Adventures from Underground

Last winter, late one afternoon, I was traveling home from work via the subway. It had been a long day. I was relieved to have found a seat on the train, and was excited to return to my warm apartment. Once seated, I was quickly lost in my own thoughts, as mid 90's dance music blared through my ipod headphones.
I looked up and noticed a tiny homeless man had taken post in front of my seat. I heard slight mutterings from under his breath, but did my best to ignore his increasingly close swagger. After he stumbled, and almost landed in my lap, I heard a more distinct muttering. Something that sounded like, "blue bitch." Yes, yes. That's what he was saying, "blue bitch, blue bitch" over and over again. I soon realized he was talking about me: I was the blue bitch. (As I was the only person on the train wearing electric blue tights). I started to feel a little bit nervous, but calmed myself down with the fact that I was amidst a crowded train. I relaxed, as I told myself not to worry, this guy may be homeless and crazy--but he won't bother me.
I was dead wrong.
That is when I heard the sound that can only be described as lugie chawking (I have absolutely no idea how to spell that, and believe it or not--the phrase hawking lugies was not found in the dictionary!)
All of a sudden, tiny homeless man lunged forward, and a giant wad of his phlegmiest phlegm landed directly onto my face. YES. Tiny homeless man SPAT on my face. Can anyone really be prepared for a situation like this? I don't think so. I wanted to stand up for myself, but feared being spat on again--or possibly even worse. I could not get off of that train any faster. I held my shit together. I exited the train, now above ground. I crossed the street, and burst into tears. It was revolting, and I wouldn't wish that experience on anyone, ever.

On this particular morning, I was on the subway en route to work. I noticed a tattooed covered gentleman in the corner. Of course, we were the only two people on the subway car. He had a duffle bag on his lap, and I could tell that he was doing something with his hands underneath his bag. I was pretty sure that he was playing with himself, but tried not to make any sort of eye contact with this man. But, similar to a side of the road car crash--the more you don't want to look, the more you find yourself looking... Suddenly, the bag disappeared from his lap, and tatooed gentleman started licking his lips at me. Oh my god...I caught a tiny fleck of pink, and I realized that this man's entire wang was outside of his pants. He was jerking himself off, on a train, as I sat in the seat across from him. Enough was fucking enough. As soon as the train car stopped, I would be on my way, and I would never look back. Ever.