Swag. Swag.

“She's gonna suck my nuts, she's gonna suck my nuts tonight."

I'm making my way from the A train to the 4/5 train at Fulton Street via the underground tunnel, and my entire being had been focused on the singular task of getting home. Now this strange chant has permeated my space.

“She's gonna suck my nuts, ooh, she's gonna suck my nuts all night."

I pick up the pace like a white girl walking through the Bronx at sundown. My legs are flying into high gear, as though all of the running that I've been doing has prepared me for this race against a crazy. 

My computer bag swings awkwardly against my side as I zip up the stairs, and a lone teenager calls after me as I zoom by him, nearly toppling him over. My  dress shoes are click-clacking to the elevated pulse of my heart, and I'm cleared for takeoff, soaring.

The endorphines sustained by my short sprint through the station have the effect of coffee laced with coke. I feel as though I control the universe by force of my will, and so, when the train is not immediately present, I'm pretty disappointed.

“My biddy so freaky she goin' want it in da ass

I'm workin', she my job, I git time and a half."

I turn my head and see that my Olympic sprint has been for naught. Like some urban version of the tortoise and the hare, this foul mouthed fool has caught me.

He's a short man, about 5-5. He's wearing jeans that are hugging his knees, and his red checkered boxers match the iron shoelaces on his ancient Nikes, and the faded blood hue of his motorcycle jacket. He's got earbuds in his ears, and is snaking his body this way and that, apparently bopping to the beat in his phones.

I can't help but be surprised by dude's age. This is not some 16 year kid trying to assert his adolescence on the rest of New York City. This man must be nearly 40 years old. His face looks weathered as by hard living or drug use. He looks sober enough right now, however. 

"Stick it in the clit, gonna grind it til she scream

I'm a anaconda baby, I'm every girl's dream."

The tortoise begins clapping in self satisfaction.  

Can those POSSIBLY be the lyrics of a song? He must be making this shit up, he's gotta be. And anyway, it's having the opposite effect of what I think he's intended. Rather than be convinced of his sexual conquest, I'm fairly certain that this is a man whose never had sex...with a woman at least.  He's like everybody I've ever known who talks to much. He does so to cover the obvious. I crane my neck in search for the lights of the oncoming train. Where the HELL is this thing? 

"Train ain't comin, but that don't even matter,

cuz waitin' for her dude, just makes her pussy wetter." 

Matter. Wetter.  Nigga, that don't RHYME. And, shit, this imagery is getting more obscene by the minute. He doesn't see that a mother with her young children have just arrived on the platform? He doesn't observe the disgusted sneer of the teenager that I nearly toppled over in my rush? He can't see my clear annoyance?

As if by cue, he returns to what I suppose must be the refrain of his song. 

“She's gonna suck my nuts, she's gonna suck my nights tonight.

She's gonna suck my nuts, she's gonna suck my nights tonight."

"HEY!" I yell. "SHUT UP!"

I don't know what's possessed me. Maybe it's the 8 consecutive hours of tutoring, and my 7 day a week work schedule. Perhaps it's the anxiety of trying to make an artist's career work. It could be that I've reached my tolerance for bullshit on New York City public transportation. I'm tired.

The rapper, who is standing  a good 25 feet from me, takes out an ear bud and looks at me. I want to make sure that he gets it.

"YES, I'M TALKING TO YOU. DO US ALL A FAVOR AND SHUT. THE FUCK. UP."

"Oh, HELL NAW, NIGGA, HELLLLL Naw,"  says the little man marching toward me with balled fists.

I take a deep breath. Well, I started this. 

"YEA, COME OVER HERE U LITTLE BITCH-NIGGA---U WANNA GIT UR ASS BEAT BEFORE U STICK UR DICK UP SOME DUDE? U SURE UR LITTLE SWEETHEART GONNA LIKE U ALL BLACK AN BLUE?!"

I'm not sure where my bluster is coming from, but I am hyped up. This is the sort of raw aggression that only New York City can bring out of you. It's filthy and brash, seasoned with homophobia and layered with false bravado. It feels outstanding.

The little man is shouting something at me now, but he's stopped his advance. I've outcrazied this crazy, and he knows it. Actually, everybody on the platform knows it. As the 4 train arrives, everybody moves to the cars as far away from me as possible. 

I step onto the train, and slump into a seat. I'm exhausted.

"Imma fuck the bitch sideways, fuck the bitch sideways, fuck the bitch sideways, swag, swag.

fuck the bitch sideways, fuck the bitch sideways, fuck the bitch side-----ways."

The song is blaring out to the whole train car by a young light skinned brotha who has turned his phone-mp3 player on to the speaker phone setting. 

I am incredulous. Why must we always be subjected to this? Does this man think that we all want to hear his music? Maybe he believes he's the only one on the car. And who WRITES this material? 

I grit my teeth and try to calm down. I know that if I don't get a grip on myself,  I'm going to beat the bitch sideways. Beat the bitch sideways. Beat the bitch sideways. swag. swag.