Flying High (21 page)

The higher her hand went, the harder his penis became. She looked up for a moment to see if anyone could see her groping between his legs. The flight attendants were sitting way up front, and everyone else seemed to be minding his or her own business. But when she licked her bottom lip and began to unzip his slacks, she looked across to the next row of seats and saw that one of the young men who had been listening to music earlier was now watching every move she made. He had reddish blond hair, fair white skin, and a cute little pug nose. He couldn't have been more than twenty-one. They stared at each other for a moment, and then he smiled, spread his long legs and rubbed his own crotch. Betty winked at him, and then she told Bert to close his eyes and relax. This was an interesting state of affairs; she'd never had an audience while she sucked a guy off on a plane.

When Bert's zipper was down, Betty slowly reached inside his boxer shorts and grabbed his dick. It was completely erect by then, and it pulsed and jumped when she wrapped her palm around the shaft. She pulled it out of his pants carefully, but Bert opened his eyes and looked toward the front of the plane. “I don't know about this,” he said. “We could get into trouble.” Then he looked across the row to see what the two young guys were doing. Both had their eyes closed and were still listening to their iPods.

“Just close your eyes,” she said. “It won't take long. You know you want it.”

She leaned toward him and gently jerked his cock a few times; she placed the tip of her thumb against the base of his dickhead and rubbed the soft skin. There was precome already beginning to ooze from the opening. Oh, she knew it wouldn't take too long with this one. The poor guy probably hadn't had good head
in years. And if he was so worried about having sex in public, he clearly could have stopped her from continuing.

Bert closed his eyes again and leaned back; he bucked his hips forward so that his dick was standing up, out of his pants. It was thick, and if you wrapped your hand around the base there would still have been four inches showing through the top. “You promise you'll keep looking to see that we don't get caught,” he said, but his eyes were still closed.

“Yes, I promise,” she said. But when she looked across the row, the young college guy was staring at them again. This time, his blue eyes were glazed and he was jerking his own dick. She smiled at him, opened her mouth, and then went down on Bert's cock while the stranger watched.

She took the dick to the back of her throat; her lips went all the way down to the fabric of his white boxer shorts. His crotch smelled like fresh soap, but there was still a hint of that watered down oil and vinegar stench of a man's sweaty balls. She inhaled deeply through her nose; this was her favorite men's cologne. The young guy across the row licked his palm and wrapped it around his own large erection and slowly began to masturbate. She pressed her tongue against the bottom side of Bert's dick and began to suck. Her cheekbones indented and her lips grew puffy. When she looked up, with a mouthful of cock, to see what the young guy was doing, her eyes opened wider, and then she blinked. The redheaded one who had been masturbating was still watching her suck Bert's dick, but the other guy who had been sleeping was now sucking the redhead off. The other guy had dark brown hair, and his eyes were light brown. When Betty's eyes met the eyes of the other cocksucker, he lifted his hand and slowly waved his fingers. She pressed her tongue hard against Bert's shaft and smiled back.

She went all the way down to the base of Bert's dick again
and began to suck and slurp, pressing her lips together when she reached the head so it would feel more like a hand job than a blow job. Her head bobbed and saliva dripped down her chin. Every so often, when she swallowed, she tasted Bert's salty precome. The dark-haired guy who was sucking off his friend in the opposite row mimicked everything she did. When Betty's head bobbed up and down quickly, so did his; when Betty's cheeks indented, so did his; and when Betty let it pop out of her mouth so she could lick the head, so did he. The red-haired guy who was getting sucked off, and watching Betty suck Bert off, rested his head back on the seat. He stared at Bert's wide dick; his tongue hung out, he bucked his hips and pressed his palm on the back of the dark-haired guy's head.

When the pilot suddenly announced they were heading toward some rough turbulence and that everyone should buckle their seat belts, Betty slid Bert's cock halfway out of her mouth and wrapped her right hand around the base. Bert moaned, “Oh yeah, that's it,” while she sucked the head of his dick and jerked him off at the same time. She looked across the row; the other cocksucker was now sucking the head and jerking the shaft of his buddy, too. The dark-haired guy nodded yes, to let her know that his red-haired buddy was about to blow a load, and she began to work harder on Bert's dick, as if she were in a cock-sucking contest and someone would receive a prize.

With her lips wrapped around the top of Bert's dick, her hand worked faster. A moment later Bert was ready to release, and he spread his legs even wider so that one knee was almost out in the aisle. He gripped the arms of his seat and his body went rigid. When he squinted and furrowed his eyebrows, Betty knew his toes were curling inside his black shoes. But more than that, just as Bert was about to orgasm, she looked across the row and the dark-haired guy nodded again. Her broad eyes met
his, and then both Bert and the red-haired guy came at the exact same time. Bert shot a load of cream all the way to the back of her throat; she gulped and swallowed. The dark-haired young guy was sucking and swallowing the last ounce from his buddy's dick, too. Betty and the dark-haired guy continued to stare at each other, as if they were watching their own reflections, and went all the way down on their partners' dicks at the same time to make sure they didn't waste a drop of come.

The plane jerked back and forth for a moment, but not much. Betty lifted her head and touched the corners of her mouth with her fingertips to be sure nothing was dripping. While she reached down into her purse for a small mirror, Bert shoved his cock back into his pants and adjusted his legs.

“Ah well,” he said. Then he looked around the plane to see if anyone was watching them. The flight attendants were nowhere to be seen, the red-haired guy in the next row was still sleeping, and the dark-haired guy was wiping his chin with a white tissue. Bert smiled at him and waved; the thought of actually receiving a blow job in public, by a great-looking woman, made his heart beat faster.

When Betty looked into the mirror, her lips were puffy. She applied more lip gloss and said, “I guess it's only light turbulence.” What else could she say?
Thanks for letting me suck your dick; it was my pleasure. And the two gay guys in the row across from us really enjoyed watching me suck your dick, too.
She knew it was best to get right back to normal, as if none of this had ever happened, which was fine with her.

But Bert actually rubbed his big legs, sighed, and said, “Thanks…I've always wanted to do something like that, but never had the guts. And my ex-wife…well, she always wanted talking and romance. I'd ask her on the way home from a dinner party, I'd say, ‘You wanna give me head right here in the car?'
and she'd say, ‘Are you kidding…we can't do something like that…it's against the law.' All I can say is that when you get rejected enough, you develop an edge, and then you stop asking altogether.”

Betty smiled and popped a breath mint into her mouth. “I don't know,” she said, “I wish I were more like other women sometimes. But I really
don't
care about talking and romance and tons of psychological foreplay…I like sex; I like dick.”

Bert leaned closer and laughed. “You want to know something else?” He began to whisper as if he were about to tell her his deepest darkest secret. “At first I was a little freaked out when I realized those two guys were watching you blow me, but then I realized I actually liked it. I mean I'm not gay or anything, but I sort of liked doing it in public. It felt dangerous and exciting.”

She faced him and put her hands on her hips. “You knew all along?”

He nodded his head and said, “Sorry; I hope you're not mad or anything.”

“Of course I'm not mad,” she said. And then she hiked her skirt up and spread her legs a little. “If you like it so much, then why don't you take that little red toy out of my purse and do me now. We still have a very active audience, in case you haven't noticed.”

Bert turned his head and looked over at the two guys across from him. The redhead was now going down on the dark-haired one. His head was bobbing up and down; the other guy's legs were stretched all the way out and his hand was in the middle of the redhead's shoulder blades. Bert looked at Betty and shrugged. “Open your legs wide, baby…and we won't need any toys for this, either.” Then he waved his thick fingers and wagged his tongue.

 

 

 

 

 

The conversations go something like this:

“I'm a wing walker,” I say, demurely twiddling my glass of chardonnay.

“Oh?” he says, and his eyes flick over me dismissively, no doubt picturing me in thick overalls wielding an industrial hose of airplane deicer at DIA. “You don't look the maintenance type.”

“I'm not,” I say. “I wear a catsuit, not a boilersuit, and I dance on the wing of the plane as it flies along.”

That always gets their attention, at the very least a double take, while they decide if I'm serious or not. And if they decide I am, then I have their interest for as long as I want it.

 

Wing walking goes something like this:

I dress warmly—a layer of wicking thermals because it's colder than the moon out there, with the wind whipping away every thought of warmth; then the catsuit. It's a patriotic red,
white, and blue, a line of stars down the thigh, diagonal stripes over the torso. Patriotism goes down well with the air-show crowds. I wear goggles against the wind, soft slippers on my feet so I don't harm the fabric of the wing.

Bob is our pilot, Buttercup is our plane. Bob is sixty-eight and has a steady hand on the controls. Buttercup is also sixty-eight and she's a Boeing Stearman biplane, a game old girl painted as sunny as her name. Bob and her, they have a long history together. I often think they'll go together in a burst of flame on a hillside. I just hope I'm not on the wing at the time.

We take off from a back strip, away from the crowds. I'm already on the upper wing in my safety harness, securely fastened to the upright struts that protrude from the center of the plane's structure. Surely you didn't think I'd do this without a harness? Some people used to, but they tended to have short careers.

We circle the air show once, up high. We'll talk a little on the radio. Bob worries how long he can keep doing this. The maintenance on the old girl gets harder every year. Then we get the signal to go and we come in fast and low. I'll be in a pose: arm extended gracefully, my long hair streaming behind me like Boadicea the warrior queen. Or Xena the warrior princess—I guess more people have heard of her. One leg cocked up, I'll hold the pose and wave to the crowd as Bob takes us up in a hard spiral. And for the next fifteen minutes or so, Bob will twirl with Buttercup, looping the loop, flying upside down, flipping her from side to side, always within sight of the crowds, of course. And me? I'll be up there, posing, slow-motion dancing, sometimes doing a handstand, although Bob has to keep her totally steady for that one, so I only do that when he's been dry for a few days. The wind pummels the breath from my body, and moving a limb is like pushing against cement. The roar of the air and the rumble and creak of the plane beneath my feet fill my head. There's a crowd?
I honestly couldn't tell you. It's just me and Buttercup and Bob, flying in our little space-time continuum.

 

Evenings go something like this:

Me and Bob, in a Motel 6 somewhere, Buttercup in a hangar nearby. We get takeout and sit on one of the double beds, backs against the headboard, watching HBO. I trade some of my sweet and sour for Bob's lo mein, and we wrangle over who ate the most prawn crackers. We compromise on the wine: he likes sweet, I like dry, so as usual we settle on a Riesling, one of those big double bottles and we'll finish the lot.

“You need a man,” Bob says, eyes on Sigourney Weaver, her singlet tastefully ripped as she battles aliens.

I grunt. “I can get one anytime I want.”

“Not just a one-night man,” says Bob. He knows about them. He's obligingly asked for another room on a few occasions when I can't go back to their place. “A real man.”

“What man can compete with Buttercup?” I ask, adding hastily, “Apart from you.”

“I'll find you a man,” promises Bob. “One like Sigourney.” So far, he hasn't.

Bob and I aren't lovers. There's a forty-year age gap. I like men with hair above the neck and none below. Bob likes men who are the reverse of that. We get along like old friends, sharing a room with two beds in each of the cheap motels to save money.

And so our evenings fill the space of a motel room and our mouths and hands follow the predictable routine of takeout and conversations we've had hundreds of times before. I wouldn't change those conversations; I wouldn't change Bob. Only the location of the Motel 6 changes. It teleports itself from Chino to Riverside to Prescott to Pueblo so that it's there when Bob and I fly up in Buttercup to prepare for the next show.