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Ah, the joys of the Indian Railway. How I've been squashed, stomped, burned,
squeezed, all concepts of personal space violated. Curled up in a ball for 50 hours,
trash compacted into the clattering steel death trap, the car hot and fragrant as a
tandoori oven. Worst thing of all: nobody complains. Open your loudmouth West- erner
mouth and you'll succeed in sounding like a whiny ass.
However, if you know how to work it, the Indian Railway is an inexpensive,
comfortable, and exciting way to travel around the Subcontinent. It's also
a great place to make love. Long hours confined to a tight space. A subtle
rumbling against the rails, delicately stirring up the juices. Pistons. The
romance of trains. Passion chugging away at a steamy 110 km per hour.
Perhaps you've known the joys of the Mile High Club. Good times to be sure. I
hate to break it to you though: everyone's done it on a plane.
That's easy. An act of spontaneity. No planning necessary. Sneak into the bathroom, lock the door, bend 'er over, and schtup schtup schtup. What's the worst that can happen? A line of annoyed passengers waiting outside when you emerge triumphantly? Blush blush, giggle giggle. A rush of adrenaline and no harm done. What's there to worry about? There's only your own shyness to stop you.
What I'm talking about here is much rarer and the stakes much higher—perhaps the jewel of all transit trysts: the illicit train fuck. Welcome all to the forbidden pleasures of the Choo-Choo Club.
Countless travelers hit the rails with high hopes of getting down, but few actually pull it off. It's even taken me a few times to prevail. But now that I'm an expert, honed my craft in the field, I want to share my secrets with you, my friend. And hopefully when you see me next time, you will tell me all about the incredible screw you had on the train over the expensive lunch you will buy to thank me.
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