What's in a name?

"Fiction writers as a species tend to be oglers. They tend to lurk and to stare. They are born watchers. They are viewers. They are the ones on the subway about whose nonchalant stare there is something creepy, somehow."-David Foster Wallace

I have a problem. I'm so curious about every damn thing. I'm also kind of restless. Especially in small, confined spaces such as airplanes, unintoxicated dance club visits, or traincars. After the first few times commuting by train during rush hour, any city girl gets the blues. At my height I'm destined for nose-engulfed-armpits and breath on my face. BREATH. Sick. Upon this realization, I did what every logical babe does and said F U to rush hour after almost three years of its beastiality preying on my innocence. Nope, didn't start going in earlier...just quit my job and got one that afforded me more train-related comfort. I'm going to call this responsible, and you can lick my clam if you think otherwise. Well, not if I don't know you...come on, ya freaks! The point is, I can finally sit down on any of the rarely-incoming Brown or Purple lines to the loop and I don't have to wake up early. I totally win.

Now that there is more room for me to observe at eye-level, I've realized that my insanely piqued curiosity takes me straight to the dick. All the dicks. I can't stop staring at Junk on the Train. Doesn't even matter if I'm sexually attracted to them. Black guys, white guys, Obama-looking-somewhere-in-between guys, healthnut guys, not-sure-if-you're-homeless guys, fat guys, tall guys, skinny small white trash guys, Filipino guys, trying-to-guess-if-they're-circumsized guys, Mexicans, tattoo guys, soccer-playing guys, CEO guys, guitar guys, long-haired and short-haired guys, sunburnt should-have-worn-some-sunscreen-on-the-boat-this-weekend,bro guys...all of them have dicks and I apparently want to see, well, all of them. The only reason I even realize I possess this malady is because I keep getting busted. Once I looked up from a sideways-seat and a dick cloaked in Dockers was just right there, its owners arm supported by the pole attached to my seat. When I realized I'd been analyzing the bulge for the whole backside of The Fruit That Ate Itself, he smirked down at me with eyes reflecting visual allegory from Debbie Does Chicago. While I fancy myself a non-cocktease, I didn't even know I was subconsciously offering a teaser in the first place. I lost him in the Washington/Wells shuffle, platform-quickie averted. If you're going to scope shaft all day, don't make it so fucking obvious...lesson learned.

"Other" powerwomen ogle and judge each other's Louboutins, Kindling Kindles, and text, text, text away, while I'm fake-reading The Dolliver Romance, peering over top, lost in an unrestrained fantasy land similar to that of Jonah Hill's character's in SuperBad. It's not even that big of a deal, something like 8% of pervs do it. If there's one thing I've learned from my weird, round-trip voyeuristic voyages downtown, it's don't judge a dick by its cover; this guy is Asian. Til next time, creeps.