After that morning with Richard, it seemed like they were everywhere. There was always a man out in public with the uncontrollable need to come—no matter where he was, no matter how many people were around—and I always happened to be there with a front row seat to the show. For a while, I almost couldn’t get away from them. Like the man who sat next to me on a train one day. I was going to the office that morning, reading a book and minding my own business, and every time I looked out of the corner of my eye, he was fidgeting—first wringing his bony fingers together in his lap, then running his hands up and down his slacks over and over. A hard on started to peep through the fabric of his pants, and he began slowly rubbing his hand over his crotch. I tried to keep my nose buried in my book, and keep my cool while I glanced at him periodically. I don’t know if he saw me, but if he did, he clearly didn’t care. He didn’t care if I watched, or if the dozens of commuters around him going to work that morning watched either. His chest started to heave and his hand wandered to his zipper. He unzipped his fly, and maneuvered his underwear so his cock sprang out into the stifling air of the crowded train.