Five miles high

The flight from Boston to London is half empty. I am in the back of the cabin in a window seat. A man in his early twenties who wears a Patriots sweatshirt sits on the aisle. His long legs claim an extra inch of room this way. We make small talk over airplane food. He was in Vermont over the holidays to visit his dad’s side of the family. He lives in Essex. He asks me why I am traveling to London. I tell him this trip is to see my much missed lovers. After this pronouncement, the two of us flirt outrageously.

When the lights go off, the gallant man offers the unused middle seat between us to me. Seatbelt still fastened, I twist my body and try for sleep.

Slumber doesn’t come to me.

I hardly ever fall asleep on airplanes.

Raising the armrest, I decide to amuse myself.

A blanket covers the man’s legs. My hand reaches beneath. I stroke his thigh. He looks down at me, bemused. I flash him a brilliant smile. My hand shifts up and to the center. I find his cock. The pressure and grasp of fingers brings him to hardness.

The woman across the aisle from us sleeps. The crew are in the galley in front.

“Let me make you come,” I whisper.

He lifts and unfastens his seatbelt. He pulls down his fly. Unfortunately, he is wearing briefs. I cannot suck him dry.

I can only give a handjob. Fingers stroke the shaft through tight cotton, rising from the middle of the erection to the crown. Thumb opposite the other fingers, I perform a twist at the head.

To anyone who notices, we are a couple. My head rests against his thigh and uses it as a pillow. His eyes are closed. His body sinks into the chair, which leans back. The cabin is dark. That my hand vanishes into the blanket is difficult to detect in this dim light.

I add pressure. My fingers slide the underwear against the sides of the shaft as they lift up to the glans. The thumb pushes down over the frenulum. After this, I narrow my grip on the head, shift down again, and repeat.

The circumcised helmet, whose lobes I feel by touch, hops against the maw of the collapsed fingers after a twirl at the crest. Fabric checks the movement. Semen surges through the cotton and coats my hand. I look up at a man whose name I do not know. Eyes laser down at me. I meet his gaze coolly and bring my hand to my mouth, and slowly, I part my lips and scrape my fingertips along the bottom row of teeth to deposit his come onto my tongue. As a hundred people around us sit, I gulp his whiteness down. My tongue laps until I can no longer taste him on my skin.

Having had a draught of a man’s milk, now I can sleep.

~

This is the purest fantasy, of course. Who ever heard of the economy cabin being half empty on a trans-Atlantic flight these days? I squished into a center seat and suffered the airplane food and endured screaming babies and slept for about an hour.

I expect the flight home today will be full as well.

I owe stories of the weekend — Frank on Saturday, Amadeo on Sunday.