Joanne's Metamorphosis

Jim responded to George. "George, I've told you a million times that I write for fun, not money. I'd be a crappy song writer if I did it for a living. I might write more songs, but not better ones."

"Well, you made at least a couple of bucks writing over the years. You've given me five number ones, or is it six? I've had a ton of top twenty hits singing your words. We've shared a few awards, including a Grammy or two. You've helped Travis and Alan and even Allison on more than one occasion, and Miranda--she's my opening act--is shooting up the charts with her album title track. That's a hell of a song you gave her." George said.

He writes fucking number one hits for the man at the pinnacle of country music. He has Grammy Awards? Is there anything this man can't do? Joanne was amazed. This was a mind blower.

George excused himself to go get ready. As he left, he hugged her one more time, whispering in her ear. "Don't let go of him. They just don't get any better. Thank you, Joanne." And with that he was off to get ready to thrill the 40,000 fans packing the stadium. What did he thank her for? She was confused.

A very pretty, poured into her jeans, slightly trashy and very hot young woman ran over to where they were standing and literally threw herself into Jim's arms. It occurred to Joanne that this little girl was probably young enough to be his daughter, but that she would fuck him anywhere, any time--and anyway--it pleased him.

"Hey, baby, I've missed you so much! Where have you been? Thank you so much. The song you gave me really opened the door--finally. It's the one that got me a contract and its climbing fast and pulling my album sales a long with it." The hot young women gushed.

Joanne realized she had been wrong. Miranda loved this man, and while it was hard for her to do anything that wasn't sexy, she had a strong affection for Jim that wasn't about sex. Jim introduced the two women.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Joanne," she said with all sincerity. "You hang on tight to this guy--he's a keeper!" And with that she dashed, or scampered, off to get ready to open for the man.

Jim and Joanne moved to the buffet to get some food; a waiter handed each of them a glass of wine, red wine, a Cab, she realized. Christ they even know what he drinks.

A number of the celebrities--tycoons and politicians came up to greet them. That was what had her in awe--they came to Jim. A man, obviously George's manager, came over and hugged him almost as warmly as George had. It was almost more than Joanne could handle. She knew he was a very special man, but so did a whole bunch of other people.

It was getting close to show time and the crowd dwindled as people were escorted to their seats. No one had better seats than they did--almost on the stage, not more than a half dozen feet from where George would perform.

Miranda came out for the opening act and nailed it. She had an upbeat, almost country rock style, the perfect opening act for George. As the band prepared for their second number, the lights on stage dimmed a bit, and Joanne realized that it would be a slower song, perhaps a ballad.

Miranda started to introduce the song; the crowd knew what was coming and began clapping and cheering. "This song is very special to me. I wouldn't be here tonight, opening for the greatest entertainer in the history of country music, without it. I'd like to dedicate it to the dear man who wrote it, Jim Gibson."

And as she pointed in their direction, Jim smiled and blew her a kiss as the spotlight operator desperately tried to focus on the correct location. Then she started to sing. She turned out to be one of those entertainers who sounds better in person--not created in a studio. She delivered the piece with heartfelt emotion and owned those 40,000 people.

As the song unfolded, tears filled Joanne's eyes. Without thinking she grabbed Jim's arm and lightly put her head on his strong shoulder. Miranda delivered it perfectly, but it was the song that had most of the audience on the verge of tears. It was a tender and bittersweet saga of missed love, fleeting love which should have been, should have grown, but lacking nurture, was lost forever. As she came to the final note--which she held and delivered flawlessly--the audience gave her a standing ovation. Miranda looked at Jim, mouthing, the words, "Thank you".

Miranda brought her show to a close after about thirty minutes. She definitely had a promising career ahead of her, Joanne mused. She had great pipes, her looks certainly wouldn't hurt and, as long as she kept picking good songs, she'd be around for a while.

As George was being introduced for the main event, the crowd went nuts. He strode on stage with his six string dressed as he always was, the gentleman cowboy. The band struck up his traditional opener and the crown roared.

After the first number, the lighting changed to indicate that George, too, was going to slow it down. He looked directly at Jim, touched his fingers to the brim of his white Stetson, and started his latest chart climber, a song entitled, 'Don't Run Away."

Nobody in the world delivered this kind of song the way George did, which is why he was at the top of the business. Joanne had not heard this song before; she'd stopped listening to country radio when she had moved to Florida and hadn't bought a new album in years.

This song shook Joanne to the very core. It was a song about her. Jim had written a song about her and now the greatest country artist who had ever lived was singing it. And he knew. George knew. He was singing it to her. As he moved his eyes across the crowd in his signature style, those beautiful blue eyes always came back to her--to Joanne. She couldn't help herself; she leaned up and kissed Jim on the cheek to tell him she now knew, also. George smiled as he caught the kiss. The song ended and you could have heard a pin drop; then the audience exploded.

George turned to look at Jim and Joanne. She thought that he would probably thank Jim for the song, as Miranda had done. To her surprise, he tipped his hat at her. Fixing her eyes with those piercing blue eyes of his, he said, loud enough for her to hear from six feet away, "Thank you--Joanne".

Joanne was in shock. He wrote a song about me. He cares, doesn't he? That's more than just friendship, isn't it?

The concert was a smash, as expected. After the show they went back stage to say their goodbyes. George had to get on the road for a gig in Atlanta, so the after show gathering was abbreviated. Joanne couldn't let go of Jim. As she slid back into the seat of the big truck they had come in she moved over next to him. She planted her pretty little butt as tightly as humanly possible against his body.

As he helped her down from the truck at the door to her condo, Joanne's mind was racing. I want him to come inside. I want him to spend the night. I desperately need him to make love to me--to fuck me--to make me his woman. But that was not to be.

They kissed and held each other longingly at her door as two young high school lovers might do. She never wanted it to end. It did.

Jim spoke first. "Joanne, this was a very special evening. Thank you for being a very special part of it. I enjoy spending time with you. You're thinking about inviting me in. If you did, I'd probably say yes. Please don't. On a practical note, I've got another very early OR meeting. On a personal note, we need to leave it here, at least this evening. I suppose I'm a bit old fashion but we need to let it happen--let it grow. Okay?"

Joanne nodded, not really meaning it. She knew she wanted to fuck him. If he didn't leave or come inside, she'd blow him right here in the open. She didn't. They kissed and embraced one more time and parted company.

She got inside, stripped off her clothes and got in bed. She began to fondle her most private area, thinking about the man she had spent the last few hours with. She came very quickly, surprising herself that she had cum that quickly--and without any electrical assistance. She fell asleep, dreaming of this wonderful man who was stealing her heart--had already stolen it.

Over the next week, Jim came by the office to take her to lunch twice She knew he was very busy and she regretted that he didn't call her for some sort of, real date.

Jim stopped by her office on Wednesday of the following week. "There's a three day weekend coming up, Joanne. Do you have any plans?"

"What did you have in mind?" She asked, trying not to seem too anxious. A weekend sounded very interesting.

"Have you ever spent any time in the Caribbean?" He inquired.

"The usual, Paradise Island, the casinos, but it wasn't that great." She responded.

"This is a little different. There is a small island, a Cay as they call it, just off of St. Catherine, maybe 75 miles. Along with a handful of other folks, I own some property down there. It's 1,000 miles south and not at all like Paradise Island. Are you interested?" Jim asked, directly, as if he was asking about some business issue.

"Sound great!" Joanne replied. "Exactly how are we going to get there? I can't believe you have tickets and if you don't, with the holiday, and all, I doubt that we could get them." She responded, sort of hinting that, if that was what he had in mind, she would pay for her air fare.

"We're going to fly; Tampa direct to St. Catherine, and then over to Goose Neck Cay. I have an airplane, a little Cessna, actually, that will probably get us there in one piece." Jim replied, nonchalantly.

He flies, too? I should have known. "Sound like a plan. Do you want me to drive over to your place, or are you coming over to pick me up?"

"I'll pick you up. The air park is about half way between your place and mine. Is 7:00 AM too early?" Jim inquired, then added. "Just pack light, beachy stuff, nothing dressy."

"I'll be ready, thanks" She replied, more excited than she wanted to let on that she would be spending the weekend with him. Thank God, she thought, I'm finally going to get laid.

He picked her up at her apartment bright and early the next morning in the truck. They headed for a small business air park about half way between her condo and his house. They parked in a secured lot; he grabbed their two suit cases and they walked into flight operations. He had told her that he never drove the Mercedes, except for work--and never on the weekend.

"Good morning, Mr. Gibson." The extremely attractive young lady behind the counter said, greeting him with more than business politeness. Had he fucked her? She certainly wanted to fuck him from the way she was flirting, Joanne thought.

"Sir, you're cleared as filed, IFR to St. Catherine, then switching to VFR into Goose Neck Cay. The weather looks excellent, so it should be a smooth flight. Your aircraft is right outside, all gassed up and ready to roll." The young lady said, adopting a more professional tone.

"Thanks, Candy, great work, as usual. Candy, this is my very good friend, Joanne who is accompanying me today." Jim said, introducing the two women. Both women were checking each other out.

Jim and Joanne walked out the back door of the ops building and across a short hanger to the waiting aircraft. It was a Cessna.. It sure as hell wasn't a little Cessna 172, she thought to herself.

Joanne knew something about airplanes. One of her brothers was a military pilot. Her dad flew. Joanne herself had gotten her private pilot's license several years earlier. She'd hung around airports when she was younger, but slightly less than perfect vision kept her out of any military flight program--and there weren't that many opportunities in those days for woman pilots without military aviation training. But she knew airplanes. This one was a beauty.

This was a Citation II, powered by two Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines. It was distinctive in the business jet category with its unswept wing. Depending on configuration, it could carry six to ten passengers with a max range of almost 2,000 miles. It cruised at close to 450 miles per hour with a top speed nearing 500 miles per hour.

It had one of the lowest stall speeds of any aircraft in its category, less than 100 miles per hour, and thus could get into relatively short runways--and get back out again due to its low wing loading and solid thrust to weight ratio. Normal service ceiling was over 25,000 feet. It could certainly fly much higher if needed.

Joanne knew that this one was as nice as the one the CEO flew in. All things considered, even used, and depending on the year and upgrades, this was at least a one and a half million dollar airplane--probably more.

"Who's flying this jewel?" She asked, jokingly, but she was pretty sure she already knew.

"You and me babe, if I can figure out how to get it started." Jim replied.

Jim continued. "I did a little checking on you; I've got several old friends at the FAA. You've got a pilot's license, and you're current--barely. You've also got an instrument ticket and are two engine qualified, a Turbo Baron, I seem to recall--though not in jets. You can legitimately fly copilot and actually log the time. After an hour with an instructor, we're legal in the soup, if need be, since real instrument flying in this aircraft requires two instrument qualified pilots. Since I'm instructor rated in this aircraft and an instrument examiner, it's almost a moot point. Hop in; you can have the right seat."

He's not just a pilot, he's a fucking instructor pilot. Well, you don't exactly hop in a Citation II, Joanne thought to herself. While the cabin is a little short for most men to stand up comfortably in, it's a very roomy aircraft for two people. Jim stowed their luggage and did a quick walk around of the aircraft. She busied her self strapping in and trying to familiarize herself with the flight controls and instruments. There were a lot more dials and gauges then she was used to, but she had flown enough over the years to figure things out pretty quickly.

Jim came up front and strapped into the left seat. He handed her the pre-start checklist, indicating that she should call of the steps and he would execute them. They got through the procedure pretty quickly. Only former military pilots always used the check list. He had flown in the military; what had he flown?

"Joanne, it's almost two hours of total flying time to where we're going--close to 1,000 miles and we've got a little tail wind. We'll clear the coast south west in less than 100 miles. Then we'll turn generally south; then it's all over water. As you heard from Candy, we'll track IFR to St. Catherine, then transition to VFR for the short hop over to our destination, maybe another fifteen or twenty minutes. If the weather turns on us-- which it's not supposed to do--I can get out of there zero-zero. This airplane and I are both certified for zero-zero takeoff. Departure control out of St. Catherine will pick me up at 1,000 feet and we're good to go all the way back home. There aren't any navigational aids at the 'goose' so I sure as hell can't land there if the weather closes in."

"How much flight time do you have?" She inquired.

"He grinned. "Lots and lots, I'll give you my aviation history after we get airborne."

Jim signaled his intent to start the number one engine to the ground handler, and in seconds, both engines were humming. Ground cleared them to taxi. There was no one in front of them, so the tower cleared them on the active runway, 'clear as filed.' Jim turned the little jet onto the runway without pausing.

Jim expertly pushed the throttles to takeoff power as they smoothly rotated to the runway heading and the two JTI 5D-4 turbofan engines with 2500 pounds of thrust each, began to do their thing. The twin engine jet accelerated smoothly. It was glad to know that it would soon, "slip the surly bonds of earth."

Jim called out V1, V2 and then rotation. The trim little jet leapt into the air. Without looking he hit the gear levers and the flaps and she felt the three wheels contract into the fuselage with a dull thud. Without a glance he changed frequency to departure control. He trimmed the aircraft for a 2,000 foot per minute climb, adjusting the throttles accordingly.

This guy's a real fucking pilot, Joanne thought to herself, really smooth; he doesn't grip the controls, he's barely touching them. I wonder if that's the same gentle touch he has with a woman--not yet, plenty of time to find out, she hoped, as the weekend progressed.

"Departure control, Cessna Citation November 55555 is off Ocean View, heading 265 passing through 5,000, climbing to 150 thousand, IFR to St. Catherine, destination Goose Neck, squawking 2,200, over." Jim calmly informed the air traffic control center.

"November 55555, I believe I have you. I have you 5 miles West of Ocean View, squawk 2998 and ident." A very brief pause followed. "Radar contact confirmed. You're cleared as filed. Maintain current heading. Climb to 150 thousand, expect a further climb to 250 thousand and a left turn to 185. Contact center on 124.85 prior to passing 150 thousand. You have no traffic in your vicinity. Have a great flight; departure control out."

Again without looking, Jim tuned the radio to the new frequency, and contacted Miami Center with the same professional style that he had shown in everything else he had done since they entered the aircraft. It was a clear day with no delays and they were cleared to their cruising altitude and the heading which would take them to St. Catherine. She was impressed. Everything this man did impressed her.

"You want to fly?" He asked. "It's not going to be very exciting, since we have to stay pretty close to our assigned heading and altitude, but at least you'll get the feel of it. It's frankly a far easier airplane to fly than a Turbo Baron."

She placed her hands and feet on the controls, and when he was confident that she was in control he spoke. "You have the aircraft."

"I have the aircraft." Joanne responded. Yep, this guy had been a military pilot.

He let her make some minor turns and adjust altitude and heading within their flight parameters. It was a smooth airplane to fly. She hoped she'd get a chance to really fly it.

"Let's let the computer do the boring work." Jim said, placing his hands and feet back on the controls. "I have the aircraft."

"You have the aircraft." Joanne responded, releasing the controls and moving her feet away from the rudder pedals.

Jim engaged the auto pilot, made one more position report to Miami, then slid his seat back and turned toward her with a grin. "What do you think?"

"It's right up there with sex, as I remember it." She quipped.

"It's a great airplane for getting somewhere relatively quickly, but not really that much fun to fly, although it has its moments. I have a restored P-51 that is my favorite, fun ride. It was a trainer model and holds a second passenger or pilot--barely." Jim told her.

Christ, she thought, the guy not only has at least two airplanes, he has a classic WWII fighter. The guy just gets more interesting with every passing day.

Jim continued. "Okay, my flight history. My brother was a Navy fighter jock. He took me up in a little fabric wing J3 Piper Cub when he was in college and I was about twelve. It rented for five bucks an hour through his flying club. Top speed a little over 70 knots and it would virtually hover in a decent head wind. I was hooked."

Jim continued. "I made a little money in high school selling short stories under an assumed name and my folks let me use a lot of it to buy flight time. I soloed at 16 and got my instrument ticket and private pilot's license before my 18th birthday. I ended up buying an old Mooney for a few thousand bucks and restoring it, with my dad. My ID was a little off, oh, about a year, so I was just a hair shy of each age requirement but not that much. I corrected it years later and no one said a word."