Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Young Yippie {m/f, fantasy, gender issues, urban philosophy}



   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.
   deck_under@yahoo.com