“Ma’am, are you comfortable?”
Quite thought Gillian. She remembered her dalliance with the flight attendant from years before, the hot cabin, the air of horniness that seemed to permeate everything.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry I thought you were awake. Just wondering if you are comfortable. If everything is to your liking”
Gillian thought the young lad to be so uncharacteristic of the first class cabin––the stewards had usually earned their stripes after many years. She wondered if he himself was the before meal hors d’ouevre. She could have just popped him right in her mouth. She thought of the possibilities. Maybe he could reach down a pillow for her, and while doing so she could undo his zipper and help him get that pillow that was lodged oh so far into the back of the overhead bin. His rosy pink dick would fall out and she’d take it in her mouth until it was too swollen to tuck back into his pants. He’d blush, if you could tell, and Gillian would offer to let him sit by her and then she could sit on his knee as the huge get lumbered over the North Atlantic, the passengers slept, and the pilots played with their joy sticks. God, thought Gillian, I am now deeply into revenge sex. It’s as if I want to get back at an entire community of people who sold deals by selling themselves.
“Yes,” she smiled, happy that she wasn’t entirely bereft of Christmas spirit. The kind boy seemed to have cracked her icy demeanour, “I’m fine. Perhaps a bit more Bollinger if you’re around with a fresh bottle.”
“Yes, ma’am. I take it you’re thirsty.”
“You could say––”
“I’ll be right back, and please don’t hesitate to call on me if you need anything.”
To Gillian, the possibilities seemed limitless. It would take moments to have the boy’s pants around his knees she thought. Almost a crime.
She played with the rim of her champagne flute, stared at the seat back in front of her, wondered if she’d see Edgar at all during the next six hours. She sat back and thought of her mother and siblings, racing at her at five hundred miles an hour from the other side of the Atlantic, or so it seemed, even though it was she who was doing the racing. They stood out like a stack of cards, kings, queens, jacks and aces all waiting for their share of her, before she jetted off. Jetting off wasn’t something that any of them had ever taken to. It just wasn’t something that working class Brooklyn could take seriously. Jetting off.
Why not? Gillian thought. What was this noble aversion to wealth and a bit of luxury? It just wasn’t that bad. Aunts, uncles, cousins. They’d all had a laugh when she announced that she was going to work and study in London, even that struck her mother as highbrow.
“I’m not asking for a dime,” she had told her. She had savings enough from her work at Nathan’s Famous (tall enough to see over the counter) to Peggy O’Neill’s (looked Irish––which she was), at the ballpark. She had no trouble working at Coney Island, it seemed to fulfil all her desires to be social, and once she started at O’Neill’s the money was good to great. She’d meet her friends afterwards, didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to go out since she already was. Sure, she’d lied about her age, once she started at the ballpark, but she was tall enough, and charming enough, to get away with it.
There had been the odd summer lover, the odd fling, mostly romantic with a little touching here, kissing there, a bit of fondling and petting, but she was not sure when or where she acquired her taste for older men. It was a relief to her mother once her father was gone, and there was no hardship. Her mother had a job, the kids pitched in and they carried on. Her first older man was only somewhere in his twenties, or so he said. They ended up meeting regularly at a hotel right across from Nathan’s. He’d made an impression by saying something embarrassing about the sausages and after that Gillian was in some kind of pursuit. She’d watched him come and go, without his knowing. It was always interesting to see what happened when a guy didn’t wear underwear on those hot days. She could just make out the thickness of his cock, but she may have been optimistic, since it was hanging down quite a ways. What else could he have in his pocket that would be shaped like that? His brown hair hung down in long ringlets, and he wore everything loose, his pants, t-shirt and vest, all very unkempt and wrinkled, but clean, as if he’d pulled it all off the floor a few days after pulling it from the clothes dryer. He had a little goatee and wore wire rim sunglasses, never on his nose, but always nestled above, in his hair. His arms were covered with a flow of silken brown hair, covering a firm lean musculature. His eyes blazed green and the irises seemed rimmed with fine dark lines to make them that much more striking. And on his departure the fabric on his pants always clung to his ass, especially in the heat. That ass had to be made of Jell-o. From there, his big sandaled feet wandered slowly from the food counter and back into the crowd. Those big feet. She’d seen this guy at his worst, clumsily ordering sausage, when he was probably vegetarian, and that somehow endeared her towards him. He was charming too. But there was something about his attire and manner that didn’t seem to add up. He wasn’t authentic through-and-through flower child. More like an undercover cop or something. Gillian couldn’t put her finger on it, but, on the whole, her instincts said go for it.
He was a romantic, of that there could be no doubt; he set up things in the grungy hotel room like it was some kind of Ritz Carleton. There were usually flowers everywhere. Yes, they were fake, but they were fresh fake. And he always had a bottle of something with a fizz, even if he had to mix seltzer with grape juice with vodka, it was always elegant, served in plastic goblets or glasses that he’d won, down the road, at the bingo or the ring toss. The ring toss, now it was all coming back to her. He had a way of making things different. They weren’t always different but when he hit on something they enjoyed, he went for it. The first time up to his room Gillian was slightly hesitant, although in no way threatened, maybe just a little shy, first time jitters. He was nice enough. She fantasized that he was some kind of sandaled hippie draft dodger, but he seemed to have a non-hippie streak about him. When she got to the room he had the drapes drawn. “You’re less likely to see the dust bunnies,” he said.
“Am I likely to see you? That’s all I want to know.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Are you sure you’re eating those sausages I sell you? You look like you could use a good meal, and I say that in the kindest way.”
They were both shy, this guy, who happened along, and she. They giggled. He turned on the radio and spontaneously took her into his arms for a slow dance. He buried his face in her hair. “God, you smell good,” he whispered.
“You smell––patchouli?”
“It was already on the vest. I bought it at the Salvation Army. Oh, I washed it. But patchouli dies hard.”
He wore loose cargos, a t-shirt with a vest over it and his enormous feet were in thinly strapped sandals. She buried her head into his shoulder, and savoured the smells of his hair, his sweat. She could feel his lanky frame though his close, his bony shoulders, elbows and ribs.
He whispered again. “You’re tall. It’s nice. Kick off your shoes. I’ll take off mine.”
Gillian stepped down from the sandaled stilettos she had on and he pushed off his own sandals, almost without missing a beat they continued to dance. His face was closer now, to the nape of his neck. She felt his soft feet touch her toes, and then slowly and gently he trailed his toes across one foot and then the other, his weight shifting slightly until one foot came to rest gently on her foot. She looked down, “Beautiful feet,” he said. “They must be tired. You could probably use a nice soaking. I’ll run the bath.”
“No, I’m fine. I didn’t come from work today.”
“Then a foot rub?”
“A foot rub would be perfect.”
She watched him as he went to his satchel, his big bare feet now padding across the room.
“I have some lotion.”
“You think of everything.” But Gillian was starting to think
that this was more than an encounter, this was something that had been well thought out, as if she were the subject of someone’s fantasy.
“Sit on the bed.”
She sat.
“Now relax. Lie back if you like.”
“I think I’ll have to, now that you mention it.”
“And prepare yourself for something enjoyable.”
“I have a feeling it will be more than that.”
“I have some coconut oil for those tired feet,” and as he spoke she felt his finger slowly trace a line from her soles and up the backs of her heels. He played with each toe, pulled it and kneaded the skin on the palm of her foot. “This is more than enjoyable. This is ecstasy.” She closed her eyes.
“It’s as good for me as it is for you.”
But Gillian was wafting in and out of consciousness. His hands seemed to be inside her foot––his fingertips against the soles while he moved his palms around the tops. “I may never walk again––was I snoring?”
“No, just breathing heavily.”
The next thing she remembered was feeling her toes surrounded by something soft, and realized that he was starting to take each toe in his mouth. “Mmmm.” She heard him moan. He lifted each foot and gently touched the sole with the tip of his tongue. It was starting to drive her crazy. He seemed so unaware of himself as if he were there just for her pleasure. When she was sure he was finished with her feet she could feel his tongue on her calf, and then the back of her knee. She was so relaxed and trusted that whatever was going to happen, she wouldn’t have to move. She heard his belt buckle and his zip and he shifted to get out of his pants. Then she felt his fingers touch her thighs slowly to prepare the way for his tongue and each taste he would have. Gently he moved closer, his tongue tracing a line up her thighs, while his fingers slipped under the hem of her sundress. Going slower now she felt his fingers lightly grasp and release and they walked their way up her thigh. Grasp and release, grasp and release. Soon he had reached his destination and she felt her pulse start to race as his determined tongue curled up and around and around.
“Mmmm. You okay,” he whispered.
“Oh yeah.”
Without losing a beat, he brought himself onto the bed. Gillian reached out to touch him, any part of him that she could reach. That’s when she felt his heavy member hanging down from his lean body. She glanced over and saw his trim muscular legs and the long dick swinging freely. He moved his head up under her dress, kissing her belly. “You can come up for air if you like,” she said, reaching out to grasp his cock and give it a gentle tug.
He pushed the dress and she could see his face and a huge grin.
“Do you need a breather?” She asked.
“You are my oxygen,” he answered. “You?”
“Well maybe just a sip of that concoction you’ve made for us, just to wet my whistle.”
They sat on the bed, Gillian with her dress at the tops of her thighs and he with his penis fully pointing upward.
“I’ve never seen one quite so at attention. Mind you I haven’t seen many, but it seems––”
“––it is hard, very hard, especially right now. It’s your fault.” He reached across and handed her a glass.
“Crystal goblet?”
“Fake crystal.”
“Hmmm.” But Gillian knew better. “Something mysterious about you.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Elixir of––”
“––good sex.”
“Great, so far. So, mystery man who makes jokes about the sausages, where do you come from? Coney island is not much of a hang-out for earthy types.”
“You mean hippies.”
“Sure, if that’s what you are. Hippie with crystal goblets, and crystal balls I bet.”
“I’m just a regular Long Islander.”
“Long Island is a big place, and you sure don’t sound like one.”
“It’s all the pot I smoke. Flattened out my yeeaccent.”
“There’s no stopping that thing is there?”
“My accent or my cock?”
“Both I guess. Even in small talk, they’re still there.”
“Let’s see what they do under rougher conditions.”
“Can I touch it?”
“It’s loaded, be careful.”
In the dim lit cabin of the British Airways 747, Gillian remembered that almost-first time with some relish, but was interrupted, “Something to eat?” Again the red-faced boy was at her shoulder.
“I’m starving,” she replied, ready to make him blush, no matter how pink he already was.
The boy laid a linen napkin across her lap. Gillian laughed, “You can tuck me in you know. I won’t bite.”
“Yes, er, ma’am.” But the young lad was having too much trouble trying to pin point a spot where he might tuck the napkin in. “Here let me help,” she offered, and tucked it in just above the narrow gold belt at her waistline. “There we go. Now you can do the sides.”
The young boy sniffed, and pressed the edges of the napkin between Gillian’s hips and the seat. “Good, you’ve got the magic touch.”
“Can I lay your table for you?”
“You can lay whatever you like.”
From a cart the boy carefully took a place mat, silverware, china and crystal and placed it across her tray. Gillian took hold of the crystal Champagne flute and thought back to the rest of that encounter:
Crystal. She was smart for a girl who hadn’t traveled much at that point. Someone offers you crystal in a run down hotel and it’s either stolen, or they have a secret.
“You said it was loaded?”
“Hasn’t gone off in ages.”
“Hair trigger?”
“Not quite. I have some control over it.”
“You should keep it hidden. Don’t want to get in trouble. What if someone walked in?”
“The more the merrier.”
“Give it to me, I know just the place. May I?”
He sat looking at her and then down at his painful erection. “Do what you like.”
“It’s fun to just look at it.”
“It turns me on, knowing that you are looking at it. You know, kind of exposed. Caught. Caught for being bad. Caught for having an erection.”
“Let me help those feelings go away.” Gillian reached out and gently touched the tip of his cock with her index finger. He responded by making the whole thing swell.
“How did you do that?”
“Oh I don’t know, you just kind of pull in down there, like your trying to tuck up your balls and the whole thing just seems to expand like you’re flexing a muscle.”
“Wow, can you do it again?”
“Sure.” And as she touched the head of his cock, once again his whole phallus became a deep red and seemed to swell up and get even harder on his command.
“It’s beautiful. It’s a real work of art.”
“Nothing like your flower, believe me. That’s beautiful. It’s tasty.” He slid his hand under her dress, and she closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh my God.”
“Now take a hold of it.”
“Of you. Yours?”
“Yeah. Put your hand on the shaft. You’re driving me crazy.”
“Like this?” Gillian wrapped her hand around the thickest part of his cock and once again he did his swelling trick.
“Oooh, cold hands.”
“Warm cock.”
“Warm flower.”
“I’ve never heard it called that. Flower. I’ve never––oh my GOD you have the magic touch. I’m going to explode or bloom or whatever flowers do.
For a long time they were silent as Gillian slowly loosened and tightened her grip on the shaft of his penis, squeezing while he squeezed back. He gently kept his two fingers inside of her, as if his fingers were walking to nowhere, just gently rubbing side by side. Both sat on the bed, eyes closed, in a kind of ecstasy as the Atlantic breeze made the sheer curtains flutter in the late afternoon light.
Gillian sipped her Bolly in the perpetual twilight of the aircraft cabin. She didn’t want to watch a movie or a video or talk to Edgar, who was more or less absent at the moment. She just wanted to sip her champagne and think back on that time when you took time to have sex, you explored each other, took the time. There were no phones to be answered and all she really had to worry about was her mildly vigilant mother, who could be forgiven because she loved her so much.
The young Scotsman appeared at her shoulder, “The captain thought you might like to come by after dinner.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The captain––”
“Yes, but are you sure you’re talking to the right person?”
“You’re wearing green. He asked me, and I knew who he was talking about. He said the beautiful woman with red hair. He could see you in the departure lounge.”
“Hmmm. Been ages since I’ve been in a cockpit.” She thought about how saying yes might be a way to break the ice––ice that had been gathering for ten long years.
Scents from Nathan’s Finest drifted in the window but Gillian felt miles away from Coney Island as she sat in bliss letting her pelvis relax onto–– “I don’t even know your name.” She whispered, not wanting to break the steady rhythm they had achieved. “What’s your name?”
“Cliff.”
“Cliff? As in Clifton?”
“You guessed it.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh nothing. It’s a nice name.” But Gillian prided herself on her judgment of character, otherwise she wouldn’t have been in a room with a semi-strange man, even though she didn’t known his name. She let her pelvis relax onto Cliff’s hand, and started to rock to the rhythm of the ebbing and flowing of his cock. “I’d love to sit on it, if that’s okay with you, you know, I mean I don’t think I’ve had anything quite so big, but just from holding it I think somehow it would feel good, if you let me be on top.”
“I think that would be nice. If you take off your top it would be even nicer to have you to look at.”
Sexual Solstice (First Class Woman) Page 4