Dalí in the Skiesbyavasogently©
I psyched myself out for this seven-hour plane ride to Madrid. My five-page article last year in Allons! magazine, on sex tourism in Paris, had caught the eye of a prominent travel books publisher – a bruiser with Olivier Martínez eyes and a Javier Bardem smile. I learned via our virtual tryst that the head of Azul Books shared my love for the films of Buñuel, the art of Dalí and the acquired taste for amontillado sherry.
In my last e-mail to the Spaniard, I'd been effusive about writing for Azul and asked if he thought I was a real comer, to which he replied that I had incorrectly conjugated the verb comer. My apology was answered with winking text detailing, in Hemingway fashion (think A Moveable Feast), how he planned to whisk me off to Majorca and eat me out between body shots of that expensive sherry. Obviously my enthusiasm about being published abroad had been lost in translation. Now I'm becoming anxious about landing a contract with Azul, not to mention taxiing into Madrid.
Turbulence puts the fear of God in me, and if the meteorologist on that Spanish-news program on cable had her ears to His mouth, thunderstorms are pending in the capital city. Momentarily I pretend that I'm carrying an umbrella in my briefcase and that I didn't hear "una posibilidad de un 90 por ciento de lluvia" in the mid-November forecast for Madrid.
I don't care what's on the menu up here because I already can taste the tapas, which will be free after all the cañas I'll line up at the bar this afternoon. I'll need all the liquid sustenance I can muster in preparation for a hectic Spanglish check-in and a "randy"-vous doubling as a business meeting with the Azul publisher this evening.
Anticipation of a tapas orgy in Madrid has me strolling the Iberia Air aisle with 100 percent confidence and a wide-lipped smile. At five feet two inches, I'm dwarfed by the tall businessmen ahead of me, so it's a struggle to spot my section. Indeed, I have gotten lucky – much luckier than Azul's head in his surreal, Buñuelesque dreams starring little old moi – because I nab a window seat. The other two seats are empty, thanks to two would-be passengers who probably are relieving each other in a loo at Kennedy Airport in lieu of boarding this flight. I toss my monogrammed briefcase and tweed swing coat into the spacious overhead compartment and stretch out in style.
"Yo no soy Señor Valencia García y Fernández. Yo soy una mujer," I say twenty minutes later to a haughty flight attendant before she pivots on stilettos, puzzled and undoubtedly dizzy. After the necessary announcements and precautions from both captain and flight attendant – and an hour waiting for tardy passengers – we are primed for takeoff. Hmmm, still no sign of my section mates, I ponder.
I size up the creative possibilities of this much legroom, freedom and semi-privacy. As soon as the airplane is safely among the clouds, I begin fantasizing about a short story that I could tap out on my laptop: an absurd tale about Gaudí returning to Barcelona, but reincarnated as a thirtysomething woman artist who's pissed off at the way La Sagrada Familia has just been completed.
A chill seizes my extremities, and I abruptly dismiss the story idea. My thoughts turn to Señor Valencia García y Fernández, whoever he is. Maybe he isn't the guy I'd imagined rubbing one out or receiving head in a men's stall, after all. I'm aware of the frequency of these toilet sex encounters because, long ago, I was married to an airline employee – a member of the hypersexual ground service crew. His version of foreplay was regaling me with true stories about quid pro quo sex for access to Europe-bound luggage, female flight attendants initiating gangbang layovers, and an onanistic male flight attendant hitting three octaves while loosening a toilet seat off its hinges.
To my dismay, the detailed narrative about the screaming wanker was a firsthand account. My secondhand memory of the event is evidence of the baggage I still carry concerning the failure of my first marriage, though it solved the mystery of an inordinate amount of gay porn I used to see in his video library when we were just dating.
The timing of this recall, however, is pertinent. Listening to other passengers muttering obscenities under their breath about this delayed Iberia Air flight, I understand how so many people reach their destinations extremely late – and with tampered or burglarized luggage. I wonder, almost out loud: Glad I left my only pair of Louboutins at home.
I should be one to talk about the poor soul with the glistening boner back at the airport, the guy with a surname as long as the trail of brave, red-kerchiefed hombres who run with the bulls in Pamplona, for I nearly missed the flight myself. I'd been searching for my favorite pantyhose, to no avail. I found a pair of silk stockings instead. My heavy thighs made the effort far from hasty, but the friction from twisting and turning left the crotch of my thong damp.
Now here I sit, only six more hours to go, and my thighs are exposed to the frigid air on the plane. After buzzing an Iberia flight attendant for assistance, it takes her some time to sashay over. I request a blanket and another eternity later get to cover my legs with a navy-blue number that depresses me suddenly. Though not enduringly, as will the rain forecasted for Madrid this afternoon. The air hostess says only first-class passengers receive blankets. When I raise my skimpy, wool, pleated gray skirt to reveal a zebra-print thong hugging my voluptuous hips, she licks her lips and disappears through the curtain.
Within minutes I have not one, but two blankets, yet I'm still freezing under the chilly stare of the air slut. I'm annoyed by her presence but my clit betrays me and pops out, pressing against the zebra thong's soft and, now, wet cotton. I can't wait for mealtime, so my hands venture beneath the blanket to find a sweet snack. My ebony fingers dab around in my dampness for what feels like hours but amounts to minutes. My clit is so swollen that it feels as if it's going to burst through my navel. Imagining its deep flush sends the blood rising to my face, creating the impression that I've delicately applied rouge.
I need to take the edge off a bit, so I caress my mound upward and outward, indirectly contacting my clit. Soft moans escape my throat. Inevitably my digits find their way to the throbbing bud before it returns to its protective sheath. As after a delicious meal, I lick my fingers clean. The flight attendant watches with parted lips as I repeat, but in slo-mo. Just for fun, I ask her for a napkin and deliberately brush the back of her hand with my talons. To see her knees go wobbly and her figure dash in the direction of the kitchen is worth the seduction, judging by how much wetter my thong has become. I peek under the blanket to get a whiff of my pussy. Hands dawdling between my thighs again, I drift to sleep. But not for long.
How could I have known that a tall man seated one row back was spying on me while my eyes were either glazed-over or closed? He ambles over to my seat and clears his throat. Leaning down while grasping the seatback, he whispers that he was stroking his stiff dick beneath his own double layer of blankets. I'm concerned that he's aware I'm tapping my foot, but when I turn to meet his gaze, I'm startled that it's fixated on my pouty lips. While I was immersed in my own erotic heaven, he says, he watched me suck pearls of cum from beneath my airbrushed, acrylic fingernails.
An image invades my consciousness of him shooting his baby batter on the seat ahead of him. The violence of that thought stirs the wetness in my nether junction, and I find myself shifting slightly under the blankets upon the man's hesitant pat on my thigh. Is that a groan? I inwardly inquire. I dismiss the primal sound as a pre-orgasmic hallucination.
Taking the empty seat beside me, the dark-haired stranger rolls his calloused palm over my knee. No words are spoken as his furry hands dawdle between my thighs. My arched back tacitly permits him to reach behind to grope my asscheeks. Instinctively I part my thighs, just a fraction to trap his hand. At first he feigns struggle, but the caressing of my behind weakens my defenses, and soon his hand is free to roam again.
When his fondling and my wiggling cause the blankets to fall away, my soaked zebra thong exposes an erection between the stripes. He traces a forefinger along the outline of my bulging clit, which makes me flinch, so he slips the thong to the side and paws my thatched mound. What I ask of him next – to write naughty messages on my thighs — turns out to be a poor effort to procrastinate from the inevitable: digital penetration. There's something crude about fingering; it's void of the soul-sharing that can happen during intercourse, even between casual lovers.
Like a Houdini illusion, the stranger's fingers disappear into my cunt and my soaked thong emerges from his jacket sleeve. Bedazzled, I reach out to grab my panties only to see them vanish. Defeated, I fall back onto my seat, which shifts into a reclining position on its own. At this angle, I can splay my legs as widely as a circus acrobat, giving his middle and index fingers a deeper plunge. Unlike under the Big Top, though, I have no safety net.
To my surprise, his nosy digits begin to thicken upon each thrust into my moist hole; elongate with every teasing of flexing walls. Playing Pinocchio in my pussy, he has me wondering about all the lies a man can whisper into a woman's ear and forget by the time he cums. More evasive than invasive, I muse.
My consciousness flickers back to the moment, and I feel the intensity of his fingering and how wantonly he's tapping my clit. He says he loves the feel of my juices and cream, that my nether parts are like a sweet shop in the friendly azure skies. I watch him marveling at how my natural lubricant expands to viscous strands as magical as any spider web. My mind drifts off to the imagery of his fingers walking the tight wire of my elastic cum.
In real time, though, he's drooling upon my hairy vulva, and that drives me wild. My belly sinks in to his every stroke. How he ticklishly arouses me! I can't get enough of his toying and caressing, his teasing of my sheltered funny bone. It's one of the few times I've ever laughed in a lover's presence during physical intimacy – and perhaps because we're strangers zooming tens of thousands of miles above our perfunctory lives.
The man's itinerant hands travel up my back, and when they meander under my lacy black bra, he glances up into my wide-open eyes. Like a magician, he undoes all three metal hooks of my bra as if the tips of his fingers are magnets, and I respond with, "Bravo!" After he claps his hands twice in the air, a red rose rises from the deep valley of my cleavage. I applaud his lewd one-man circus, happy to be his cheap side show. My engorged lips are the price of admission, and he gently lifts himself to press his puckered set against mine.
Perhaps the air on the plane has worn thin because I'm gasping for oxygen upon his vigorous cupping of my water balloon tits. I moan into the nicotine stench of his opening mouth, and with one swift move, he snatches off the fleece blankets. I suck his steamy tongue as if it were a huge prick pinning me to my seat. Suddenly I'm at a carnival, flashing my knockers to a hawker while I aim my cocked arcade gun at a clown's gaping mouth. "Like an absurd blow job from a distance, hehe," the carny tells me. But before I can claim my stuffed purple monkey, I flash back into my body here on the plane.
Lip-locked with this brawny stranger, I feel oddly refined in his crude embrace. I wish not to be rude, however. I can't object, anyway, for his tongue does an acrobatic dive toward my tonsils, rendering me mute. Like a mime, I gesture wildly with my delicate hands, which his palms dwarf and guide to his ruddy, hammerlike dick. His is a large, fantastic tool similar to the one I spied at the two-minute carnival visit. Only this one's made of flesh that his fast-coursing blood has hardened as bone.
This strange man with a clown's hands and, now, a circus tent for trousers dawdles between my jugs, while his hammer seems to slip from my grip. Could he have come so soon? I wonder. As if he can read my mind, he tells me, "Don't worry. It's my pre-cum," then urges me to taste it. He shows me why he favors kissing me, raising an eyebrow as gingerly as a trapeze artist's limb, and then swoops down to nibble my lower lip. He licks a bit of his own pre-cum from my lips and then sucks my upper lip and kisses the tip of my nose.
In this moment I notice his bulbous nose, not unlike Karl Malden's, though not as phallic as Jimmy Durante's. I'm not short on talent, so I perform the amazing feat of singlehandedly coaxing a foot of cock through his tent flap. A free hand soon becomes prisoner of his balls, failing to juggle them in the ballooned space of his pants. The sexual tension around us in the adjacent window seats climbs until our libidos walk a tenuous level higher than this jumbo jet's altitude.
The clown-stranger's cock points toward some unknown erotic galaxy as if to beg the gods there to suck it. Taking on a new, divine persona, I elongate my mouth to mirror my nether channel and feast alone on my ripe ambrosia. Sucking and licking such firm fruit, I am as giddy as the woman-girl back in carnival time, savoring a red candied apple, none too eager to get to the seeds at the core. "I command you to suck it!" the man wants to shout. Lest he jolt the slumbering passengers nearest us, he whittles his order down to a whisper, his throat left trembling and mine soon filled with post-Fall earthiness as blistering as a comet's heat.
After he nuts on my swollen tongue, I deliberately taste the seeds of his masculinity but resist the temptation to swallow his delicious secret: that he desires to plant a part of himself in my womb. A scowl curls a corner of the stranger's lips, as if I have rejected him, and out of the corners of mine oozes his viscous off-white jizz.
In an act of compromise, I urge him to continue down this seamy alley through the clouds where stop signs do not exist. We've ventured far past come-hither fingers and other coy gestures. A hum of satisfaction swerves up from my diaphragm. My tongue wags like a fleshy dial entrancing the driver from the speedometer – an image that Dalí would've rendered aptly. In his ears, I imagine my lyricless erotic melody turning to static that mingles with the airplane's engine noise. With so many miles to go, there's no slowing down our passion.
The double-jointed, passionate stranger thumbs my nipples on tits that swing like pendulums, and he reaches around to maneuver his fingers into my soaked zebra thong. Leaving his tent pole slick with its saliva, my now-cavernous mouth trails echoes of lusty cries formed where his cockhead defied gravity past my tonsils. As I descend on his resilient dick, I bury my yelping into a blanket he has thrown over his shoulder.
Between the plane's sharp dips and his enormous swells inside my channel, I'm experiencing a wicked case of turbulence. Nowhere near satiated, though aching from his cock's reverberations in my pussy, I huskily protest and ease myself off his skyward gear. My cunt's aroma released into the stilted air is driving him wild like a kamikaze pilot. He wants to dive.
"Eat me," I command him. "Eat me and I'll let you fuck my fleshy pussy until we reach Spain," I taunt him. He grunts his approval.
Cocking his head, he kisses my neck in disparate sets of foreign phrases. He savors Breton sea salt on his tongue, as if it whipped up from the Atlantic Ocean far beneath us. He licks his parted lips and threatens me with his lust: "Woman, I don't know who you are, but I'm starved, and I want you to satisfy me."
On my neck I feel teeth like limestone from Liguria marking his territory, the bruising there sure to turn the shade of blue sea that leads to a grotto before deepening to a shade of purple found in Sardinian sunsets. He travels to my southernmost erogenous zone and possesses it, too. My cries, which evoke Morocco's Great Crested Grebes, drown out the sounds of his indulgent sucking of my vulva's nectar. He dallies there, his rhythmic lapping triggering my dam to break, layered folds flapping until my clitoris aches for sweet relief. But he refuses to abandon me; he desires my complete surrender. He alternates his wet pleasuring with blowing light breezes on tenderized flesh, and I bend his ear by delivering feminine oceanic vibrations from the grooves of my conch.
I emit shrill entreaties in the cramped space, struggling with my surroundings to find balance while the man unravels my mystery and suffocating insecurities. Everything appears askew, from the window shade and fleece blankets to our perspiration-drenched clothing rife with rips, cum stains and stray coils of my silver-flecked hair. My newfound lover encourages me to declare ferociously our forbidden lust, which takes me over the edge once more. I secretly wish my rutting yelps would seep into the pores of every passenger and crew member.
"Yes, come! Allow me to taste you, my siren," he says.
If he only knew – I'm still out at sea, clinging to the Rock of Gibraltar while the Barbary apes pound their breasts in frenzied approval of our erotic scene. My own primal screams are deafening, though I imagine the man is mocking me. Yes, he's smiling and now roaring like the apes. Amid a fit of lagnolalia spoken in four distinct tongues, he cups my asscheeks and probes my winking eye. I wince from the pleasurable violence of twisted finger fucking and thrust my cunt in his face. He spits on my clit, then nibbles gently around the stem till the gob drips from my flared labia to my spasming cunthole, where it waits for his tongue to mix it with mango liqueur.
My clown pirate, wannabe daredevil pilot, returns to pleasuring my neck but pauses the enchantment to ask my name. I refuse to disclose, so he dirties my ear to excess and squeezes my rear until I nearly cave in. I squeal as he hunkers down to suck my nipples until they harden like thimbles. My breathing quickens upon each caress of my breasts, their dark complexion as tempting as the skin of eggplant.
Returning to my vulvacano, he finds me burning. And yearning. I long to come in his large, firm, pale hands. He keeps me at the brink of ecstasy by switching from licking my clit to penetrating my navel with his meaty tongue.
With his fleshy lips, he traces the black line from my innie to my mons veneris, taking time to comb my silvery pubic hairs with his chalky teeth. I pull back, pressing my derriere into his hands, feel him pinching my flexing cheeks, all the while swirling his hot tongue around my clit. My rear end flinches and gyrates in his palms. He gently rotates my coccyx before planting his mouth on my perineum, the easier to bury his tongue in my cunt as if securing treasure fathoms deep.
My jaws tighten harder than the muscles in my calves, yet I'm bucking as if I were un gardian on a Camargue that snorts and gallops through the Rhone delta's salty marshes. With the stranger's finger rubbing my clit while he devours me, I can't stop the primordial ooze from steaming out of my pussy.
Without an intermission he switches rhythm to the sensual sounds of flamenco's castanets, his probing tongue ejecting me out of my body. Itching sensations of rose petals brushing my ear match the tickling of his dark curls against my quivering tummy. I hallucinate handclaps among our audience of suddenly awake passengers fixated on our decadent fucking, a conquest made all the more turbulent by gusts of wind and thunderclaps. Perhaps I am imagining sound effects of a disapproving God turning the other cheek while slamming His fist into His palm.