towards Art Murmur

On the Pittsburgh line, I am captivated by the glimpse of butt crack I see in front of me. Just a peek. It's gross but I can't stop looking, like roadkill. It's dark in between those cheeks, and hairy. I wonder if he can feel that gap between boxer and shirt, feel of caress of bart breath against his skin. I wonder if he can feel the pressure of my horrified stare.