Last year, I managed to miss five flights, out of probably three times as many total, due to lateness, transportation errors and general disorganization. Most of them weren’t such a big deal; I could take the next one out, or pay a fee and wait around a few hours. I don’t tend to mind, since it gives me time to catch up on the gossip magazines in the airport bookstore. I’ve come to the conclusion that when it comes to flying, I’m just not very good at it. Maybe it’s my squeamishness about air travel that comes out via tardiness, or the fact that while I like going away, I always feel like I’m missing something back home while I’m gone.
But I can tell you that one of those missed flights yielded one of the hottest nights of my life. The reason I missed this flight is probably the dumbest of all: I had two hours to kill in the airport in Atlanta, on the way home from Miami last February. That seemed like a huge amount of time, so I plopped down, opened a book, and promptly got lost in it. When I looked at the time, I then realized I had half an hour to catch my flight, so grabbed my stuff, got some food, and headed to my gate. Only the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport is designed in such a way that to get to my gate took more than just an elevator ride; by the time I reached it, the flight was no longer boarding, and there were no more planes heading to New York that night. Well, I had a book to review so figured I’d amp myself up with caffeine and get cracking.
Just as I found a spot to settle in, a very cute guy sat down across from me. “You were going to New York, too?” he asked in a sexy accent. He was from Costa Rica, making his virgin visit to The Big Apple, and in the same boat as I was. He planned to sightsee, and pick up gifts for his 6-year-old son. Even more than being drop-dead gorgeous, telling me you have kids is a way to make me instantly interested. It’s like the EZ Pass to my pussy, because it says all at once that you’re caring, protective, tender and loving—at least it does in my head. Whereas he’d only been a cute guy before, now he was a Cute Guy With a Kid. Not that I was planning to fool around with him, but I certainly trusted him more than I had when he sat down. We got snacks and kept on talking, and soon we wound up huddled in a far corner of the airport under a TV with CNN on an endless loop.
I don’t know what other airports are like in the middle of the night, but the Atlanta one was dead. A few random members of the cleaning staff drifted in and out, but otherwise, no one was there except us. I’d have been too nervous to fall asleep on my own, but I let myself doze against his shoulder, huddled under my jacket. I was single and had been for a while, and what I tend to miss most when I’m single isn’t sex per se, but someone to curl up next to, to share body heat with. OK, that and sex. It felt so good just to have a man to bury myself against, stranger or not. I found myself nuzzling against him and soon we were holding hands. Then, we were doing more than that. I kissed him, my eyes shut tight so as not to break the spell.
He shifted around so his hand was between my legs, and I pretended to anyone passing by that I was asleep, while down below I was very much awake. He eased my zipper down and let his fingers explore. It may sound strange, but as naughty as it was to be getting so intimate in such a public place with someone I didn’t know, it was also incredibly sweet, like we were on a first date, only we’d cut out a lot of the getting-to-know-you parts. He’d whisper to me in that hot accent and I’d move as little as possible, even as he brought me to orgasm. When he pulled out, we looked at each other and I laughed, blushing, then buried my face again in his shoulder.
Then I returned the favor, remembering how sexy handjobs can be. Having to muffle our noises and remain outwardly detached, seemingly riveted to CNN, while we were getting each other off was exciting. It made me feel like I wasn’t quite as stupid for missing my flight, and that even though I was supposedly past the random hookup stage of my life, I could still have a wild fling. I liked, for those few hours, knowing I could be impulsive and go for the fun option rather than the more considered one. Plus, since our chances of seeing each other again were slim to none, I didn’t have to worry about any of the potential “where is this going?” consequences; I could just enjoy it. I blushed some more when I went to the bathroom to wash up, sure that anyone who saw me would know I’d been doing more than innocently resting.
After, we stayed huddled together, looking like a tired couple, and we exchanged email addresses before he had to catch his plane. We talked and emailed a few times after that (I scored an invite to Costa Rica), but nothing else came of it. After a string of bad relationships, I was happy I had picked a winner, a guy who was both shy and horny. He’s definitely someone I would have pursued had we lived closer together. Believe it or not, I’m not really an exhibitionist. I hate having people watch me make out, so this was like the best of both worlds: I got to have public sex and nobody, I think, saw me.
Was it reckless? A little, but I don’t think I was ever in any danger. I trusted him, and in fact I felt more comfortable falling asleep next to him than I would have by myself with nobody to watch my luggage. I don’t plan on missing any more flights, or meeting any other sexy strangers in airports; but I do think of him every time I’m waiting for a plane and smile to myself at my good fortune.
Rachel Kramer Bussel is the editor of numerous anthologies, including Bottoms Up, The Mile High Club and Best Sex Writing 2009, and host of In The Flesh Reading Series. You can find her at www.rachelkramerbussel.com.
