The Airport
by: Audrey
(c) 2001 The Airport

 

“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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Send feedback to the author