He ducked his head as he walked slowly down the airplane aisle toward his seat, following a man struggling with two suitcases and a woman with a child on each hip. He reached the exit row and sat next to the deadheading pilot in the middle seat. He wedged his briefcase upright under the seat in front of him, leaving room for his size fourteen feet to fit on each side. His khaki shorts rode up as he settled into the seat, and he tugged them down.
His Kindle, iPhone, and AirPods case went into the seatback pocket. He twisted each AirPod into his ears, smoothing his floppy, sun-streaked brown hair. It was neatly parted, straight and thick, cut close around the back and sides, and long on top. His white teeth had obviously been straightened, but he didn’t have the telltale upper lip curve of someone who once had a pronounced overbite. His eyes were a muddy blue-green, rimmed with thick dark lashes; his eyebrows perfectly shaped and neither thin nor bushy. He had the boyish good looks of someone with great genes who was aging well as he entered his early thirties. What some would call a typical WASP.
The flight attendant briefed the exit row, “Are you willing and able to open these exits in the event of an emergency? I need a verbal ‘yes’, please.” He nodded and smiled. “Yes.” After the short safety demo, he pulled out his Kindle and began to read. It was a busy morning, and it took nearly thirty minutes before the plane finally reached the end of the runway and took off.
Flying was never comfortable for him. He shifted in his seat every few minutes, crossing his legs, then uncrossing them and stretching them out, feet on either side of his briefcase. The space underneath the aisle seat was smaller than the window or middle, and he had to turn his feet slightly on their sides to wedge them into the space.
His legs were long and lean, but muscular, with the shapely calves of a runner or tennis player. They were covered in straight dark brown hair. No sign of thinning or the bare patches that older men have from crossing their legs or their calves constantly rubbing on pants. As he shifted in his seat, his thin khaki shorts would ride up, showing the thickening patches of leg hair on the insides of his thigh as it neared his crotch. Every so often, he’d tug on each side to pull them back down again.
The flight continued. He leaned forward, stretching out his long back, then arched back, lifting his hips off the seat. The bulge in his crotch was noticeable. Settling back into his seat with a small sigh, he leaned his head back on the top of the headrest and closed his eyes. Soon he was sleeping. He gradually slid down in the seat, his legs extending under the seat in front of him, his shorts riding up his thighs again.
He had been on the road for days, and was ready to get home to his wife and new baby. The weekend in New York was productive. He’d met with several promising new investors. Evenings were spent catching up with college friends. Like him, most were now married, ascendant in their careers, starting families. There was conversation and laughter; great food and too much wine. The evolution of their college frat parties into something more refined, but just as intense. Always competitive - who was living better, making more, climbing the ladder faster?
He met two still-single friends at a bar in the Village. The usual conversation between people who had drifted apart over time: career, money, apartments, dating. It was interesting to hear their perspectives on being single in their thirties. Both were attractive men, and he assumed it was a non-stop parade of dates and one-night stands. But no, work and some maturity had tempered their wildness. Instead, they struggled to find someone to connect with, to spend time with. They tired of the chase.
Round after round of drinks reduced inhibitions, increased garrulousness. Arms around shoulders, they laughed and talked, swaying a bit as the alcohol levels rose. One friend expressed jealousy at his having a wife, and being able to “get it” whenever he wanted. An assumption he quickly corrected. The other friend, quieter, leaned into his ear and whispered “you know can get it whenever you want.” His meaning didn’t really register.
Their bodies struggled to process the quantity of alcohol they were consuming. They didn’t have the same tolerance as in their frat boy days. From buzzy exuberance and tongue-tripping enthusiasm, they slid toward quiet, slowness, nuance. Important things were said, discussed, debated. Hearts were opened, truths shared, secrets slipping out. Great bear hugs, arms around waists, patting of chests.
He had to leave. Get back to the hotel, finish packing, get some sleep. His flight was at 8 AM. A round of goodbyes, of promising to do this again soon, of keeping in touch. Holding each other’s heads, staring into each other’s eyes. Hugs again. A kiss on the neck. Brothers forever. Goodbye.
He slept, head lolling to the side, jerking back upright. He dreamed of college days, of living in the frat house, of parties and roommates and studying and locker rooms. He loved those guys. They were more than brothers. They shared everything, knew everything, had everything.
Half-dreaming, he remembered the kiss on his neck, the warm breath, the whisper in his ear. It tickled him in places he hadn’t felt in years. Reminded him of forgotten, drunken things he’d done in college. His shorts tightened, a swelling growing down his left leg. Eyes closed, he recalled the comfort of an arm over his shoulders, a hand patting his hairy chest through an unbuttoned shirt.
He dozed off again. The flight hit some light turbulence, vibrating the plane ever so slightly. He felt it in his buttocks through the thinly padded seat. It was soothing, comforting. His shorts tightened further, and the tip poked out of the leg. He slept on, unaware.
Someone was tapping his knee. “Excuse me, can I please get out?” The pilot next to him. He jerked awake. “One sec.” He tugged down the legs of his shorts again, realizing that he was aroused in the process. Holding his left arm awkwardly over his crotch, he unfastened the seatbelt and stood in the aisle. The pilot squeezed past him, and he thumped back into the seat. He draped his left arm on his thigh, willing things to relax.
The pilot returned, and he again stood. May as well go to the bathroom before sitting back down. He sauntered toward the back, hands in his pockets to relieve the tightness. The lavatory was small, and he scrunched his neck to fit inside. Pushing down his shorts, his member bounced out, now at more than half mast. He tried to pee. Nothing. He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the wall, willing his bladder to cooperate.
The thrumming of the plane vibrated through his body. Things down below were growing, not shrinking. He was at full staff, eight solid inches pointing toward the ceiling. He couldn’t go back to his seat like this. He’d have to take care of things.
Grabbing hold with one hand, he cupped below with the other. He stroked languidly, gently. Opening his eyes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Firm, round buttocks and tumescent member, surrounded by thick brown pubes. It excited him more than he expected. He increased his pace, eyes closing again.
His mind drifted back to the bar last night. To the quieter friend, the one who had kissed his neck and whispered in his ear. To the arm around his shoulder, fingers grazing his nipple. To a memory, long forgotten, of the friend stroking his chest hair at a toga party, where he was dressed only in a white bedsheet. To the friend’s hand moving other places, stroking other things. To a head under the toga skirt and a warm mouth on his member, hands gripping his buttocks. To the most intense orgasm he remembered having.
He opened his eyes and tried to aim for the toilet. He muffled a low growl, biting his shoulder. He shot hard, streaks hitting the raised toilet seat and the wall behind it. Two, three, four times he shuddered, butt clenching, hips thrusting.
He scrabbled for paper towels, attempting to remove the evidence. Shoving the towels deep into the trash bin, he turned his attention back to the toilet. Now he could finally pee. It came with force, splashing into the toilet, a faintly sour scent of too much alcohol. Washing his hands, the water splashed out of the tiny sink, wetting his shorts. He unlocked the door and walked back up the aisle to his seat.
