by Jaime Cooper
(04/28/10)
He doesn't write, but he does think, and oh the things he thinks. He thinks about the shape of the flight attendant's ass, about drawing his hands around its heart shape, warming his knuckles in the dip above its crack, and especially about pulling that beautiful ass back to rest securely at the core of his body.
Another man looks on as a young girl wrestles her luggage into the overhead bin. She is short, dressed in baggy pants and a cropped shirt that flaps away from her tanned torso. He imagines his rough hands against taut skin, thumbs sliding effortlessly to circle pert nipples before anchoring calloused strength around her ribcage to lift her up for that final push.
The rocker chick across the way watches the man watching the girl manhandle her luggage. She wiggles in her seat, gingerly touching her new tattoo. Her index finger follows the tenderness defining the shape of a dragonfly, wings spread across her lower back, the tail of its body disappearing to the base of her spine --- and lower. She imagines sidling up to the man's row of seats, bending, her hindquarters level with his shoulder. Her breath intakes sharply as he gently cruises ice from his plastic soda cup over the tender art. She stands to walk toward the lavatory, shocking cold rivulets chasing each other down into the warmth of her crevice.
The tall, chiseled basketball player watches the rocker chick return to her seat. He focuses on her lips, and the lazy curls of hair draped over one side of her face. He imagines moving to stand by her aisle seat. Hand resting on his thigh just by her face, he wills the smell of expensive cologne to turn her head. It does. Raking the hair back from her face, he wraps its length around his fist and presses himself gently into her mouth. She looks up, blue eyes shocked, her senses still processing the scent of cologne. She shakes her head no, but the movement melds into the universal verticalness of "yes."
Her butt lifts, just barely, instinctively, from the seat. Her shoulders pull back, neck arching the tiniest bit forward, chin angled a microadjustment upward. He accepts her acquiescence, rocking carefully with a steely metronome rhythm. But it can't last. And just as her hand stretches up to steady herself against the ceiling, he bursts into a fury of movement, polishing the back of her throat with abandon. Her hand flails against the ceiling. Throughout the airplane, passenger's heads pop up like prairie dogs, looking to see where the muted "ding" of the flight attendant call button has originated. Noses and eyebrows wrinkle in an attempt to discern the known and unknown scents, one of his load, and the other of chocolate brownies warming for the lucky ones in First Class.
The small librarian-nerdy-girl observes it all from the back of the plane, Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing" flowing through her headset.
