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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Dear Jon; Love, Jon
In which a young Romeo pens verses of true love -- to himself.
By Jonathan Poletti
[02/14/00]

United nations of nannies
I wanted to be Lady Liberty, but my nannies from foreign lands never became part of the family.
By Cecelie S. Berry
[02/11/00]

Pet a lamb, go to prison
Law and order in Ann Arbor is tougher than you think.
By Monica Finch
[02/10/00]

Oxymorvan
My husband wants me to be a mother in a minivan. I want to be a hot mama in motorcycle boots.
By Laurie Wagner
[02/09/00]

Goodbye forever
A mother signs away her son.
By Beth Broeker
[02/07/00]

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Paul Bowles discovered as much in 1946, when translating Jean-Paul Sartre’s play "Huis Clos" ("Behind Closed Doors") for its first Broadway production. After weeks of searching for a title to pack the same existential punch as the French, he found his answer in the depths of the New York subway system. Leaving the Independent Subway, he saw the sign "No Exit," finding at once his title and the American version of hell.

Dear Jon; Love, Jon In which a young Romeo pens verses of true love -- to himself. By Jonathan Poletti

When I first rode the subway, as a student at Columbia College in the '80s, hell was my word for it too. My most memorable ride was heading back to campus after an afternoon of shopping. My best friend and I, and our latest finds from Kenneth Cole and French Connection, rode the No. 3 uptown. Our talking stalled when we noticed a small, balding man seated across from us pointing a camcorder our way.

OK, we thought, whatever, it’s a free country. Then we heard the rustle of his down jacket and saw a flash of foreskin as the man finished jerking off, still holding the camera to catch our reactions. He got just what he wanted: I dropped my shopping bags, we dropped our guards and we were both visibly hot and bothered by the cum shot.

Now I’m 30, back in New York for a second run, and the subway has become a vehicle for another kind of friction, something much more romantic. With much of its crime and grime wiped clean, or at least swept into the corners, the subway has become a blank slate for our sexual fantasies. It has become a place for flirtation, self-invention, play.

The subway has, at long last, become a train. Forget New York hot spots like Pastis. Above and beyond -- and below -- the latest Chelsea bistros and East Village bars, the subway promises warmth in the winter and sex in the city. As soon as the crush of rush-hour commuting passes, the subway becomes one of the city’s hottest singles scenes.

The subway’s sexual awakening already is being played back to us on the WB and Fox, where Keri Russell and Jennifer Love Hewitt dramatically improve the complexion of mass transit. The trains also thunder through MTV and VH1, where Jennifer Lopez’s "Feelin' So Good" is getting heavy play. In the video she and her girlfriends prep for a night on the town, then dash past the turnstiles of reality to enter -- what else? -- a subway headed for Manhattan. The song comes from a CD called "On the 6," named after the subway line that I take to and from work every day and that Lopez took, growing up in the Bronx, to reach Manhattan dance auditions and clubs.

The subway also has the starring role in Savage Garden’s titanic hit, "I Knew I Loved You." In the video, a swooning Darren Hayes stands in a subway car, singing to the pretty, blond wisp of his imagination sitting across from him: "I knew I loved you before I met you. I think I dreamed you into life." The camera cuts back and forth between the lovers as they share this soulful, or hallucinatory, moment. When the ride ends, they go their separate ways, never having said a word.

I’ve met a few subway Romeos. The latest was tall and good-looking in a jovial, let’s-play-tennis-together kind of way. We were standing at opposite ends of a subway car (the 6, again) around 10 on a Friday morning, when I noticed him noticing me. He walked across the car.

"You must get this a lot, but you look just like that girl from Sex in the City.

"What girl?"

"Oh, you know, the young one."

"You mean Charlotte?"

"Yeah, Charlotte. Maybe it’s your hair, but you look a lot like her."

"I might have her look today," I said, wondering for the first time if my red sweater was too tight, or bright, for the office. "But I don’t look like her."

He moved on to other subjects, like work. I’m an editor at an art magazine. He works in the art department at Time. We discovered something in common: We both show up for work around 10 a.m. I found a way to mention my boyfriend’s odd work hours. He gave me his number "in case."

Next page | Coming into its full sexual powers