While making my twice weekly commute from the leafy New York suburbs to the depths of the fashionable TriBeCa neighborhood, I happened to become a target for a solo performance of a love song. 

 

I was sat on the S train, the handy shuttle that shoots between Times Square and Grand Central, and was seated between an overweight under-showerer on my left and a miniature dog owner on my right. I was sat here unawares as The Boy (as we’ll refer to him) decided to turn his 17 year old gaze in my direction and dedicate his ballad to ‘the brown eyed girl.’ Ahem, my eyes are green by the way.

 

Sweet as it sounds and even began, when the side glances of around 30 commuters shift deftly from your feet to your face, it is no longer sweet but embarrassing. Do I smile appreciatively or act all nonchalant? Do I attempt to clap along or pick up that phantom phone call? It was a very intense 3 minutes.

 

The song, not the next Billboard number one, I’m guessing was called ‘Baby You’d Look Good on Me’ - it was said enough. That title alone sums up the premise of the pubescent boy’s love song quite well. All dirty details and suggestive eyebrows, there was an entire verse that detailed what it would be like to take off said girl’s dress and touch her naked body. Yes that came with a point in my direction and a secondary cheek flush on my part.

 

However, if his captive audience were at a loss for what he could possibly mean by his suggestive lyrics, they came with actions. Despite having a guitar to lovingly strum, he decided his lyrics needed physical clarification. 

 

Action number 1:

pointing at my now rosy face.

 

Action number 2:

repeatedly mimicking the outline of a curvaceous female body.

 

Action number 3:

fist pulling and face scrunching. You know the ones I mean, the constipated 'I can’t live without you' squeeze, the horny eyebrow raises and the 'mmm I’m gonna bite my lip and look you up and down' gaze.

 

While I am by no means against public displays of affection, especially when they don’t include me, and I love a love song as much as the next boy band fan, being the subject of one performed by a stranger on a packed subway isn’t that great an experience. 

 

By no means am I egotistical enough to think this deep and profound song was written about me, I know I was merely a pawn in this gutsy guy’s performance, I feel I was publicly named as a naked girl. Yes we’re making this money-making afternoon all about me. In order to avoid mortification,  note to self, next time take the 7 train.