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The Man Who Rubs Himself Against Strangers On Trains
The Big Issue seller I pass on my way to work is eternally cheery. It’s easy to see why: Free soup, cheap rent, no bills. Plus I once gave him a sandwich. PLUS I gave him a hug when he asked for one. I gave him a hug and then he got an erection.
It was 9:30am and in the middle of town and I was pressed up against a tramp's firm knob.
The act the tramp was enjoying at my expense is called frotteurism. It's the habit of rubbing your genitalia against a stranger, and it's happened to me five times:
1. A gig in Sheffield saw a Yorkshireman's cock pressed purposefully up against my buttocks.
2. At Glastonbury some faux New Age escapist attempted to liberate my lower back with the power of his bellend.
3. On the Metro in Paris. This was kind of my fault. A man approached me while I waited for a train, offering to give me a blowjob and toss me off. I declined. He followed me onto the Metro and grinded himself up against me before alighting at Juares. In hindsight this was my mistake. 'Busy' in the French sense can mean, 'horny' or 'up for it', so screaming "can't you see I'm fucking busy?" was probably not the smartest move.
4. Again on the Parisian Metro. There was major overcrowding at St. Lazare during last year's strike season and I ended up being kettled by soldiers onto a tram next to a portly teenage boy. Within moments I could feel his prick rub against my thigh through his sweatpants. I looked at him cruelly, but his bottom lip was quivering as if to say, "I can't help it". I felt sorry for him, as after all, what is adolescence but a series of untimely erections occasionally interrupted by melodrama?
5. My happy tramp.
My life seems eternally bound up with frotteurism, so I got in touch with an expert – Osamu 'Sam' Yamamoto, who runs Frottophilia.com. He has written two works of 'fiction' (A Frotter's Diary, A Frotter's Diary II) and a movie (A Man Who Kept Groping Buttocks: A Frotter's Diary). From my correspondence with him, he seems like a vain egotist who chooses to describe himself (in the third person) like this:
"[Yamamoto] is a living legacy especially among Japanese frottophilia. He met his wife on a train (and groped her). He wrote two books about frottophilia based on his experiences. Then he shot a movie. Though the movie was about the sexual perversion, it was widely and well accepted even among women as pure love story."
He gave me these instructions before giving me the worst interview of all time.
"I strongly ask you not to use the word 'frotteurism'. It may be the right academic and medical term, but I think that most of your readers will never have heard of it and the few who know the word misunderstand the article is something about gay. Frotteurism is polysemous word and gay thing is one of them. But I'm not gay."
Of course not. Anyway, here we go, strap yourself in for a monosyllabic interview with a frotteur.
VICE: How old are you?
Sam Yamamoto: 62.
What do you do for a living?
Are you gay or straight?
Do you have a partner?
How long have you been into frotteurism?
How did you get into it?
A woman touched me on a train.
Are any of your friends into frotteurism?
Where's your ideal location?
Wherever the woman agrees.
Have you ever run into trouble?
Who's your ideal candidate?
One who likes it.
What's the best material to frot (fabric wise)?
Bare skin if she agrees.
Do you have a favourite body part?
Do you see it as a form of molestation?
No when she agrees.
I often find myself the subject of other people’s frotteurism, is this because I give off a gay vibe?
Let’s face it, frotteurism is a safe kind of rape huh?
On your website there’s a spooky line saying: A story about underage girl is tolerated as far as it is frotteurism related. But it has tendency to stray out of the topic. If you want to let off your steam fancying about a young girl, you rather click here or here. Are a lot of frotteurs peadophiles?
Oh well, far be it for me to pester a molester. Here is a fuller explanation of his passion through the artistry of Yamamoto's poetry:
I hoped if not her, somebody else might touch me
Everyday in a commuter train I came across a woman
any woman, I mean...
I hoped this woman or that woman might touch me
I approached a woman in a train
I took the defenseless posture
I thrusted my pubic
I even pressed it to the woman
But nobody caressed me like her.
Next time a French homeless hippy rubs up against me, I’ll remember those words.