I liked Hilda and our brief meeting inaugurated a correspondence about German literature that would go on for years, but that's another story.
I got to the airport, but my hard-on was becoming increasingly unwieldy. It bumped against my luggage as I was getting out of the cab, and I was already having trouble as I waited on line to be ticketed. We were told to keep the line moving. When I did so, my prick poked into the back of a young woman with short blond hair who was continually yelling at her two children to "be still." When she turned around, looking for one of the kids to slap, she saw the tent poking of out of my pants. For a moment I was terrified. What would she do? Some situations simply defy responses. It would have been embarrassing to me if she'd yelled out in her thick Southern drawl, "Hey y'all, this guy gotta hard-on," but it would have been even more embarrassing for her. Some real perpetrators (which 1 wasn't) must have been spared conviction by women who couldn't get words like "dick," "prick," "hard-on," or "erection" out of their mouths. She lust scoffed and turned away. A minute later I saw her land one right against the cheek of a small child, who burst into tears as she screamed, "Where the hell have y'all been?"
What was I going to do in the close quarters of the plane? How would I get down the aisle without my erection crashing into the person in front of me? How would I hide my rockhard prick? And what would happen if I couldn't get rid of my erection? Any erection that exceeds four hours is a real danger to its owner. Sometimes ice works, but if it's untreated with phylephrine or decongestants like terbutalin, the tissue can actually become necrotic. I'd heard of a guy who shot himself up with one of those impotence drugs and had an erection for five days. He ended up with a one-inch prick. The first sign is discomfort. My prick hadn't begun to ache, but what if it did? I wasn't worried about the first leg of my journey, a small hop over to Miami. It was my connecting flight that I was concerned about. Would I be able to tell the pilot to turn back if the Holocaust imagery and ice packs didn't help to get the erection to go down?
While I was waiting on line, I had one more experience that to this day makes me question the relationship between the phenomenal and noumenal worlds. I was edging closer up to the ticket counter. There was only one agent working the flight to Miami and it was a long serpentine line. I couldn't stop thinking about Hilda's cunt (despite it's dissimilarity to that of my beloved) and how welcomed my finger felt inside of her, though her deadened doper's eyes gave no hint of her excitement. And 1 couldn't get rid of my hard-on. There was a couple doing the next best thing to getting divorced right in front of me. Not only were they calling each other names, they were loudly splitting up the property. "You take the fucking house, I'll take the Jag." "You take the brats, but I get Fidel." Finally the husband threw her plane ticket to the floor and stormed off with his in hand.
She was the kind of woman who models her appearance on a Barbie Doll. She used a lot of pancake makeup, wore her platinum blond hair in a wavy permanent, and sported a short pleated skirt. Right away I knew it was her. I smelt the aroma of our sex. Well, push came to shove, and as I moved ahead and she stepped back and bent over to pick up the tickets, I was sure that she wasn't wearing panties and that I had penetrated her in spite of and right through my pants. I wasn't surprised. If it was her (and there was reason to believe it was, considering how unhappy she was in her relationship, whose status, i.e. marriage, for all I knew, she had been lying about), then the close proximity could have resulted in copulation. I looked down at my crotch and noticed a stain that could have been caused by her lubricity if what I thought had occurred had indeed occurred. But before I could inquire, she was gone. I noticed her screaming at her husband and banging his chest with her fists after we'd gone through security.
US
Before I'd met her-years after my sexual problems had given way to promiscuity-I'd gone through a period when I'd actually become bored by sex. Due to the circumstances of my life, I'd had a number of women who were allowing me to have my way with them, and the very availability of the thing I had always desired created its own ennui. I felt like a dessert-lover confronted with a sickeningly large smorgasbord of the most tempting napoleons, eclairs, souffles, parfaits, creme brules, tartes tatins, and chocolate mousses. I'd attended several orgies in Paris when I was sent over to consult on the sets for a French version of West Side Story. There was a prominent French art critic who'd succeeded in getting herself gangbanged over and over again for the sake of a book she was writing. I participated in several of these bacchanals, which generally occurred in the parking lot of the Beaubourg, but I found myself yawning during these events, and on one embarrassing occasion even fell asleep inside of her. 1 was facing a crisis. If nothing interested me, if even the most perverse sexual scenarios lost their allure, what was there to live for? Then I met her. It was as if I'd been given an elixir. All at once, I was filled with the same cravings I'd felt in all the years when anonymous sex was the utopia I dreamt of-except they were focused on one person. I had to find her, or 1 would fall back into the world of humdrum promiscuity.
As the stewardess bent down to serve me my Diet Coke, I was so hard I felt my prick almost touch her tits. There is a certain kind of woman who can detect true sexual energy the way a strong magnet will pick up stray tacks, pins, and nails. And when she looked at me I knew she was thinking about my hard cock running between those two tits. Tit fucking had been a part of our lovemaking, as was rimming. I needed to get off that plane. I had to get to her! I went to the bathroom five times to ice my prick. I started to repeat the mantra from the meditation class: regi, sabi, subi. Again and again I mumbled the words. I had to calm myself down or people would start to get suspicious about my agitation and think I was a terrorist. In fact, during one of my excursions to the bathroom, the plane experienced some turbulence and my dick shot into the back of another stewardess who, the way she cried out, must have mistaken my hard-on for the barrel of a gun. I apologized profusely, blaming her trauma on a magic marker which I said was "sticking the wrong way in my pocket." It made no sense, but as everyone knows, in spite of all the terrorism in the world, security on planes is still not what it should be.
The ice finally did the job and I relaxed and enjoyed the flight. However, the minute the landing gear descended and the prospect of being reunited became a real possibility, I was in trouble again. I was like one of those pigeons Marlon Brando raised in On the Waterfront (1954). But this pigeon wasn't looking for another home; it was looking for a cunt that had the perfection of Eva-Marie Saint's face. My six-inch hard-on extended out in front of me, its mass hurling me towards objects more quickly than usual. So the electric eye that operated in and out of the baggage pickup, which would have been programmed to open when a traveler came within three feet of the entrance, opened for me a good nine feet in advance of the rest of my body.