I’m waiting on a plane back to Los Angeles and praying that my aisle-mates are not going to be obese because right now I cannot handle a fattie boom boom sitting all up on me. Waiting is boring. I was going to save my SkyMall Magazine for after snack cart time, but fuck it, I’m too bored. Thank you SkyMall for reinventing tiresome household products into attractive must-haves like bug vacuums and upside down tomato gardens. I’m fully ordering that blanket with sleeves when I land, by the way. A sexy blond arrives at my aisle and stands there and smiles. This is what people do when they find their seat and they want you to get up; like they found the clubhouse but forgot the secret knock and hope you’ll have a heart and let them in. He looks like a hot Jesse McCartney. His pants are shiny and tight and I can see my reflection in the outline of his jock. I am pumped because I get to ride next to a fine ass gay who smells good and is not fat. Also there is nobody in the middle seat. This is probably the best day of my life. The plane takes off and Hot Jesse McCartney is still staring at me and smiling. I stare at him back, but I am not smiling. I’m giving him the you’re creeping me out and I have a white belt with two stripes in kickboxing and a considerable amount of pent up rage so stop staring at me or I will snap kick you in the mother fucking face look.
“I’m surry,” he says in some Jean Claude Van Damme-y accent, “It’s just, yur the most beautiful neighbur I’ve ever had zee shanz to seet next to.” “Wait, you’re not gay?” I ask. “Of curse not! I luv the lettuce!” he laughs. “You love lettuce, as in, salad?” “No. Lettuce, as in, weemin. ” “Oh ladies. You love ladies.” Hot Jesse McCartney is not gay! He is a French Canadian named Xavier. I scoot over next to him because on top of rage, I also have a bunch of pent up horniness. We order Budweisers and I tell jokes that he doesn’t understand. Four beers later we are drunk and making out. He unzips my jeans, and begins touching me. I’m surprised because unlike other losers, he is not digging around inside my vagina in the attempt to find some ‘spot’ that doesn’t really exist which he will then poke to death.
French Canadian finger-fucking is way better than American style. People are gawking hard, so Xavier places his Louis Vuitton man-bag over my lap and finishes jigging the bean like a gentleman. The plane lands and we take a cab to the best Howard Johnson so we can bone each other. We have sex and he cries into my eyes. “I want to make love to you all night,” he says, crying. “I’m done. I’m going to go.” I say. “You’re like a man.” “No, I’m like a prostitute, now give me $500,” I joke. “Quoi?” Xavier asks all surprised. He does not know that I am joking because he doesn’t get my jokes, remember? I realize I could actually make some sweet duckets here. It is funny watching him cry at the ATM. “Hurry up,” I say. USA! USA! USA!
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