It happened one dreary evening as soon my husband, a train conductor, walked through our front door. To be frank, I didn’t even feel that aroused at the time. I was wearing my lime green fuzzy pyjama pants and wondering when the next season of Superstore would be out on Netflix.
He started talking about work, as usual, while I prepared to steel myself for another boring conversation about trains. I had heard him say the phrase, “So, I was riding the point down the lead,” before, but for some reason, when he said it tonight, something extraordinary happened.
I vividly started imagining riding his point down my lead. The pictures in my mind’s eye were sharp and yet intangible. I crossed my legs and did a little grind and squirm to try to smash down the sensations I was beginning to feel. Then, without noticing my distress, he mentioned that some co-workers had fouled the track on the shift before him.
Fouled. The. Track.
I’m not even into butt stuff, but there it was, racing into my brain the way my dog runs around the yard when she’s got the zoomies. Why don’t you come over here and foul my track, babe! That’s what I wanted to say, but I thought it might be weird, so instead, I imagined a literal train coming at my backside. That rock hard locomotive was coming at me with such velocity that, I won’t lie here, I was a little scared but also extremely excited.
As I finished that thought, I heard the term angle cock spit from my studly hubby’s beautiful mouth. I’m not sure what he said, “The damn angle cock was clogged” (maybe?) I can’t be sure because as soon as I heard it, all I could think about was slightly bent peni raining down from the heavens of my imagination. There they were, dick slapping every inch of my head. This image was also a little frightening but also very, very erotic. Angled cocks as far as the eye could see!
Then the image of my husband coming home all dirty in his worn and tattered Carhartts came to mind, and I quietly said to myself, he can bust my buffers any day. Now I was speaking train too! Granted, my train-speak comes from Thomas the Tank Engine, which, in retrospect, is grossly inappropriate for this context but, what can I say? When the fantasy starts, it’s tough to get a hold on it.
I was in deep now; the erotic train fantasy had taken me to places I never thought I’d go. When I somehow managed to pick up the term boxed knuckles passing over my husband’s plump and juicy lips, I couldn’t even fully picture what shadowy corner of debauchery my brain was headed to. I will say this, it was aggressive, and I was deeply enjoying it. But sometimes, that’s precisely the hard cerebral work a gal needs to get through another train conversation!
Gladhand? I don’t even know what a damn gladhand is! I know for a fact that he’s told me several times, but I can’t retain the information for the life of me. What I do know is that my hands sure are glad when I’ve got a hold of his —
Shoving in the Pocket! Did I hear that right?
He was saying, “So we shoved the extra cars in the pocket” what the hell was he trying to do to me?! And as I sat there doing the hero work of listening to my husband blather on about railroad life while I sat in a warm stew of my own juices, I thought about how he had better be shoving into my pocket ASAP.
“And to top off the night, my ATM came down hard on us after the shift!” My sensuous muscle man revealed.
WHAT?! Is he at work getting some group ass to mouth action while I’m sitting here fantasizing about trains? What the hell was this? That’s when I remembered that ATM stood for Assistant Train Master, and I really needed to get a handle on this thing.
So I said, “Is that a spike in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” It turned out it was a railroad spike in his pocket. He started explaining why he carried one around with him, something about using it for broken switches, but by that point, I didn’t give a fuck. Here I was still with fresh imagines of penis rain and train enemas infiltrating every corner of my seriously sexed up brain. There was no calming down in my near future. My horn was blowing!
It was at that time that my very intuitive husband noticed my state of unease. As I sat panting loudly, sweat dripping from my shaking palms, he said, “You okay, babe?” And that’s when I jumped him.
“Secure in the hole!” My husband yelled in euphoria, and that’s the happy ending of this tale.
The moral of the story is simple, folks. This is an uncomplicated message to the spouses of rail workers. Train-speak can and should make you horny.
By allowing your imagination to reach deep into that sick and twisted place where erotic Harry Potter fan fiction lives or that one time you saw two grasshoppers doing it, and it sort of got you hot — you are freeing yourself. You will be able to endure the endless chatter about trains while simultaneously getting off.
This method of dirtying up everything that comes out of your partner’s mouth concerning work will, in fact, strengthen your sex life and your marriage.
Godspeed, my friends. Godspeed.
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Previously Published on medium.com
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Photo credit: by Moe Kong on Unsplash