Damn right.

You knew it like the back of your hand, and nothing could snap you out of your post-work transit nap like the sound of your stop.

You pass right through the turnstiles with a beep of your commuter card, and you board the subway. You knew this was probably one of the more crazy places to be, both figuratively and literally. There was always some sort of character riding the train at the same time as you, and today wouldn't be any different. At least it was early, so the real crazies would rather just sleep on the seat rather than annoy the hell out of you.

The train moves, and you pop an earbud back in to resume your true crime, though halfway through there was a noise to your left. A grunt, a sigh, then another grunt. It was a man, an older homeless man, someone you may have smelled before you'd even see him. He was six feet from her, grabbing the crotch of his tattered, **** reeking jeans, and rubbing himself. You did well to avoid looking him in the face, but you had this strange feeling he was looking at you. Another grunt.

His crotch stiffened and bulged in the jeans, something you could no longer ignore in the corner of your vision. Another grunt, then a zip.

He pulled down the rope holding up his jeans, and let them fall an inch, revealing a stained and strained pair of boxers. Another grunt, and more labored breathing.

The boxers gave way, and now he stroked himself openly, still standing by your side, its getting harder to ignore him, his smell, and his noises.