One downside of my career has been the requirement to travel internationally at frequent intervals and for relatively brief periods.
Some might think it fabulous to circumnavigate the globe on a monthly basis, spending, for example, two nights in Baltimore, one in London and another in Brussels before returning to Australia. Trust me, it is not fabulous. Nor is it in any way glamorous or exciting. It is very tedious and almost my only interest lies in finding which hotel provides the best cheeseburger and fries on room service. (It's the Heathrow Hilton, by the way.)
Fortunately, I sleep very well on aeroplanes. It is also fortunate that I travel Business Class (and occasionally get bumped up into First Class). As a Platinum frequent flyer, I get to pre-select my seat and usually opt to sit upstairs on Jumbos, preferably at that point half-way along the aisle where there is an emergency exit and thus additional leg-room for my lanky frame.
Generally, I am already semi-conscious as we taxi before take-off. I battle to appear attentive as a flight attendant demonstrates how to use a life vest. I long for the seat-belt signs to be switched off because then I am at last able to recline my seat and sleep freely.
I have excellent timing where meals are concerned, however. Somehow I always wake up just as the food is being served. And I have grown to love that food over time. Friends often complain to me about the quality of the meals in economy or coach. I do my best to sympathise but my own memories are of the comparative decadence of Business or First Class. Why, one airline even bakes choc-chip cookies in flight and doles out lavish amounts of ice-cream and strawberry or chocolate sauce; and in First Class there are even beds that almost accommodate my frame and the meals are served along silver service lines.
So, much as I loathe the jet-lag, the lost baggage, the sameness of each hotel room, and the long queues at Immigration - especially at LA International - I also find solace in devouring everything set before me and in sleeping like a log in between each meal.
I travel light, and I travel "scruffy" - track pants, a short-sleeved T-shirt and jogging shoes are my usual attire. As I sometimes move from one hundred degree heat in one location to sleet and snow at the next, I also tote a warm sweater for the brief walk from the terminal to a waiting car. My track pants are usually uncreasable polyester and very comfortable to sleep in. Like most guys, I dare say I get an erection several times in the course of a long sleep. This obviously occurs on aeroplanes as well but the cabin is dark most of the time and who the hell cares or notices?
On one flight, someone obviously did notice. I do not engage in long exchanges with those who sit beside me. I am polite but not interested in engaging with complete strangers. After all, I'm only there in order to eat and sleep between destinations. Conversation doesn't appeal; even the in-flight entertainment doesn't appeal - I have never watched a movie whilst flying and I don't listen to music on the headphones either. Mostly I sleep, but, on one comparatively recent flight between Sydney and Los Angeles, my neighbour gave a whole new meaning to the term in-flight entertainment!
He seemed a nice guy. Fortyish, bookish, average build, average looks and a nice smile. Perhaps a tad effeminate - and I did catch him checking me out as we engaged in a little desultory conversation before take-off. Polyester track pants hide little while you're seated and when a seat-belt cinches the material across your hips. He seemed appreciative of the view and I was not offended by his oblique interest.
Later that evening, I awoke in a darkened cabin and realised that I was covered by a light airline blanket and that there was a hand fondling me underneath that blanket. My neighbour's hand was stroking my cock through my pants and I was really, really hard. Now, I could have objected. I could have swiped his hand away and feigned outrage. But I didn't. I just lay there with my eyes closed and let him feel me up. It had a dream-like quality to it.
Eventually, being a polite and obliging guy - and feeling constricted by my clothing - I undid the cord at my waistband and slipped the track pants and my briefs down my hips. Not a word was spoken and my eyes remained closed, but I was certainly no longer asleep.
Now I am usually fairly slow to cum, especially when it's a mere hand-job, but this was an ambush really. The surprise served to heighten my excitement, as did the relative shamelessness, the daring of being jerked off in an aircraft cabin by a complete stranger. So it didn't last very long. I recall a soft cloth - or perhaps a paper napkin - being wrapped around the top of my cock and the hand continued to move rhythmically until the cloth or napkin was drenched in my cum. I know I blew one hell of a load because a good deal of cum found its way into my pubic hair and onto my abdomen.
I have no idea what an etiquette guide might say should happen in a situation like this. All I know is that I gave a soft, smiling sort of sigh, pulled up my pants and went straight back to sleep. As I said earlier, the whole episode was somewhat dream-like anyway. Indeed, when daylight broke and we approached the Californian coast, it might well have been just a dream. My neighbour gave me a friendly "good morning", I returned his greeting, and then we ate breakfast with not one word being spoken of the night before.
Proof that it was not a dream came when I took a leak before the descent into LA. There were tell-tale cum smears on my stomach and my briefs - not enough to have been a wet dream but definite evidence that I had indeed cum during the night and that some of my juice had been absorbed or wiped away.
When I returned to my seat and as we prepared for landing, my neighbour remarked that he envied my ability to sleep so soundly. I smiled and responded rather pointedly that I hadn't been deeply asleep all the time. He nodded slowly and smiled back at me. And that was it really.
Later, it was my turn to envy him. At Immigration, he sauntered through the US Citizens gate while I queued under a sign that said "Aliens". As always, the queue moved slowly while officious people in uniforms waved truncheons and exhorted us to stay in an orderly line. Thus is one generally welcomed to the US! But this time I at least had something to reflect upon as the queue drearily moved along at a glacial pace.
True, I had not enjoyed a pounding fuck in the close confines of an aircraft toilet, but membership of the mile-high club had been handed to me just a few hours earlier!
LA Airport may not make "aliens" feel particularly welcome, but at least one US citizen had truly extended the hand of friendship to me!
Some might think it fabulous to circumnavigate the globe on a monthly basis, spending, for example, two nights in Baltimore, one in London and another in Brussels before returning to Australia. Trust me, it is not fabulous. Nor is it in any way glamorous or exciting. It is very tedious and almost my only interest lies in finding which hotel provides the best cheeseburger and fries on room service. (It's the Heathrow Hilton, by the way.)
Fortunately, I sleep very well on aeroplanes. It is also fortunate that I travel Business Class (and occasionally get bumped up into First Class). As a Platinum frequent flyer, I get to pre-select my seat and usually opt to sit upstairs on Jumbos, preferably at that point half-way along the aisle where there is an emergency exit and thus additional leg-room for my lanky frame.
Generally, I am already semi-conscious as we taxi before take-off. I battle to appear attentive as a flight attendant demonstrates how to use a life vest. I long for the seat-belt signs to be switched off because then I am at last able to recline my seat and sleep freely.
I have excellent timing where meals are concerned, however. Somehow I always wake up just as the food is being served. And I have grown to love that food over time. Friends often complain to me about the quality of the meals in economy or coach. I do my best to sympathise but my own memories are of the comparative decadence of Business or First Class. Why, one airline even bakes choc-chip cookies in flight and doles out lavish amounts of ice-cream and strawberry or chocolate sauce; and in First Class there are even beds that almost accommodate my frame and the meals are served along silver service lines.
So, much as I loathe the jet-lag, the lost baggage, the sameness of each hotel room, and the long queues at Immigration - especially at LA International - I also find solace in devouring everything set before me and in sleeping like a log in between each meal.
I travel light, and I travel "scruffy" - track pants, a short-sleeved T-shirt and jogging shoes are my usual attire. As I sometimes move from one hundred degree heat in one location to sleet and snow at the next, I also tote a warm sweater for the brief walk from the terminal to a waiting car. My track pants are usually uncreasable polyester and very comfortable to sleep in. Like most guys, I dare say I get an erection several times in the course of a long sleep. This obviously occurs on aeroplanes as well but the cabin is dark most of the time and who the hell cares or notices?
On one flight, someone obviously did notice. I do not engage in long exchanges with those who sit beside me. I am polite but not interested in engaging with complete strangers. After all, I'm only there in order to eat and sleep between destinations. Conversation doesn't appeal; even the in-flight entertainment doesn't appeal - I have never watched a movie whilst flying and I don't listen to music on the headphones either. Mostly I sleep, but, on one comparatively recent flight between Sydney and Los Angeles, my neighbour gave a whole new meaning to the term in-flight entertainment!
He seemed a nice guy. Fortyish, bookish, average build, average looks and a nice smile. Perhaps a tad effeminate - and I did catch him checking me out as we engaged in a little desultory conversation before take-off. Polyester track pants hide little while you're seated and when a seat-belt cinches the material across your hips. He seemed appreciative of the view and I was not offended by his oblique interest.
Later that evening, I awoke in a darkened cabin and realised that I was covered by a light airline blanket and that there was a hand fondling me underneath that blanket. My neighbour's hand was stroking my cock through my pants and I was really, really hard. Now, I could have objected. I could have swiped his hand away and feigned outrage. But I didn't. I just lay there with my eyes closed and let him feel me up. It had a dream-like quality to it.
Eventually, being a polite and obliging guy - and feeling constricted by my clothing - I undid the cord at my waistband and slipped the track pants and my briefs down my hips. Not a word was spoken and my eyes remained closed, but I was certainly no longer asleep.
Now I am usually fairly slow to cum, especially when it's a mere hand-job, but this was an ambush really. The surprise served to heighten my excitement, as did the relative shamelessness, the daring of being jerked off in an aircraft cabin by a complete stranger. So it didn't last very long. I recall a soft cloth - or perhaps a paper napkin - being wrapped around the top of my cock and the hand continued to move rhythmically until the cloth or napkin was drenched in my cum. I know I blew one hell of a load because a good deal of cum found its way into my pubic hair and onto my abdomen.
I have no idea what an etiquette guide might say should happen in a situation like this. All I know is that I gave a soft, smiling sort of sigh, pulled up my pants and went straight back to sleep. As I said earlier, the whole episode was somewhat dream-like anyway. Indeed, when daylight broke and we approached the Californian coast, it might well have been just a dream. My neighbour gave me a friendly "good morning", I returned his greeting, and then we ate breakfast with not one word being spoken of the night before.
Proof that it was not a dream came when I took a leak before the descent into LA. There were tell-tale cum smears on my stomach and my briefs - not enough to have been a wet dream but definite evidence that I had indeed cum during the night and that some of my juice had been absorbed or wiped away.
When I returned to my seat and as we prepared for landing, my neighbour remarked that he envied my ability to sleep so soundly. I smiled and responded rather pointedly that I hadn't been deeply asleep all the time. He nodded slowly and smiled back at me. And that was it really.
Later, it was my turn to envy him. At Immigration, he sauntered through the US Citizens gate while I queued under a sign that said "Aliens". As always, the queue moved slowly while officious people in uniforms waved truncheons and exhorted us to stay in an orderly line. Thus is one generally welcomed to the US! But this time I at least had something to reflect upon as the queue drearily moved along at a glacial pace.
True, I had not enjoyed a pounding fuck in the close confines of an aircraft toilet, but membership of the mile-high club had been handed to me just a few hours earlier!
LA Airport may not make "aliens" feel particularly welcome, but at least one US citizen had truly extended the hand of friendship to me!
