping up and into the train, he disguised his grunting with a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh as he fell against the railing and held on, gripping it for dear life as the orgasm took hold. He lost the dare, but not by much.

“Looking for money—hang on!” Sarisob falsettoed the final two syllables at the driver—a rotund woman with hair extensions and a large mole under her ear—leaned over, and, groping into his pants found not money but a hot load of semen, spurting over his fingers and left leg.

“Ha, ha, one sec! Looking for...money,” he groaned, with a throaty bark.

“Come on, I gotta make the light!” said the driver, who failed to notice his suddenly-stained chinos. The delirium of orgasm fading, his unstained right hand fished around, but came up with only a quarter. Sarisob despaired that he didn’t prepare for this—he could’ve put the full fare in his non-jacking pocket just in case—and reached around for his wallet, which luckily was on his right side. As the trolley driver viewed him with increasing disapproval, he calmly withdrew his come-laden left hand from his pocket. Deftly cupping his fingers under into a loose fist to prevent detection, Sarisob managed to open his wallet and extract a dollar. Alas though, for all his careful effort he couldn’t prevent a large, thick glob of come from adhering to the edge of the bill.

“Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly to the driver, wide-eyed and twisting his mouth into a grin to divert her gaze from the sperm-glazed dollar being fed into the machine. As the dollar began to be sucked in, Sarisob saw that the machine was old and had poor suction. Due to its poor functioning, a sticky tendril clung stubbornly to the mouth of the slot. By the time the dollar was fully inhaled, a healthy mass of jism clotted the aperture. And then Sarisob’s grin became genuine. Those waiting behind him would now have to run his come-gauntlet to feed their dollars into the machine; furthermore, the T employee who removes the morning’s take will have to pull apart a few bills that are strangely glued together. Couldn’t have planned it any better, he thought, advancing into the car. He turned around to see the college girls gathered around the driver, searching their purses for money.