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Message-ID: <41036asstr$1046121004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: deck_under@yahoo.com (Deck)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 24 Feb 2003 05:21:52 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Young Yippie
Date: Mon, 24 Feb 2003 16:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Young Yippie


The flight attendant kept her smile and her professional energy
throughout the relatively short flight. The plane was taking me back
to my wife. Until then, I was thinking mostly about them two, and less
about annoying conference I had to attend for the weekend. It (my
firm) knows in its corporate sublime that it wants to keep the
employees happy, so the business class even on short flights is a cold
trade off to being flexible and being unable to say no to, say,
presenting somebody else's paper on somebody else's conference during
your short summer holidays, because the other person is senior and
yachting somewhere in Europe.

But the stewardess was nurturing my sweet paranoia in the sense that I
though she was smiling more to me than to the other four
serious-faced, neatly shaved passengers. She had very short black
hair, over painted, juicy and wide lips - good for sucking things and
being sucked themselves, big eyes and big pointy tits hidden under her
corporate garments. I was a suit holding a smirk like all the others
who flew with me, untouchable, uttering quiet thank-yous to her
efforts to please my thirst for strong and free-of-charge alcohol
which relaxed me. Still a child inside, though, thinking I was
committing an adultery just because I was admiring her huge mammal
symbols proudly sticking out from her slim body. Compliments of the
flight company, I was thinking, sipping my drink and utterly ignoring
my newspaper. Newspapers mean business, biz means work, and working is
in contradiction with holidays.

She wasn't that busy, she was making herself busy, out of maybe more
reasons. I was fancying the idea that she liked me a lot and that it
was one of the reasons. Just look, don't touch - the words were formed
in my mind after my third drink, which was of course the motto I would
be inclined to follow, if for nothing else, then for the sake of the
civilized behavior in the business class, but my prime line of
thinking was often disturbed by the clear snapshots of Mr. Me
following her to the small white toilet and cramping her there,
nailing her high on the thin wall of the plane and taking advantage of
her during her work hours. And her face on those pictures in my mind
was only mildly surprised by my surge of animal initiative, because
she was busy groaning as quietly as possible, her eyes closed and her
gaping mouth resting on my left shoulder, while we were pumping out
the odors of sex out of our bodies into the sticky air of the
fuckfest-toilet.

Meanwhile, in the real life I was just watching her passing by our
seats, my eyes fixed on her ass, my new appreciation. Again pictures,
even more graphic this time; we were doing it like the other mammals,
the attacking male with bollocks full of semen pleasing the female
subject from behind, but this time less disturbing to Mr. Me since I
got used to them. The pictures shied away and now I was watching a
short porno movie in my mind. Maybe I need some professional help, I
was thinking after the cheap closing credits (we were to descend
soon). Maybe I need to look at some abstract cards, Mini-Me faced
against a bearded old Freud-like  academic charging me heavily for the
fact I was seeing sex in everything, gangbanging my urban head while
remaining calm outside, or rather acceptably nervous.

And there she was again approaching my seat with a glass, saying
sweetly to me that this was to be my last one since we were getting
home or wherever. I was nodding shyly, thinking of breaking the heavy
sociological fabric of space and time, of me being the big shot here
and offer her to sit down next to me so we can survive the lending
together. Well maybe the other four creeps sitting around us would not
be so surprised if I pet her knee with my sweaty palm or even try to
feel her potential moist, hidden under her corporate skirt. Wouldn't
it be natural for me to lose control if I have a fear of flying? She
is a professional, she can even help with distracting me from the
danger of the touchdown.  Because I really was afraid a bit. And too
many distractions in this modern world, anyway. Perhaps she could
perform a quick blowjob upon my manhood, with those lips of hers.

Oddly enough to the flying atmosphere, maybe I could get even and do
some eating myself. It would get obvious that we were doing it
publicly, but I am not a fucking lawyer to say what is forbidden, so
why wouldn't we hit it? There is a certain danger that the other four
guys might want to get their share (they paid the same ticket). I
would not generally approve that in my fantasy, and probably she
doesn't like the others as much, but as long as the pilot stays in his
cabin... why the hell not?

The moment passed, she disappeared to the same place from which she
was "getting off " in the first place. I drained my drink and spotted
the napkin which was initially meant to serve as a mat for my glass.
But now it held her name and her phone number.

I would never call her of course, since I am full of shit when I am
not playing a young yuppie in my mind. Yippie even. Young Internet
Professional inheriting the Urban ones. And I hate her, since she made
the first move.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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