The Writer and The Word (01)

"You've no idea how bad this group stinks, Marc. Man, we really fucked up coming in this morning instead of last night. We all should have bathed before getting on the plane."

"I don't smell anything." Marc said.

"Yeah, Marc, that's the problem . . ."

+

He walked back toward the front of the jet, and on re-entering First Class, one of the Flight Attendants asked his seat assignment. Sumner gave the Attendant his boarding pass, and so satisfied, the young woman turned to resume other duties. He asked her quickly, before she had turned completely away, if they had any shirts and cologne on the duty-free cart.

"I'll just go and check, Mr Welles. About what size, and colour would you care for."

"Ah, about a large, and white'll do. I think I'll just pop on into the head here, and try to wash up a bit. Just knock, would you?"

The gorgeous red-headed young woman hurried off, grateful to be away from the stench.

+

Sumner approached his seat in the second row in a crisp white polo shirt embroidered with the British Airways logo, and smelling faintly of Issey Miyake for Men. He felt better having splashed soap and water on his chest and under his arms; he'd even tried to have a go at washing up down below, but he knew that was a fool's errand. As he got to his seat he looked at Diane Westhoven laid out on her couchette. 'Actually a very good looking woman,' he thought.

She was, of course, dressed entirely in black. She wore a summer weight silk suit, and was adorned sparingly with just the faintest bit of austere white gold jewelry on her right wrist, and around her right ankle. She wore black stockings and pumps; her stocking tops were just peeking out from under the hem of her skirt, which must have ridden up, Sumner thought, as she changed positions in her seat. She must have been a little over five feet tall, but not much so, and her shockingly white skin stood in stark contrast to her jet black hair. He fingernails were painted blood red.

His eyes lingered over her recumbent form for several seconds; he appreciated beauty and women who relished their femininity. It was, he decided, her legs that stood out to him, that were causing that little electric feeling to spread in his groin. He took in her form for a few moments more, then took his seat, taking great care not to mangle his now stiffening cock.

+

Diane Westhoven loved hiding behind her dark sunglasses. She relished the feeling of men taking her beauty in, unaware that she was watching their every thought and movement take shape in the air between them. Knowledge was power, she knew, and through power came the will to control others. Bend them to shapes of her choosing, or discard them as she saw fit.

Diane Westhoven loved taking in the young man's form standing there above her, unapologetically looking at her, the form of his desire growing unabated in his grimy shorts. She shifted her position ever so slightly in pre-planned maneuver and watched his reaction as her silky black skirt rode up her creamy white thigh, revealing her black nylon stocking's lacy bands and her garter's silky straps. She hoped she had been able to suppress her smile as the young man quickly took his seat and straightened out his shorts.

+

Flight Attendants and Stewards soon came down both aisles in stately procession - pushing sterling silver serving carts adorned with huge slabs of roast beef on maple carving boards. Each passenger's beef was carved there, in the aisle, and placed on fine china, accompanied by creamed spinach and Yorkshire Pudding. The Steward asked each passenger if they cared for lobster with their beef, and those who so affirmed were served freshly steamed Maine lobster tails. Flight attendants followed the Stewards with a modest selection of wines on separate, though no less ornate carts.

Diane asked for and was prepared three very thin slices of beef, and on replying that, yes, should love some lobster today, the steward took a steaming tail out of his covered compartment, and took the meat out of the shell. This he sliced, and placed carefully next to the beef. At her request, he placed drawn butter on the tail, and he ceremoniously moved his creation to the little polished mahogany table that had grown out of her seat.

The Steward asked Sumner for his desired cut of beef.

"I guess a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is out of the question?"

He made do with roast beef, and a little lobster, too, if you please.

+

After dinner had been cleared, and after-dinner drinks served, the cabin lights had dimmed and window shades lowered. Sumner took out the shrink-wrapped woolen blanket and covered his bare legs with it; he wanted to sleep the rest of the way to Logan if he could. Diane had tossed down a finger of Chivas, neat, then put her legs up again and promptly dropped off to sleep. Her body had drifted toward Sumner's; he took in her scent and felt himself stirring again.

+

Diane felt herself bunching in excitement as she lowered her head to the young man's shoulder, feigned sleep on his yielding muscles. After an interminable wait, she dropped the hand that had been under her chin squarely into his lap, and she began to snore gently. Her hand made languid, aimless arcs across the top of the blanket in Sumner's lap. Just as abruptly, after a few minutes of ambiguous caresses, she pulled her hand back to her face.

+

Sumner had been in that airy zone between awake and asleep, drifting deep inside currents of warm ethers, when he had felt Diane's head slip onto his shoulder. He felt himself smile at the sweetness of the gesture, then returned to the downward spin toward sleep. The jolt that shot through his body as her hand hit his crotch was unmistakable. He didn't open his eyes, but every sense in his body went into primitive readiness. Her hand drew smooth arcs around his cock, and he found himself growing under the relentless pressure. All he could consciously think about was that it had been more than a month since he had come; his body was taking care of all those other tiny little details that were popping up unannounced . . .

+

'Ooohh, that was fun,' Diane Westhoven thought, barely suppressing her laughter. Now to let him stew in his juices a minute . . .

. . . She moved her foot, still encased in the black high heeled pump, from her footrest over onto Sumner's, next to his left leg. With the tip of the shoe, she began to draw lazy circles on his shin and ankle. She could feel him shift in his seat, but he did not move away, and after a moment of this she heard his involuntary moan. It was time to strike . . .

. . . She reached down with her hand and removed the shoe, and placed it in his lap. She smoothly ran her hand back up the outside of the blanket - over his thigh - then returned the motion, now under the blanket. She ran her fingernails down the top of his thigh, felt him shiver, brought her stiletto nails up the inside of his thigh, and repeated the motion very, very slowly for several minutes. She wanted her nails to leave marks on his flesh, she wanted to mark her territory. She dug them in more forcefully, and felt him stiffen, felt him work to repress the shriek of pain that sought involuntary release. She relented, then brought her hands to his shorts, and undid the belt buckle over his belly. She did this with practiced ease, then unsnapped the waistband, and pulled down the zipper. Her hand sought the elastic of his undershorts, and her long fingers moved into warmth and encircled the young man's now totally hard cock.

God, she thought, how she loved young men. And young cocks. U S Steel had never crafted an alloy as hard as this young man's cock. She felt her own warmth spreading through her legs and belly.

As her fingers began their work, she took one of Sumner's hands and brought it to her face; she took two of his smooth fingers into her mouth and sucked on them, rolled her tongue over them. She took her hand, the hand under the blanket gripping the young man's cock, and began moving it slowly up and down the shaft, twisting on the up-stroke, lightly raking the skin with her nails as she rammed her grasping fingers down into his pubic hair.

She leaned up and looked at the young man. He turned and met her eyes directly.

"Does that feel good, Sumner?"

"Yes, it does."

"Do you want me to stop, Sumner?"

He looked at her, shook his head.

"Tell me you want me to continue, Sumner. I want you to beg me to continue."

Well, I can play along here a little bit, he thought. "Diane, please continue."

"Sumner . . ." she drew the name out playfully, "that's not begging."

"Oh, please Diane, please . . ." With that the ministrations she delivered increased slightly in speed and intensity.

"That's better, slave. I want to own your soul . . . will you give me your soul?"

He still looked her directly in the eyes. "You know, Ms Westhoven, that probably reads real good to some desperate housewife at the beauty parlor in East Bumfuck, New Jersey. But not to me. You're a broken joke, and you need to stop fucking with other people's lives."

Diane Westhoven felt her carefully crafted world turn to frozen glass, then shatter in the roiled air of his words. She shook as contrapuntal waves of anger and despair swept over her. She felt the one emotion roll over and through the core of her being that she had never, not once in her life, felt. She rolled under the impact of total rejection. Tears came to her in an unexpected rush, and she quickly, desperately, turned her back to the young man.

Sumner Welles got himself together under cover of the blanket, and walked to the back of the plane. He gave Marc his boarding pass and sent him forward.

I'm sure she'll enjoy his company, he thought.

+

As British Airways flight 481 sped westward across the Atlantic, Angela White gathered her lunch kit and umbrella and made her way through the belly of Terminal 3 to the employee shuttle that would run her over to the Piccadilly Line. She boarded silently, anonymously, blended into the late afternoon commuting crowd. They bus wound through heavy traffic and stopped at the Tube Station. She made her way to the platform, and boarded the next train, taking a seat in the middle of the car. The seats faced inward, and she looked down at the floor as the train gathered speed and took off on the thirty minute run into London. She changed for the Circle Line and headed toward Paddington Station, where she disembarked. She went through security at the exit, then rode the escalator up into the station. After stopping at the little grocery in the station, she walked the few short blocks south to the flat she shared with three BA Flight Attendants.

Angela White had been, when she rented the flat, a Flight Attendant as well, until her father had taken ill almost a year ago. With her mother long gone, to New Zealand, in point of fact, she had requested a change in assignment that would allow her to remain close to her father's home and not be away from town. Then, as fall had turned to winter, she needed to the near the hospital. He had passed in late April, and the cold loneliness she felt with his passing had yet to leave her completely.

The girls she shared the flat with were rarely home. They were on Hong Kong and Tokyo runs, and their layovers were long and frequent, so she was not surprised to come into the little flat and find herself alone once again. She placed her groceries in the little fridge, then moved about the flat's three rooms opening windows. In the early summer evening, with the Sun still high in the western sky, she listened to the steady parade of cars on the street below; breathed in life that pulsed through the giant city's heart like the very blood of life itself.

She sat in a modern overstuffed lime-green chair, and flipped off her shoes. She took up the old dog-eared copy of James Clavell'sShogunfrom the table by her side, and picked up reading where she had left off the night before. She wanted to escape into the desperate love affair between Blackthorne and Mariko-san, wanted to affirm the possibility of finding love in a world so full of lonely hearts and broken dreams. As she drifted through the words, the image of Sumner Welles came rushing into her consciousness with a suddenness that had startled her with it's clarity.

Of course she wasn't going to America, run after this boy; she had decided that earlier in the day. But she remembered, vividly, his crisp face and sweet, smooth voice. She had kept the young man's card; it only had his name, a telephone number, and an email address on it. That was very odd, she thought. Perhaps I'll email later tonight, tell him I had a prior commitment, and beg off for some other time. But no hurry, his flight wouldn't land for two more hours. She drifted back into the book, comfortable with her decision to remain behind the walls of her barren-walled loneliness.

Then the telephone rang.

+

The in-coming freshman girl who was so smitten with Sumner, who had limped and complained of blisters so she could remain at the back of the group - back byhim- for almost the entire trip, had been totally enthralled when Sumner reappeared in the aft cabin. He had come and spoken with his friend Marc, who was sitting next to her, and then had changed seats with him. As Sumner sat down next to her, she had flushed with excited anticipation.

She noticed that he too was flushed and excited, but almost boiling over with anger.

"Sumner, are you all right?"

"Yeah, Nancy. Just a . . . I was sitting next to a . . . oh, crap!"

"What is it? Did something happen?" Sumner had been unflappable over the past three weeks, and to all of a sudden see him so out of sorts was cause for some alarm. "Sumner?"

"Take it easy, Nance, it's no big deal. Some woman came on to me, and she was kinda weird about it, but I was ugly to her, and that's inexcusable, and I feel just awful about it."

"Oh."

"Get some rest. Long day ahead of us."

But she had already turned away, and her gaze was lost on the receding surface of the ocean so far below. He was like that ocean, she thought, he was speeding away from me. She would never be this close to him again.

She started to cry. Softly.

+

Diane Westhoven had commanded control of her tears, regained her composure, but continued to reel under opposing waves of anger and hollow rejection. 'This isn't like me,' she thought. 'Men don't affect me this way. What's wrong with me?' She remained fixed on the view of the sea out the window, the bright glare of the Sun at this altitude almost blinding, but she saw in the surface of the ocean below a metaphor for the oceanic loneliness that had found her.

She had humiliated herself almost as surely as he had. This sudden realization filled her with total self-loathing. Barriers came crashing down, walls that had permitted her to use people as playthings, playthings to be discarded, and the debris of this epiphany fell on her soul in crushing, wounding silence. There was no one there in that silence, no gentle voice to reassure her, comfort her, help her learn from her mistakes and move forward.

She turned white with fear as the final consequence of her life's work appeared spread out over the sea below.

"No love," she said out loud, though quietly, as if in prayer.

+

Sumner got up from his seat and walked to the back of the plane, to the telephones that hung from the walls in little recessed cubbies. He inserted his IATA card into the slot on one of the phones and swiped it, and on getting a dial tone, called his father's secretary in Boston.

"Jean? Sumner. Yes, fine, thank you. The weather was great. He did? You got to be kidding me! Jean, I need you to find a name for me, and a number. I checked in for my flight this morning, and there was this girl at the check in counter; yes, Jean, a girl, blond hair. Yeah, I'm on flight 481. Her name is Angela, and I need her number. I don't think you can call back on this number, so I'll stay on the line."

A thirty-something Flight Attendant had been listening to the exchange, and she approached him.

"Sir, I don't mean to intrude, but I overheard your conversation. It would take an act of Parliament to get an employee name from the home office, let alone a telephone number. Perhaps you'd better let this wait until you arrive in Boston. These calls are frightfully expensive."

Sumner smiled at the thoughtful young woman, and shrugged his shoulders as if to say 'Oh, well, that's the way it goes.' He drummed his fingers on the wall for a minute, picked up a timetable and flipped through it absent-mindedly.

"Yes, Jean, I'm here. Angela White, you say? Yes, could you repeat that please? Right, well please thank him for me, would you? I promise I'll drop him a note, yes Jean, I promise I will, and thanks loads, bye-bye now."

The Flight Attendant was looking at Sumner as if he'd sprouted a second head, and her mouth hung open in consternation as her eyes fluttered in shock.

"No reason to mess with Parliament," he said to the Flight Attendant, "when the PM's office is so obliging."

+

Angela White picked up the telephone on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Ah, hi, Angela? This is Sumner Welles, we talked this morning when I checked in for flight 481."

"Mr Welles, where are you?"

"Ah, I, ah, let's see. I think we're approaching Nova Scotia."

"And pray tell, Mr Welles, just how did you get my telephone number."

"Could I tell you that on Friday?"

" - - "

"It's just that it's a little complicated . . . and you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Oh, well then. Perhaps you just called the Prime Minister's office!"

"Precisely!"

"I see, ha-ha Mr Welles, nice joke, that. But seriously, where did you get the number?"

"I think I said you wouldn't believe me, didn't I?"

"So, you just dialed up the PMs office, did you? So, how is he?"

"Ah, Angela, I didn't call him. My father's secretary called him."

"Right. Well, that certainly explains everything!"

"Angela, what difference does it make. I wanted your telephone number, and I got it from Santa Claus, O.K.? But, I wanted to talk to you, and I hope that means something."

" - - "

"Hello?"

"Yes, well. What can I do for, Sir"

"First thing, call me Sumner. O.K.?"

"I'll think about that, Mr Welles. What else?"

"About Friday. Are you going to come? I really want you to come."

" - - - "

"Hello? You still there?"

"I'm here, Mr Welles. Why? Why do you want me to come."

"Well, because you said you would. Because when I saw you something inside me just went off with a bang."

"A bang?"

"Crap. I'm sorry. I'm not really very good on the telephone."

"Oh, quite the contrary, Mr Welles. It's been years since I had so much fun on the telie."

"Ah, Miss White, I'm sorry if I . . . I didn't mean to . . . "

"Mr Welles?"

"Yes?"

"Please, call me Angela."

+

Nancy noticed immediately when Sumner returned from the rear of the plane that he was a different person. He seemed buoyant, fresh, and happily talkative. They talked for an hour, perhaps a bit longer, until the Steward announced that cabin Attendants would be coming around with U S Customs declaration forms, and for everyone to be in their assigned seat.

Within moments Marc appeared with the Steward.

"Ah, Mr Welles, you'll need to return to your assigned seat, please."

"Right."

Sumner got up, and thanked Nancy for listening, for being a friend.

Then . . .

"Sum, dude, what did you do to that lady, man? She's been crying for like three hours!"

+

"Oh, crap!"

+

Angela White hung up the telephone. She was suddenly grinning, feeling - explosively - very happy to be alive. She had Sumner's little business card in her hand, and she brought it to her mouth and kissed it. She wasn't aware that she was hopping around and shouting until the people in the flat below pounded on their ceiling, her floor, and told her to 'keep it down!'.