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Through the window, I glimpsed many fine planes resting at their gates. Jet bridges nuzzled their temples, their rear ends pointed provocatively toward me. A beefy Boeing 777 pulled back from F4, pivoting on his slender ankles with surprising grace for such a big fellow.
As I belonged nowhere on the conventional spectrum of sexual orientation, I allowed people to assume I was heterosexual, and I suppose I was, as all planes are male in spirit, just as all boats are female, and helicopters possess the souls of mischievous children.
He ran his hands beneath my shirt and massaged my breasts. My back grazed the control panel’s gadgetry. Through the cockpit door, I stared down the length of the plane’s body. As long as I focused on the plane, I could make myself come, imagining the pilot as an appendage of the aircraft, a human dildo the plane and I could use as a sex toy.
His abdominal muscles were sharply defined, like corn on the cob, which I assumed some women found sexy.
What man could propel himself to a speed of 150 knots before lifting us to an altitude of 37,000 feet? What man could carry me across continents and seas, all while keeping me warm and oxygenated inside his aluminum torso? No man I’d ever chanced to meet!
It wasn’t easy to be the fiancée of a plane, as they were always leaving.
