So fuck flying. Right up its bitch ass.
When Kelly suggested Hawaii for our anniversary, I thought twelve-day cruise. I can handle water. Sure, The Titanic gave me nightmares as a kid. Yes, I still get a bit seasick. So? I’ll take that any day over barreling through the sky in a cheap imitation of a bird. To me, it’s as stupid as sticking your dick into a cardboard tube and jerking off with it. Who the fuck does that?
The night before, I even considered begging out. I really did. Then I saw the look on her face. She’d bounded into our bedroom, strawberry blonde hair pulled into twin pigtails, and bunny hopped onto me, smiling wide.
Unfair.
Kelly had the kind of megawatt smile that’d make Emperor Palpatine cry tears of jealous rage. Her smile was one part quirky, one part sweet, and a thousand parts melt your heart out, you bitter shit. Her pale lips did this thing where they’d squish together like she was puckering for a kiss, then they’d widen, curving up at one end, teasing just so. Then BOOM! Game over, man. Though to be fair, she’d sealed my place on that plane by yanking my shorts down, slurping my rapidly inflating cock into her mouth, and sucked me off to a heart-pounding orgasm.
So here I am, buckled tightly into my seat, a flight attendant droning through the safety spiel. Forty minutes ago, I’d gone through the airport peep-show scanners and proceeded to be violated by a burly TSA agent with pimples, Wolverine muttonchops, and a squeakier voice than that girl from Scrubs. What a fucked up amalgamation of contradictory traits that jackass with the rubber gloves was.
After the flight attendant wrapped up and I’d finally gotten as comfortable as possible, the intercom crackled to life and Captain Clive Stanton gave us the great news.
Thirteen hours.
The flight was going to be thirteen hours of hell. To makes things worse, the man sounded like Garth Brooks.
Fuck Garth Brooks.
“You ok, baby?" Kelly asked, turning in her seat, big blue eyes zapping away the crankiness from my bones.
“Fine. Just fine,” I answered, cycling through one of those breathing exercises I picked up from the couple’s yoga class Kelly had wrangled me into taking. It wasn’t really working that well.
“If you say so.” She scrunched her eyebrows together, clearly not buying it, but unwilling to dig any further.
Bless her for that. I didn’t want to fuck this up. This trip was all about Kelly. The entire year had been one giant shit storm for her. First her company downsized, laying off about a dozen good friends. Then her creepy boss came onto her. To top it off, the dog she grew up with died on her birthday. Like I said. shit storm.
“Ladies and gentleman, please turn off and stow all electronics. We’ll be taking off shortly.”
Fifteen minutes later we were hurtling down the runway to Hawaii, my hands clenched tightly to the armrests, knuckles turning white…
“Remember my theory of flight, Kel?”
She sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Sigh all you want. The fucker upstairs is getting bored,” I grumbled, as the plane dove through a choppy pocket of turbulence.
“Whatever.”
“Playthings, Kel. If we were meant for flight, we’d have parachutes crammed up our assholes.”
“You stole that from John Zakour, you big baby.”
When I didn’t respond, she glanced back over, biting those perfect pink lips. Another rattling vibration swept through the plane and the 'fasten seatbelt' sign dinged on. Ignoring it, Kelly started peeling my white-knuckled hand from the armrest, stroking the back with the pad of her thumb. Then she leaned over, biting my earlobe lightly and whispered softly.
“How about I give you my theory of flight.”
I was convinced I already knew that one, but there was a hitch in her voice I knew by heart.
“Okay …”
“Back of the plane. Lavatory. Leave the door open.”
I swallowed, unbuckling my seatbelt as quickly as possible.
“The seatbelt sign is on, sir,” said the obnoxious flight attendant.
“Bathroom.” I must have looked desperate enough as she shrugged her shoulders and walked away.