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From: deck_under@yahoo.com (deck)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 15 Jul 2001 17:29:25 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Young Yippie (m/f, fantasy, gender issues, urban philosophy)
Date: Sun, 15 Jul 2001 17:10:01 -0400
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This story suitable only for persons older than 18.  Feel free to
distribute this as you find fit as long as you keep the words as they are.



   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.

   15th of July, 2001 Deck

   Please coment on: deck_under@yahoo.com 

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