The Flight

The Flight

Today's flight started out just like hundreds of others I have endured over the last 30-plus years. It was one of those small "regional jets" the airlines have started flying all over the country. You know the ones I am referring to; they look like a cigar tube with wings, have three seats to the row, and are uncomfortable as you-know-what. I cheated the process and boarded the plane with the elderly even though I am not quite there yet. I took my window seat, was under a blanket and sound asleep before they finished boarding all the passengers. This is not uncommon for me as I have been traveling for over 30 years.

About 30 minutes into the flight I awoke. Something did not feel right to me. As I opened my eyes I realized there was a head firmly planted on my left shoulder. Trying not to disturb "the head", I turned my head slightly to attempt to discern the gender of the head. It was at this point that I noticed that "the head" was sharing my blanket as well. Studying the top of "the head" yielded few too many clues as to the gender; the hair was a dishwater-blonde color, unkempt in appearance, and did not smell of hairspray. This information was not well received by my sleepy brain. "The head" could still be male in gender, to which I would not take kindly him using my shoulder for a pillow.

Trying to decide what I could do to obtain the information I needed to solve this little mystery, I realized that perfume might lend me a clue. Unfortunately though, if "the head" was wearing any perfume it was not enough to overcome the other perfumes and after shaves around me. I turned my head as much as I could and tried to see if I could see any shoes or a bare leg below our shared blanket to aide in my investigation. The only thing I could see was a patch of denim, faded from age and multiple washings. Needless to say, my discomfort with this situation is ever-increasing.

I am becoming desperate to determine the gender of "the head" when I feel a hand slip under my upper arm, curling around it, then pulling us closer together. I can honestly say at this point that my level of discomfort has exceeded the scale and has crossed over into anxiety. I lifted the top edge of our blanket to study the hand for obvious clues but found none. "The head's" hands were small, fingers well proportioned, and the nails were trimmed normal with no signs of nail polish; ratchet the anxiety level again.

I scanned the aisle to see if an attendant was coming my way and might help with my mystery "blanket sharer" to no avail. I was considering pushing the attendant call button when the other hand dropped, so to speak. It really did not drop, it just kind of slid up onto my left thigh, but the effect was the same. I nearly came out of my seat. Just the thought that "the head" could be male in gender, be nuzzling my neck and upper arm, and now placing a hand on my upper thigh only a frog's hair from the family jewels, was enough to stir me into immediate movement; my anxiety level had reached its maximum level.

As I moved so did "the head", and I noticed that it was indeed female. What a relief! Only another man would be able to understand truly what I was going through and the relief I now experienced. With this new information I settled back into my corner and tried to resume my slumber. I was just about to enter never-never-land when the "other hand" started moving. It was just a slight kneading of the fingers at first, but soon the thumb was rubbing up against the "family jewels." Things being the way they are, the wealth of the family started increasing due to ministrations of the "other hand." Before long the "other hand" seemed to know what it was doing and the effect it was having on the family fortune, for it moved enough to get a good feel of the size of the fortune. Simultaneous to this audit was the utterance of small, distinct moans coming from the "other hand's" head.

It did not take long before the audit became a full-fledged assessment of the family assets. I was getting close, really close as a matter of fact, to making a donation to the "other hand's" favorite charity when I loader moan came from the "other hand's" head and the head that had been sharing my shoulder for at least a hour suddenly moved. The young woman threw off the blanket we shared and looked at me with accusing eyes. "I hope you enjoyed taking advantage of me like that," she said. I shrugged, looking down at my crossed arms then at the hand, her hand, that was still assessing my family fortune, then at the crotch of her jeans, which were a much darker shade of blue, and said "not as much as you."

We never said another word to one another.