If a New Yorker lacks an important Subway story, he or she is not a New Yorker, not by a long shot. The Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) is not just an integral part of New York City, it is one of the core defining factors of who we are. And while the MTA includes buses and trains, it is the trains that constitute the cardiovascular system of this strange and unique metropolis. And like the human cardiovascular system it is vital to the city's survival, causes us tremendous grief when occluded and gives us the energy and strength to do what we do to make New York what it is.

Even Sigmund Freud would admit that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar and sometimes a train is just a train, but sometimes a train is the New York City Subway.

And when it's August, hotter than hell and the men are dripping in sweat, cotton clinging to muscle, a train is clearly something else.

The New York City Subway system is likely one of the most under-rated or at least rarely discussed cruising areas in the urban world. Consider the scenario: close quarters, powerful human scent, "accidental" bumping and rubbing and depending on the time of day, at least one player in this hormonal waltz is on his way to a convenient place of assignation.

Of my many personal Subway stories, the one that has profoundly haunted me over a long stretch of some 40 years concerns the first time I was cruised by another man. I was a mere 17 years old and on my way from work ( a summer job night shift) in Rockefeller Center to my grandmother's apartment in the East Village. It was 4 A.M on an August morning. As I stood on the platform waiting for the F train I noticed an older man staring at me from the other side of the tracks. Nervously I struggled to look away, but my anxiety and interest was obvious and within minutes he had disappeared only to reappear on my side of the tracks and at my side. I pretended not to notice and wandered off; he followed slowly. The train arrived. We both boarded. I changed cars. He followed. He sat across from me. He touched his crotch. I started sweating profusely. I had no intention of connecting with him. In fact, I did not really understand what he wanted. I was a virgin, terribly naive, terribly and obviously aroused and feeling like prey. Frightened and breathless I concocted a silly plan. I rubbed my crotch to draw him in further so that he would follow me and then when the train stopped at the 34th Street, station, I jumped off. He followed. We stared at each. I waited and just as the train doors started to close I jumped back on and escaped. I've never forgotten that man and I've never forgiven myself. It would have changed my life. On that early August morning in 1966 the train was not a train.

The New York City Subway is the heart, soul and underbelly of the most extensive public transportation system in the world, with 468 passenger stations and 842 miles of track. New York's Subway system is also notable for being among the few rapid transit systems in the world to run 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Among the ten busiest systems in the world in terms of annual passenger traffic, it is the only one to hold such a distinction, setting it apart from cities such as London, Paris, Tokyo, and Moscow.

Though it is known as "the subway", implying underground operations, about 40% of the system runs above-ground (the system is almost entirely underground in Manhattan, as well as portions in the other boroughs), including steel or cast iron elevated structures, concrete viaducts, embankments, open cuts and surface routes.

The Subway is a magnificent mess of grit, cacophony, music, human diversity, sexual energy, art, efficiency, catastrophe and purpose. No one ever enters the system without purpose and everyone and everything moves with purpose. Fiercely, in fact.

NYC Subway Sizzler