It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and I have an obligation to spend it with my parents. Oh, joy!
All would have been business as usual if they hadn’t moved to Florida last December, deserting me, their lone spawn, on Long Island. They sold the house I grew up in right from under me, leaving me with only two options: (1) to move with them down to West Palm, the capital of Oldgeezerville, and sulk in misery, or (2) to stand on own my two feet, get a job, find my own place and be able to get piss-ass drunk and let loose anytime I care to.
It wasn’t a difficult decision. I chose to be an independent girl. That was, after getting a job. No one warned me how enervating job interviews are, facing endless obscure questions that don’t even pertain to the position. I can’t think why a company needs to know if I was an animal which one would I care to be. After answering “a man-eating shark” and being shown the exit door once too often, I wised up and said “a penguin, since they’re team players.” (At least that’s how they were in Happy Feet.)
During my last interview, I rattled off robotic acceptable responses in order to get hired, since the guilty money my parents tossed my way was dwindling. Luckily, I got a phone call a few days later informing me that I was offered a full-time entry-level administrative position (meaning basically that McDonald’s employees are paid better than me) at a lawyer’s office. I accepted the only offer presented to me.
With a job lined up, I was ready to search for an apartment. Again, harsh reality kicked me in the teeth. My meager paycheck limited my choices, plus all too many landlords insisted on nonsmokers (time to stick on the nicotine patch). Let’s say “standards” were blown out the window. My dwelling ended up being a basement studio cave that shed no light and included a curtain of cobwebs for a touch of ambience at no extra cost.
Amazingly, the dump hasn’t deterred guys from camping out at my place. I guess a dude will look past his surroundings for one of my fabulous Jill blowjobs—although I could swear my landlord’s a pervert. I can’t help thinking that the blinking red light over my bed and on the bathroom ceiling that he claims are alarm systems are really a video-camera hookup.
Whatever! If that’s what I have to do to get away with smoking my Salem Lights and not get charged late-rent fees, then by all means he can jerk off to me fucking or taking a shower. Sometimes I pose purposely, just in case the blinking light is what I think it is. I don’t want to disappoint my audience, so I kick my performance up a notch and put on (I must say) an impressive show, Adult Video Award-worthy.
So, back to Thanksgiving. Here I am wheeling my bag through the airport, bombarded by holiday travelers. I dodge a commotion of stress-filled, sleep-deprived, menacing faces.
My morning isn’t off to a promising start. Security has searched my carry-on bag and discovered a threatening device: my vibrator. They pull me aside for further questioning, acting as though I’m a potential terrorist. I explain that I have no intention to cause harm to anyone, just pleasure to myself. The security person blushes and apologizes. If I knew my magic wand would create an incident, I would have left it at home.
Finally I’m given the go-ahead to walk through the security corridor toward my gate, 10B. I peer up at the screen and get my next surprise: The flight scheduled to depart from Gate 10B is having major delays. It has the potential of being two to three hours behind schedule. Why couldn’t I get a text or phone call informing me of the delays before I set out for the airport at that ungodly hour?
“Just my luck,” I huff under my breath as I slump into a chair in the 10B section. I am preparing myself for a long haul. It feels like I’m stuck in a gynecologist’s waiting room overfilled with patients during a new STD epidemic. Good thing I’ve come prepared with rag mags. I peel one open and scan the celebrities without makeup. Lindsey Lohan’s face looks like she’s been dragged across the carpet, which instantly makes me feel better in my current sucky situation. I smile.
“What are you smiling about?” A man’s voice snaps me out of my celeb-fixated world. “Just this,” I say, raising the magazine up to his field of view. While he glances at the photos, I check him out. First I notice his long, manly hands. Something about hands that look weathered from hard labor turns me on. Then I focus on his sneakers. I’m impressed to see that they too are above-average-size. I glance up at his jeans, then his upper body, and appreciate that he has a hard athletic build. I can’t stand bodybuilders who can’t put their arms down. I’ve learned that they’re too into themselves, constantly in the gym, too busy to fulfill a woman’s needs. This guy looks like he keeps fit by rock-climbing or other sweaty, invigorating, heart-pumping activity. I bet he has sex marathons that last for days.
How did I not notice this fuckable guy parking his fine ass next to me?
His full, succulent lips curl into a smirk. “Wow, some of these celebs have been hit by the ugly stick,” he jabs. I burst into hysterics, relieved that he doesn’t view me as a creepy celebrity-obsessed fanatic. After I pull myself together, I realize his deep green eyes are still glued on me. I get lost in them until discomfort sets in.
“What?” I say, suddenly feeling vulnerable and self-conscious. Is there something on my face? I touch my face. Shit! I didn’t put a drop of make-up on this morning. Here I am poking fun at Hollywood starlets, and I must look anything but glamorous. Idiot! What’s my hair doing now? What about my eyes? Do I have bags under them?
“You know,” he says, “I think you should be on the natural-beauty page.” He’s biting his lower lip. Is he serious? I feel naked sans foundation, blush and eye shadow, mascara, eyeliner, and lip gloss. Although my mother always preaches “less is more,” I can’t seem to feel complete without my trusty array of face paint. Ever since I turned 15 and started experimenting with makeup, she’s nagged me that I hide my face under a mask. “Honey, you’re blessed with a gorgeous complexion. Don’t hide it.” But of course she says that. Isn’t it part of a mother’s job description, to boost the child up even through her gawky awkward stage? Why do I have the feeling that if I hacked off all my hair, she would insist it’s a great cut because it frames my beautiful face?
“Want to a grab a drink at the bar?” the guy says, arching his brows while he waits for my response. He looks irresistibly sexy. I can stare at him for hours.
“No, thanks,” I say, “it’s a little early.”
I manage to tear my eyes away from him and peer back down at my magazine, skimming through it, unconvinced why I should join him.
Besides him doling out compliments and being supergorgeous, I’m not sure why I should engage with a complete stranger.
“Well, then,” he says, “how ’bout some coffee? There’s a Starbucks.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” I say, flipping the page and focusing on the latest Hollywood hookups.
I feel his eyes boring into me. He must like a challenge. I’m not sure why I’m being so guarded, even rude. Maybe it’s because just last month a fuck-him-once ended in disaster where I needed to change my e-mail address and mobile number, and come to think of it, I should have changed my alias while I was at it. Could you say “stalker”? About now my one-night-stand-turned-stalker is probably sifting through my garbage.
I peer in the guy’s eyes and feel myself caving in. I convince myself that I can’t let one psycho ruin it for the rest of the male population. (I’m unwilling to turn to girls for some loving.) It’s highly unlikely that this hottie is crazy, and besides, I could do with a soothing cup of green tea.
What the hell, we’re going to be stranded here for a couple of hours, why not have some company?
“Okay,” I say, folding the magazine into the front pocket of my carry-on bag.
He pops up out of his seat like he has ants in his pants and makes a beeline toward the Starbucks. I follow close behind. Like a true gentleman, he orders and pays for my beverage.
When we take a seat, he “clanks” his cardboard cup together with mine and says, “To delays!”
“And being stuck together,” I add.
“I like the sound of that,” he says, winking at me, then swallows some of his brew.
After another hour and a half passes, I tell him I’m up for that drink he offered me earlier. We trek down to the bar. He orders a screwdriver for himself, and I tell him the same for me, even though I don’t usually go for such a strong drink. Down the hatch for both of us!
I feel myself getting buzzed. I’m a lightweight, so it doesn’t take long for the effects of alcohol to kick in. Suddenly I’m beginning to feel more comfortable around him. I learn that his name is Adam, and he’s a construction foreman. No wonder his hands appear so rough and manly!
The more I get to know him, the more I want to stick my tongue down his throat.
“Yum, a guy that works with his hands,” I say, explaining about my fondness for down-to-earth, get-down-and-dirty guys.
“Oh yeah, these hands have helped build countless high rises,” he says, holding them out to me to examine.
While the vodka whirls around in my brain, I capture his hands in mine. Just as I thought, they’re strong, callousy, warm to the touch. I feel tingly inside.
“Well, can I help work on your high rise?” I ask, half-kidding, half-drunk.
“Oh, so you’re the kind of girl who likes to get dirty?” he teases me back.
After my second drink I have definitely loosened up. My hands lie comfortably in between Adam’s thighs, and my head rests on his solid chest. I relish hearing the beat of his heart against my ear. He rubs my lower back tenderly. Sparks are flying. I debate whether I should make a move.
By the time I make a go for it, his sweet mouth has already met my mouth, and his full lips are encasing mine. Small, innocent pecks quickly lead to a long-lasting full-fledged make-out session. The taste of orange juice and vodka lingers in my mouth. Our tongues are probing each other with such urgency, it seems like we’re both escaped prisoners hard up for some personal contact. He cups my head in his hands and won’t let go. We’re not coming up for air. It feels like a record-breaking kiss, and it’s making me horny as hell.
My fingers brush over the front of Adam’s jeans. He’s sporting a boner. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or my pure attraction for him (or more than likely a combination), but I accelerate things by unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. When he doesn’t tell me to stop, I reach inside his underwear for his woody. His thick meat practically jumps in my hand. Under the bar, my fingers wrap tightly around it. Then I slide my hand up and down his shaft.
While I deliver what I hope is an unforgettable handjob, he moans. When I speed up the tempo, he whispers in my ear, “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Where?” I say, still jerking him off vigorously. I can’t imagine where we could go to finish the handjob.
“Follow me into the men’s room,” he says breathlessly.
Although Adam’s idea sounds cheap and seedy, I’m too consumed in the moment to think otherwise. Why should he have all the fun? I want some action too! Maybe we could get busy behind closed doors. He throws some money on the bar, zips up and slips off his bar stool. I’m so flushed and drawn to him that I follow him toward the back of the bar without a second’s thought. With each step I take, I feel my pussy warming and my nips perking in anticipation. I think how amazing his cock felt pumping in my hand and try to imagine how it will feel gyrating in my throbbing twat.
The thought is making me wet. I can’t wait much longer. Adam pushes the bathroom door open. Inside, a guy is relieving himself at one of the urinals. Not the most romantic setting, but at the moment I’ll take what I can get. “Don’t mind us,” Adam says to the pissing guy, who doesn’t seem at all fazed that a woman has entered his domain.
I watch in silence as Adam kicks one of the bathroom stall doors open with his foot. How barbaric! How sexy! I need this man. He shuts and locks the door behind us, then pins me against the wall and showers me with deep, sensual kisses. Again I take over. I unbutton and unzip his jeans. This time I tug his jeans and underwear down until they’re dangling by his ankles. I strip in a matter of seconds. My perky C-cups, stiff nipples and Brazilian-waxed pussy are all exposed for him to see.
Adam stands back, his sparkling green eyes scouring my naked body. “Wow, you are a natural beauty!”
“How ’bout a little less conversation and a little more action?” I say, pulling him toward me. We maul each other like raging pit bulls, pawing, groping and licking each other all over. I’m salivating. He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His rock-hard cock slides over my clit, teasing me. I want more, so I press my juicy pussy over his cock, guiding him toward my yearning hole. I nibble on his neck as he drives it in me. I ride and bounce on it. I’m impressed that he keeps his balance while holding me in his arms. I knew he was fit the moment I saw him!
Fucking standing up isn’t for the weak.
He is ruling my pussy. With each thrust he’s bringing me closer to my breaking point. I whimper loudly as I relish each sizzling sensation. My tits bounce uncontrollably while my pussy melts as he bangs his cock in my tunnel of love. A flutter of warmth escapes, then overwhelms and consumes my entire body. “Oh, yeah, I’m coming!” I shout so loud that people out in the airport parking lot must hear me.
While I explode in delight, Adam pumps me in a fury until he declares, “Fuck, I’m going to drop my load!” Quickly, he pulls out of me and sprays his abundant come all over my tits. He wipes it off me with clumps of toilet paper. His balls must have been really backed up, since it takes him nearly the entire roll to clean me up.
We get dressed and head out of the men’s room. Adam looks up at the screen, scans the flight numbers and sees that our flight is currently boarding! “Let’s haul ass,” he says. We race back to gate 10B without breaking a sweat. I know it’s the after-sex adrenaline that’s allowing me to run like a track star when otherwise I’m slow as shit. Amazingly, we make it! We board the plane and take our seats. I sit back in mine and finally take a deep breath.
I doze through the entire flight, daydreaming of our fuck session. When we land, Adam meets up with me at baggage claim, where I see my parents talking with another baby-boomer couple. “Honey,” Mom coos as she runs up to me like she hasn’t seen me in years. It’s only been a few months!
“Hey, Mom,” I say as she suffocates me in a bear hug. I catch Adam’s eye and roll my eyes, embarrassed by my mother. My father approaches us with the couple alongside him. My mother releases me from her embrace, and Adam stands beside me.
“I see you’ve met Adam,” my father says. He introduces me to the famous Goldsteins, the retired schoolteachers I’ve been hearing endless boring talk about for months since they moved into my parents’ gated community. The most boring talk had to do with their supposed son who I just had to meet. I cringed every time he was mentioned. Who’d have guessed he would turn out to be this stud who could fuck the shit out of me in an airport men’s room?
“Yeah,” Adam says, staring at me, “we really got to know each other at the airport during the long flight delay.”
“Damn delays,” his father spits out.
“We didn’t mind,” I say. Adam nods.
While my dad helps me with my bags, I catch Adam smiling. I have a feeling I won’t be needing my vibrator after all.•