THE FRIENDLY SKIES
Robert D. Shepherd
When the steward came down the aisle offering a choice of 100 year old cognacs, Peter declined but did help himself to a choice Cuban cigar.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked the attractive blonde thirty-year-old sitting two seats over.
“Oh, not at all,” said the blonde. “I love a man who smokes. I don’t smoke myself, but I do think it looks downright sexy in a man, or a woman for that matter.” She blushed a bit at herself for blurting that out. Then she giggled, not a silly giggle, but open, honest, friendly, Midwestern.
“I tell you what,” said the blonde, “since I let you smoke, you can do me a favor in return.”
“And what would that be?” asked Peter. This Midwestern girl was pretty—no, not pretty—downright beautiful in a perky, upturned-nose-and-apple-cheeked sort of way.
“Well, these long flights can get boring, and I accidentally checked my book with my suitcase, so what do you say I get a blanket from the stewardess and scoot over into the middle seat and give you a little handjob? Might be fun, huh? Get a little naughty? Pass the time?”
“Gee, that would be great,” said Peter.
“Thought you wouldn’t mind,” said the blonde. “My name’s Mindy.”
“Peter. I must say, that’s an awfully nice offer. Do you often offer handjobs to strangers on airplanes?”
“Oh, yes, when I can,” said Mindy. “You know, the airline doesn’t officially sanction it, because some people might not approve, and you want to please everybody, though you just can’t, can you? You know, some people can be downright prudish and rude. I actually work for this airline, so I should know. You get all kinds. I’m a steward myself. I’m not working on this flight, though. Well, obviously. I’m going to Boston for a few days off—staying with some friends. But you know, I guess that taking care of people just gets in your blood, and you can’t get it out.”
“Well, it’s awfully nice of you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Mindy.
The steward brought the blanket and, if Peter wasn’t mistaken, it looked very much as if she winked at her off-duty co-worker as she handed over the standard down-filled, silk-shrouded airline issue spread. Mindy slipped into the seat next to Peter, arranged the blanket over their two forms, leaned in close where she could nibble and breathe on his ear, found the zipper under the blanket, and pulled it down slowly, almost soundlessly. Peter glanced about to see if any other passengers were watching. Simultaneously, he slid down a bit in his seat and arched his lower buttocks upward, just a bit, to facilitate her getting his cock out, which, given the circumstances, took some doing. Peter let out a quiet but audible “ah” as the organ finally sprang free, her hand ran down the shaft for the first time, and the tip hit the delicious silk. Hard to say which was silkier, come to think of it, the blanket or Mindy’s hand. Hard to say. Hard. “Shhhh. . . .” said Mindy, nibbling at his lobe, whispering, “not too loud now, big boy.”
Just as Peter finished, the steward appeared in the aisle, this time smiling knowingly and holding up a couple of tissues.
“Thanks,” said Mindy. “You’re a peach.”
The lead steward came on the PA system, saying, “We are about to begin our complimentary food and beverage service. On today’s flight, after the appetizer—your choice of habanero wings or chips and queso—we shall be offering one of three entrees—an aged Black Angus fillet mignon with béarnaise sauce, Maryland crab cakes on a bed of shaved fennel and green papaya with a light orange mango chutney, and for those vegetarians among you, a vegetable terrine of asparagus, artichoke, kalamata olives, red and yellow tomato, and four artisanal cheeses—chevre, asiago, gruyere, and aged cheddar—on polenta. Our complimentary drink specials this evening include a forty-year-old Bruichladdich single malt, a 1999 Chateau Le Pin Pomerol, and a selection of fine mixed cocktails using only fresh ingredients, including our signature LA Airlines Mucho Mojo Mango Mojito. And, if an alcoholic beverage is not your preference this evening, we have, of course, the usual array of exotic tropical fruit juices, milkshakes, malts, smoothies, soft drinks, and, of course, root beer and sarsaparilla floats.
As the food and drinks were being served, Peter sat back and watched the Patriots game on the 17-inch HD screen embedded in the seat in front of him. Mindy turned her attention to a showing of the 1957 sci-fi classic, The Incredible Shrinking Man.
After the china and silverware were cleared, the Asian masseuses made their way down the aisle, attending to travel-weary necks and feet. Asians on this flight. Sometimes it was Danes or Swedes or, occasionally, of course, those Esalin-trained California girls. Peter loved how they always played a bit of the Beach Boys song as the California Girls started down the aisles in their tropical-hued bathing suits. (Of course, the California Girls consisted of both boys and girls, but the entirely gay male contingent of the “Girls” accepted the appellation not only willingly but with enthusiasm, and they were a great hit with the women, especially the older women, who seemed actually to prefer having the men massaging their feet be friends of Judy. Peter had once overheard a group of them talking in a restaurant bar near the Houston Airport : “My gawhd, her feet looked like two pieces of Chinese-lacquered driftwood—all knots and nubs and shit. But you know what? I oiled up those puppies and worked them like a piece of Chippendale Grade A Prime.”)
As Peter waited in line to get his jacket from the steward at the front of the plane (where it had been steamed and hung up in a cedar-lined locker during the flight), he wondered idly how much it would cost to get an upgrade to first class on the next cross-country trip, and he thanked Mindy again for her attentions. “Thanks for being such a jerk,” he said.
“No problem,” said Mindy. “Always ready to lend a hand.” Big wink. Big smile. Those Midwesterners. So friendly.
In the bin just inside the jetway, Peter deposited the jasmine-and-honeysuckle-scented rolled hot towel that the Thai (or was she Vietnamese?) masseuse had left on his neck. At the entrance to the end of the jetway, just inside the terminal, he took off the comfy slippers he had been issued just before boarding and put on his wingtips, which, of course, were there waiting for him, freshly shined and polished, in a little plastic cubby with his name neatly marked on it.
Peter sat and waited, not long, not long at all, really, for his luggage to be brought to him and for the rickshaw that would take him down to Arrivals.
Theresa, his wife, was waiting for him in the Arrivals lobby. “How was your flight, honey?” she said, pecking him on the cheek.
“You know, the usual, exhausting. Not like it used to be, that’s for sure. However, I did get a very nice handjob from a Midwestern stewardess named Mindy who happened to be sitting next to me.”
“How lovely for you, dear,” said Theresa. “But I bet I can do a lot better on the ride home in the taxi, that is, if you’re not too exhausted.”