
“Now boarding rows fourteen through twenty-five….”
Mandy looks at her ticket. Row thirteen. Every damn time.
Only time she ever boarded a plane first was when she got into first class on a
fluke. She stands against the wall, leaning her suitcase against her knees and
praying for another Bloody Mary. One just isn’t enough to assuage the pain of
being forced into a connecting flight and looking forward to the foggy
chill of San Francisco in the summertime and another semester of grad
school.
“Boarding rows five through thirteen…” the electronic
voice sounds over the loudspeaker. At least she has a few drink vouchers. Maybe
she can drown her sorrows in a few more Bloody Marys en route to San Francisco.
“Cheer up,” a voice says as she collects her things to
stand in line.
Mandy checks her watch.
“I’m sorry?” she says. The only thing she hates more than
waiting is conversing with fellow travelers.
“C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”
“Look, a nine hour flight is not my idea of fun,
and I’m sitting in coach again because the bastards at the front desk
wouldn’t take my miles, so if you’ll—” She looks up at the source of the voice
and swallows. A man is grinning at her, dimples tucked into smooth cheeks, dark
eyes fringed by long eyelashes, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Her
cheeks warm with blood as she feels a rush of heat between her legs. He says
something, but she can’t hear his words past the sight of rosy, almost feminine
lips moving over a cute overbite. Nice teeth, she thinks.
“What?” he asks. “Nice teeth?”
“Oh. Um. Yeah. Never mind.”
He laughs. “So a nine-hour flight, huh? You’re not flying
to St. Louis?”
“All the way to San Francisco for me.”
“Oh, you don’t live here?”
“I’m a grad student at Berkeley. I grew up here. What
about you? Are you from Pittsburgh?”
“Originally, yeah.”
“Where do you live now?”
The guy cocks his head at her, furrowing his eyebrows.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I live in Florida now.”
“So why are you going to San Francisco?”
“I’m on break from—vacation for me, too.”
Mandy and the stranger step through the entrance to the
plane.
“Hi!” chirps the flight attendant.
“Where are you sitting?” he asks her.
“13-D.”
“You’re kidding. I’m in 13-C.”
Mandy smiles as she shoves her suitcase into the overhead
compartment. This could be a lovely trip, after all.
Two hours later, the plane touches down in St. Louis, and
Mandy’s heart is fluttering nicely. Mandy and the stranger—who, Mandy noticed,
is cute enough to convince her she might like facial hair—exchanged several
words during the flight. Nothing too in-depth; Mandy’s not much of an airplane
talker, and she’s not sure if this guy is, either. She doesn’t want to be
annoying. She did manage to find out his name—Chris—but nothing else. Damn,
he’s cute. And funny.
“Ah, St. Louis,” he says as pull into the terminal. “How
long is the layover?”
“An hour or so, I think,” she says, and takes a deep
breath. “You up for a drink?”
“I think I could be,” he says, and flashes a dimple at
her. She swallows. Maybe I need two drinks.
They locate the nearest airport watering hole and park
themselves at the bar.
Sipping her Bloody Mary, she regards him for a moment. She
hadn’t really gotten a chance to look that closely at him before; she didn’t
want to crane her neck to study his face on the plane.
He looks vaguely familiar, she thinks. A mop of spiky hair
tops a sweet, boyish face; he’s not drop-dead gorgeous, but he’s got sex
appeal, that’s for damn sure—in the curve of his cheek, the way he cocks his
eyebrow, his broad-shouldered frame, his soft voice. And there’s something so
familiar about him.
“This is going to sound really trite, but have we ever met
before?”
To her surprise, he laughs. “No.”
“You look familiar.”
“Yeah, well, you might recognize me from my work.”
“What do you do?”
“I do some performing.”
“Performing?”
“And other stuff.”
“Like what?”
He peers at her, eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“Are you fucking with me?”
Mandy sits up straight and sets her shoulders back.
“Excuse me, but I don’t fuck with anyone, all right? And why are you
being so coy?”
“I’m not being coy.”
“So just tell me what you do.”
“What kind of music do you listen to?”
“I don’t know. Lots of stuff, I guess. Stevie Wonder.
Temps. My mom was a big Motown fan. I like the Beatles, too.”
He laughs. “Me, too. Do you listen to anything on the air
now?”
“Not really. I listen to NPR.”
Mandy pushes her glasses up on her nose as she watches
Chris giggle.
“Do you have MTV?”
“I’m an artist. I can’t afford cable and MTV annoys me—what?”
Chris is sobbing now, tears streaming down his elfin face,
grin stretching from ear to ear. Mandy stands up and throws five dollars on the
counter.
“Look, Chris, it was real nice talking to you, but
if you’re going to laugh at me all night, I can find another traveling
companion. Have a good flight. Try not to jump out the door during takeoff.”
As she walks across the bar, the sound of his laughter
following her, she hears a shriek and whirls around.
“OH—MY—GOD! CHRIS! CHRIS!”
She watches, mouth dropped open, as two girls—braces, no
more than thirteen, either of them, accost him and thrust magazines in his
face. She cranes her neck to peek over the girl’s shoulder and gasps.
He’s on the cover of the magazine.
Chris pulls out a pen and signs each of the magazines,
poses for pictures with the girls, drops a ten on the counter and approaches
Mandy.
“Sorry for being ‘coy.’”
“Who ARE you?”
He puts his hand out, pulling her back to her barstool.
“Chris Kirkpatrick. Soprano for ‘NSync. Ever heard of us?”
“Oh, yeah,” Mandy says. “You guys do that one song.”
“That one song?”
“The one about sick and tired of something. They played it
on ‘This American Life’ a few weeks ago when they did a story on pop.”
Chris laughs and pinches her cheek. “Are you for real?”
“Last time I checked, I was,” she says, trying to ignore
the tingling sensation where his fingers touched her cheek. “I might live under
a rock when it comes to pop, and you might be Mr. Lion Beat or whatever they’re
called, but I’ll kick your ass at Trivial Pursuit any day of the week. Besides,
if you’re such a pop star, how come you’re riding on a connecting flight, and coach,
of all things?”
“My mom wants me to take more connecting flights,” he
says, shrugging. “And I was supposed to ride first class, but riding in coach
is much better than first class when you’re sitting next a gorgeous woman.”
He grins and she feels her stomach flutter again.
“Have you ever been to the pilot’s lounge?” he says.
Mandy blinks.
“The pilot’s lounge? What kind of a line is that?”
“It’s not a line,” he says, but Mandy notices his knee is
pressing against her thigh.
“So what’s the deal, then?”
He shrugs. “I don’t want to get accosted by teenies again.
They’re nice kids, but—”
“Can we get into the pilot’s lounge?”
“I’m in ‘NSync.”
Mandy raises her eyebrows at him.
“That means yes, we can get in.”
“I don’t know…” His eyes look even darker when he’s
peering so intently at her.
“We can stay here and have another drink if you want. I
just thought it’d be more fun to do it in style.”
She studies his hand for a moment and considers his
invitation.
“Do what in style?” Mandy asks, cocking her head to
the side. Her heart’s no longer fluttering; it’s pounding. Actually, it’s
slamming against her ribcage. Will that kind of pressure actually break her bra
strap, she wonders?
He grins. “Have a drink, of course. Isn’t that what you
had in mind?”
“Is that what you had in mind?”
“Oh, absolutely. Just a drink.”
She smiles back and takes his hand, standing up from her
barstool.
“Lead the way.”
The pilot’s lounge is unbelievable. It’s clean,
stocked with leather chairs, and best of all, it’s lit with soft lamps, not the
fluorescent monstrosities blazing throughout the rest of the airport. The bar
is fully stocked, the view of the runway is lovely…
And it’s empty.
“This place is hopping,” Mandy says. “I thought there’d be
a party in here or something.”
“No one’s flying much these days, I guess.”
“Well, in any case, it’s a nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thanks,” he says, and hops behind the bar. “Can I get
anything for the lady?”
“Hmm… how about a nice white wine?”
“Not much in the way of wine back here. This is St.
Louis.”
“Oh, right,” Mandy says. “Vodka soda, then.”
“Coming right up.”
As he mixes the drinks, Mandy wanders around the room,
caressing the leather armchairs, playing with the dimmers on the lamps,
admiring the view. She’s in the pilot’s lounge, for Christ’s sake. With an
adorable, smart, funny guy who seems to be attracted to her.
Who also happens to be a pinup boy for
twelve-year-olds everywhere.
“I can’t find any limes,” Chris says. “Mind having a look
around?”
Mandy slides behind the bar and begins opening and closing
cabinet doors. Chris feels so close back here; in this dark, cluttered space,
she can’t turn her head without bumping into him. Her heart pounds faster. God,
he smells good, too. How did she not notice that on the airplane?
“Wait, here’s one,” he says, and she stands abruptly,
banging her head on the bottom of the bar while she’s at it.
“Fuck!”
“Whoa,” he says. “You OK?”
“Yeah,” she says, rubbing her head. “I do it all the
time.”
“You’re going to get a goose egg,” he says.
“Naah. I’ll be fine.”
And he’s there, suddenly, his hand on the back of her
head, touching her scalp through her hair. Mandy swallows. He’s only slightly
taller than her, and their noses are almost touching.
“Feels like you might have a little bump back there,” he
whispers, looking into her eyes. He removes her glasses from her face. This
close, his face is crystal-clear.
“It’ll go away,” she whispers.
“Can I please kiss you?”
“Yes, please,” she says, and his hand grips her head,
pulls her forward, and their mouths crush together. Mandy’s stomach drops into
her feet; she feels dizzy; her hands tremble as she grips the curls in his
hair, licking his upper lip, and he teases back, darting his tongue into her
mouth and pulling back; he’s trembling, too, she notices, and never, never
has she had such an instant sexual chemistry with someone.
What am I DOING? she thinks through a haze of
desire. I just met this guy—
But this is a damn good kiss, her
body retorts a moment before Chris slips his hand around her lower back and
presses her body fully against his. His chest and stomach are flat and hard
beneath his t-shirt.
“Oh, my god,” she either says or thinks, she’s not
sure which.
Groping and kissing, they stumble around until she’s
leaning against the bar, feet braced against the back cabinets, half-wrapped
around his waist; his lips move to her ear, her neck, biting and sucking at the
skin until she’s quite sure she just might shatter from the tension.
He runs his hand along her thigh, and she digs her
fingernails into his neck; he returns to her mouth, kissing and biting, and
she’s never kissed anyone like this; every nerve, every muscle fiber vibrates
with the force of their attraction. She feels him pressing against her inner
thigh, and a thought flashes through her head—where’s a condom—before
she leans fully back on the bar, shirt riding up to bare her stomach, body,
back braced against the cold mahogany of the countertop.
“You’re so sexy,” he murmurs as he presses his hot
lips against her belly. She squeezes her eyes tight against the pleasure of it,
and when his hand snakes up between her thighs, they fly open.
From this angle, Mandy can see the back wall of the
pilot’s lounge.
A clock’s hanging there.
It’s 5:20.
Their flight leaves at 5:40.
“Oh my god!” she shouts.
“Like this?” he asks, and touches her again. Shivers
course through her body, and she bites her lip.
“No—I mean, yes, but we have to stop—” Mandy breathes.
“Why?”
He sounds so disappointed that Mandy can’t help but laugh.
She sits up, scrambling to pull her shirt down, and points at the clock.
“Because our plane is leaving in twenty minutes!”
“Shit!” he says, and they scramble to collect their
things. As they burst out the door, flushed and disheveled, they plow into a
flight attendant.
“And what were you doing in there?”
“Having sex on your bar!” Chris shouts as they breeze past
her to the gate.
“Final boarding call for TWA flight 232,” the
distorted voice whines, and they throw their tickets at the attendant, bolting
for the door.
They’re sitting in the same row again.
And suddenly Mandy doesn’t know what to say to him. They
met two hours ago, made a spectacle of themselves in a semi-public place, and
now they’re stuck on a plane together for another five hours.
That’s a lot of opportunities for awkward silences.
They don’t say anything for a few moments as they adjust in
their seats, finding the least uncomfortable position. Fortunately the flight’s
half-empty; the center seat isn’t taken, and they have at least that much room
to maneuver.
She wonders if he’s going to say anything to her. Maybe
she should pretend it didn’t happen. She’ll wait until he says something.
That’s what she’ll do.
But she hates waiting.
“So do you do that with all your female flight
companions?” she asks.
Chris blinks. He’d been staring raptly at the flight
attendant, watching her demonstrate the proper use of the oxygen mask; he
looked as though he wanted to take notes.
“I’m sorry—what?”
Mandy shrugs. “Do you do that with all your female flight
companions, or am I the lucky first?”
He turns his brown eyes to her. “I have never, never escorted
a woman into a bar or any other airport area for the purposes of anything
besides helping an old lady with her luggage.”
“You’re a real Boy Scout,” she says, inwardly warming with
happiness.
“I don’t feel like one right now.”
“Thinking naughty thoughts, are you?” Bad idea, she
thinks. Five hours of prolonged verbal foreplay would be akin to Chinese water
torture at this point.
“I was just thinking about how sexy you look when you
blush.”
Mandy feels her toes curl in her sneakers.
“Flight attendants, please prepare for takeoff,” the pilot
announces. The cabin lights dim.
Mandy grips the arms of her seat. “I hate this part. I
mean, I like it, but I hate it.”
“Are you afraid of flying?”
“Not really. Just the takeoff part. Once we’re in the air,
I’m fine, and I actually really like it, but I’m always half-convinced the
plane’ll flip over on its way down the runway.”
“Isn’t that part of the thrill, though?” He’s leaning more
heavily on his armrest, shoulder crossing well into the center seat.
“Well, yeah, I mean, but I usually pray to myself, say
Hail Marys, just in case I should die and that way I’ll be in a state of grace
should the plane go down.”
“Do you pray a lot?”
“Only in certain situations.”
“Situations where the anticipation’s too much for you?”
“Something like
that,” she says.
“Does praying help your anxiety? Does it curb the tension?
“Are we still talking about airplanes?”
“Aren’t you going to pray?”
The plane lurches, and the turbines churn; her back
presses against the seat, and her underwear tighten against her body.
“We’re taking off now,” he whispers, barely audible over
the whine of the engines.
Mandy swallows. She can’t meet his eyes. But suddenly his
hand’s resting on her forearm.
“Hail Mary,” she whispers back.
He slips his right hand between her legs. Her thighs
tighten.
“Full of grace, the Lord is with thee—”
He presses his fingers into her thigh, hard, then almost
absently caresses her skin. She knows he can feel the goosebumps; she’s sure
they must be the size of soccer balls.
“Blessed art thou,
among women—”
His hand slides beneath her skirt.
“And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus—”
His hand’s tucking beneath her thong. He’s leaning over,
facing forward, as though he’s trying to get comfortable, not engage in heavy
petting with the girl in the window seat.
“HolyMaryMotherofGod—”
He traces circles beneath her panties, now damp; her
thighs tighten again with the pleasure of it, and she arches her back slightly,
closing her eyes. She sucks in air; damn, his hands can move; he knows
exactly what he’s doing down there, almost as well as she does, and she can
feel the buildup already, probably as a result of the three hours of tension—
“Did you
forget the next line?” he whispers.
“Pray for us sinners,” she gasps, trying to keep her voice
below the sound of the engines.
Oh dear god, he’s so good at this, she feels the
electricity build in her lower back, emanating through her abdomen, tingling in
her fingers and toes; she begins breathing faster, tensing her body, focusing
sensation on his hand, his hand—
“Now… and at the hour… of our death… Amen!” Her
body wracks with a solid, brief spasm, once, twice; she kicks the seat in front
of her, and falls against the seat, silent, unthinking.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispers after some time.
“The plane leveled off,” Chris says, leaning close to her.
“You can stop praying now.”
She opens her eyes a bit, sleepy and smiling. “Thank God.
I can’t handle much more religious ecstasy like that.”
Mandy hears a ping as the seatbelt light switches
off, and at once remembers where she is. “Did anyone… hear?”
He laughs. “I don’t think so. You kicked the guy in front
of you, but I just told him you have Tourette’s.”
She smiles. “I’ll be back in a second. I have to use the
facilities.”
Mandy stumbles back to the closet-sized bathroom and
splashes water on her face. Her hands are trembling; she can see a faint,
speckled flush creeping out of her cleavage and across her chest. Sweet
Jesus, she thinks. That was a good one.
A knock sounds at the door.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she calls and pulls out a paper
towel to pat her face dry.
“Take your time,” a voice calls through the door.
Her hands freeze on her face. Did he—should she—
She stares at herself in the mirror, face flushed, eyes
wide.
She stares at the little knob on the door, waiting for her
to slide it open and either go back to her seat or invite him in.
Mandy studies her reflection a moment longer and shrugs. What
the hell, she thinks. When else would she get a chance to join the
mile-high club? With someone who’s cute, smart, funny, and even famous?
She takes a deep breath, musses her hair for that
just-been-fucked look, and slides open the door.
Her new flight companion stands there, a grin tugging at
his dimples.
“I’m sorry, is there something you needed?” she asks him.
His smile falters for a moment. “I thought—maybe—”
“Did you leave something in here?”
He smiles again. “Actually, I think I left my belt buckle
in there.”
“Well, there’s plenty of room for both of us if you’d like
to look around,” Mandy says, and congratulates herself on her casual tone. She
sure as hell doesn’t feel casual. Quite the opposite, in fact. She kinda likes
this guy. Great sexual chemistry, creative in bed and out, smart, dimples….
He slides through the opening in the door and they stand
there, nose nearly to nose, squashed together in this impossibly small space,
the light glaring in their eyes and the silver toilet the only place to sit
down.
“Well, here we are,” he says.
“Here we are.”
He stares at her for a moment, and she realizes he feels
as unsure as he does; maybe he doesn’t do this with every female flight
companion.
“Are you… um… prepared?” she asks. Better to get that out
of the way.
“I said I’m a Boy Scout, didn’t I?” he says, and pulls a
condom from his pocket.
“That wasn’t in your wallet, was it?”
“In my flight bag.”
“You are prepared.”
“Are we going to stand here chatting all night?
“We could, but we’d be more comfortable in our seats.”
He lifts one hand and places it on the side of her face.
He runs his thumb across her lip, a look of such intent concentration that
Mandy wonders if he’s memorizing every strata and wrinkle on her mouth. Brush…
brush… his thumb caresses her lower lip, and the effect is mesmerizing;
she’s watching him watching her, and she’s never been so turned on in her life.
She sighs a bit, opening her mouth, and his thumb enters her lips; she sucks on
it, first nibbling the tougher pad, then sucking it fully into her mouth. He
inhales sharply, the first time she’s really heard the extent of his
desire, and there’s nothing she loves more than hearing a man turned on by her.
She grasps his hand, then sucks each finger of his right hand, stopping to
nibble a bit on the writer’s callous on his ring finger.
A knock sounds at the door. She pauses, his pinky in her
mouth, and stares at him through lowered lids. His breathing is heavy now, his
jaw clenched tight, and sweat glistens along his hairline; his eyes don’t move
from her lips, closed around his small finger, thrusting in and out of her
mouth.
A knock sounds again. “What’re you doing in there?” a man
shouts.
“I’m not feeling well,” Chris says, eyes on Mandy’s mouth
and his finger. Indeed, he sounds ill; his voice trembles and cracks on the
last word. “I think there’s a bathroom in the front of the plane.”
“Oh, sorry, man,” the man says.
A moment later, Mandy pulls his finger from her mouth and
licks the end of it with the tip of her tongue. She loves this. She’s in
control now, she thinks; but her knees begin to betray her, and the power
surging through her is no match for the desire she feels for the tense,
unsmiling man before her.
“Sit down,” she whispers, and he twists around to
sit on the seat. She takes off her glasses, folds them, and sets them on the
counter, taking her time. She leans into him, breast brushing through the
fabric of her t-shirt against the hardness of his chest, and straddles him, one
knee to each side. “God, this is sexy,” she says, and that’s it for him; he grabs
her face with his hands and begins devouring her mouth, kissing her and tearing
at her clothes.
But she stops him. This is her turn. She leans
back, one hand against his chest, bra half undone and shirt hanging from her
neck, unbuckles his belt with her other hand, and yanks his pants down over his
boxer briefs. She loves seeing erections through underwear; it’s such a visual
confirmation of their need. But she leaves his jeans in a puddle at his ankles,
and straddles him again, stroking his erection with her body, rubbing him,
sending trembles through him and heat through her. She bites his earlobe,
nibbles his neck; when he tries to get at her, to slip his hand between her
legs, she stops him. This is her lap dancer fantasy, one she plays out with most
men she’s with, one they never really recognize. She’s in control; she can
touch but not be touched; she can drive him insane, and in the process, make
herself pretty damn crazy, as well.
Finally, when she feels herself near the brink, she pulls
down his boxers and grasps him in her hand. The roar of the turbine engines
drowns out his moan, and she slips out of her panties; then, her skirt hitched
up around her waist, tears open the condom packet, slips it over him—much to
his delight and surprise—and slides her body over his.
The pleasure is intense and unstoppable. Still tight from
the takeoff orgasm, she can feel her muscles holding him tight, and they both
gasp at the snug fit. The thrill of their location, 50,000 feet somewhere above
Kansas, packed into a tiny room with who knows how many would-be spectators
sitting outside, is no match for the incredible, blinding power of this, this
rise and fall, this fucking. She slides up and down, thighs aching with
the force of it, sweat glistening on both their faces now; she grasps his face
as he clutches her back, and they rock together, desperate for more friction,
more depth, more, more, more. She bites her lip to bleeding to keep from
screaming out; she dimly senses pain in her right shoulder where he’s biting
her.
Abruptly he pushes off from the floor, carrying her with
him, and still joined, he slams her against the sink. She sees, briefly, her
flushed, enraptured face in the mirror, but then she sees him, only him, and he
pounds into her against the sink, again and again, her legs braced against the
far wall, knees clutching his back, insides so tightly wrapped around him she
thinks she might never let go. She can feel a build, deep within her, and as he
draws back, she whispers in his ear, “Oh Jesus I’m going to come I need it
more please—”
He moans and pulls back, almost entirely out of her,
adjusts his angle so he’s slightly below her, and thrusts so deeply she thinks
she can feel him touching everything she has in her; and orgasm is powerful,
much more powerful than takeoff, and she arches her back, clenching her teeth
to keep from screaming, smacking her head against the mirror, and he pounds
into her one, two, three more times, until he, too, is arching his back and
clenching his jaw.
And then he collapses against her, their heaving, sweating
bodies in a tangle on the airplane sink, the hum of the engines too quiet to
drown out the pounding of blood rushing through Mandy’s ears.
“Jesus,” she whispers, and he chuckles in her ear.
“Praying again?” he whispers back.
“That was way beyond religious ecstasy.”
“I think I agree with that.”
“We should go join the rest of our flight companions now.”
He stands up, turning away from her as she tugs her skirt
down and pats her face dry. She’s flushed, high color in her cheeks and across
her breasts, lips bruised and bleeding a bit; her hair is mussed and her eyes
are glazed. There’s no way I don’t look like I haven’t just had a good solid
fuck in this bathroom, she thinks, and grins. Excellent.
As she steps out into the corridor, and closes the door
behind her, she hears a soft voice come out of the bathroom. “I’m going
to start praying after that,” he mutters.
Mandy grins and makes her way back to her seat, asking a
gentleman with silver hair and a baggy shirt—possibly the same man who knocked
on the door earlier—what time it is.
About fifteen minutes have passed since Chris knocked on
the bathroom door. She could’ve sworn it was at least an hour or three.
And now, she thinks, you’re stuck
sitting beside this guy for another four and half hours or so. What do you plan
to do about that? she thinks as she sits down. She’s not sure what to do,
per se, but just in case, she removes her underwear and tucks them in her
backpack.