By Arlo Tolesco
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.

Train station in Chennai
Step 1: Traveling around festival time? Forget it, buddy. The Railways—and India as a whole for that matter—lose all pretense of sanity. Ticketing goes out the window. If you can fight your way on, it's a free ride. But that means as many people as humanly possible will wedge themselves onto the train. And take note: humanly possible is a profound concept. These are Indians we're talking about here. They levitate. Tie themselves into impossible yogic knots. Sleep on beds of
nails. Drink poison. Hunt tigers with bare hands.

It only takes one night sleeping on the cold train station floor to open your mind to the possibilities of bending time and space. It doesn't matter how impossibly full the train seems—you begin to perceive the nooks and crannies between atoms, the impermanence of matter. Alighting becomes an act of metaphysical desperation—will you spend another night

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