The Boob Squeeze

Running westward, the RER A transports much of France's businessmen and women to the shiny architectural circus that is La Défense. I arrived on the quai this morning at eight thirty. The quai was already three meters thick with stressed commuters anxious to get on board. I scoped out the least crowded section, calculated where the doors would open, and stood perilously close to the tracks.

Perfect placement, that's my trick. The doors stopped just to my left, allowing me to be the first one on board. On mornings like these, you can't even hope for a seat. You aim for a wall or corner where you'll have the least amount of contact with the other passengers.

This morning's car was oddly shaped. I ended up on a corner that jutted out, not in. I awkwardly grabbed the corner and tried to press up against it. Hey, it was better than pressing against the fat and heavily wheezing man next to me. There was no way to avoid contact with the passengers pushing their way on from the platform. The buzzer sounded, and with a mighty push, a woman with enormous breasts lurched toward me.

My arm was caught in her cleavage, and there was nothing we could do. I tried to move, she tried to move, but in the end, all we could do for three stops was stare at my upper arm disappearing into her bosom.