I'm taking the train (Renfe) to work because in downtown Barcelona it's impossible to park, and the train is cheaper (and most of the time I don't pay, since the schedules I use don't have ticket inspectors).

Renfe has given me great joys, especially the bathrooms at the Plaza Catalunya station in Barcelona. My last religious experience, Renfe-wise, was last week on the 11:35 PM train, the second-to-last one of the night.

I sat in the last car, as usual, since it's the one that lets me off right in front of the escalator at my stop. At this hour, the train is usually semi-empty; there were only three people in the car, a girl who always gets off at Mollet del Vallès and two Africans who get off at my stop. At the Sant Andreu station, a boy with Arab features, no more than 18 or 19 years old, thin but fit, got on. I was lying down with my feet on the seat in front of me, reading "My House," a decorating magazine.

The boy sat down in front of me, right in the seat next to my feet, so I "respectfully" put my feet down, more out of discomfort than respect... I thought, "Damn, the fucking moro... if there's no one else in the damn car and he has to sit here..."

The train inexplicably stops at Sant Andreu for ten minutes every night; my friends and I always say that the conductor must have a whore he screws every night at that hour, or there's no other explanation.

He looked very tired, "he's probably working 12 hours on a construction site..." I thought. He couldn't stop nodding off; before we reached the next stop, he was already asleep. "How can someone fall asleep in just one stop?" I wondered.

He was wearing a leather jacket and G-star jeans; almost all Moroccans wear G-star... either they're fake or I don't get it, since they're quite expensive. His package was huge, and my passive faggot mind started to spin... imagining him unzipping his pants and offering me his cock. I got hot.

"What a bulge he has, he must be dreaming about some slut," I imagined.

I thought maybe he'd miss his stop, and I was about to wake him up, but I didn't want him to be rude or something. When we arrived at Granollers, he woke up startled.

"Where are we?" he asked me, alarmed, and stood up, looking out the window.

"In Granollers," I said.

"Shit, shit, shit..." he said, sitting back down and putting his hands on his head.

"Did you miss your stop?" I asked him, though it was obvious.

"Yes, I was supposed to get off at La Llagosta. Can I turn back, friend?" - what a habit Moroccans have of calling you "friend" right off the bat...

"No... there aren't any more trains going back." I felt a little bad telling him, since if it happened to me...

"Don't do it... you'll get a hard-on... he'll think you want something with him... he's probably noticed you're a cocksucker" I thought... it took me 20 seconds to speak up...

"Do you want me t...