I spent years telling myself it was coincidence. On the Paris M'tro I would drift, casually, toward women I found attractive and let the crowd do the closing in for me. As the carriage filled, space vanished and bodies were pressed together whether they wanted to be or not. I pretended I was just another passenger being pushed by the rush. But I always knew which side I angled for. I always chose where to stand. I never spoke. I touched deliberately. And found the firm parts. Many responded. I stopped if I saw flinches of annoyance but most times it was, like 'Thanks for choosing me.' The shame finally outgrew the urge.