Post Love

I left my wife three years ago.
I write about the women that fill up the void.

Post Love Thirty Nine

There is something about the phallic shaped objects we cram ourselves into, like the semen we once were, all waiting to explode into the world and be someone. We cram ourselves into buses, subways, trains, aeroplanes over the seas, travelling set routes in routine, some sort of sick anticlimactic orgasm where pleasure comes only from discomfort ending, an unpleasant ride we have to take in order to achieve a bitter sense of accomplishment in knowing that it’s over. We torture ourselves, we read, we sleep, we try to make the best of it. Eight hours til home. Eight hours of making it through, eight hours of shit food, shit movies, shit seats, shit people, but I have to be honest. There was one saving grace on that flight, in the form of a stunning tall blonde at the tip of my fingers, at the push of a button, ready to bring me what I wanted with a polite smile. She was truly gorgeous. Ofcourse I was to meet the most attractive woman in Europe after I’d already left it. Her uniform accentuated her thin, fit frame, her long legs, her shapely shoulders leading into her long neck, holding a head carved out of the smoothest heap of humanity, that tight jawline framing those cheekbones, that fine nose, the full lips just waiting to be bitten, those crazy cold blue eyes behind black and white rimmed glasses, hair up high in a tight ponytail, she was a perfect combination of the librarian, the model, and something else completely distant and inaccessible. I watched her make her rounds, I watched how she dealt with people, I waited til it was my turn. Each time I’d look her in the eyes, speaking with my most confident voice, never looking away even if I was just ordering the lasagna. She never looked away either. But did that mean anything? She was a cyborg, a programmed serving machine. Not readjusting her eyes when confronted with mine meant nothing. There was no flinch, no emotion. I had to get to the pulse, the mind, the flesh of this being. 

An older jewish man sat besides me in the aisle seat. A talkative man, instantly annoying, his beard constantly in motion, courting my friendship through tales of his business, his women, his life, holding some degree of intelligence throughout but never an interesting thought, never a thing I couldn’t have predicted. His name was Michael. He was alright. He was until he did it. Until he got comfortable enough to play a joke on me. He thought we’d become pals through his monologue and my vague and occasional acknowledgement of it. When the blonde came over next, he told her “my friend here thinks you’re beautiful”. Her programming immediately responded with a fake smile and a stale thank you. Fucking idiot. Is that how you got your women? By complimenting those that get complimented handfuls of times a day? By classifying yourself as yet another boring, unimaginative shmuck? Everyone on this plane thinks she’s beautiful, you moron. Every man, every woman, every child here knows she is, herself included. And now she thinks I’m the guy that felt compelled to let her know what everyone else already knows. 

I put on my headphones and watched a movie that I didn’t finish. I woke up when the lights were dim. The passengers were asleep and the curtains were drawn. The curtains separating classes, reminding us of our place not on board but in society, no access, not welcome, stay out, but you can take a peek at our luxury on your way to the can. I pressed a button over my head and the blonde walked over to my seat. I looked into her cold blue eyes and said hi. My brain still waking up, slow and shaky, a sleepy giant stumbling down the stairs, an old fat slob rolling out of bed, a bum getting kicked out of the park, it paused for a split second until it knew what to relay to my mouth. “Could I get some water?”. By that point, my accidentally masterful plan had unfolded. I had called her over and  looked into her eyes without saying a word. That half second, that strange moment, that hesitance, that is what shook the machine. She smiled, said sure, maintaining eye contact throughout, and then she did it. She returned it. She looked too long, just a split second too long, and left. I had smashed my idiocy through the ice and gotten to the queen. The connection was made. Now I was someone. I was the guy that was awake in a sea of sleepers. I was a pulse, a breath, a cock. 

I sat in my window seat and comtemplated my options. There was only one. I had to fuck her in the bathroom. I had always wanted to. This was my chance. But how? My fear of crowded rooms was tenfold in this death tube speeding across the skies. I couldn’t use words. I would have to go to the source, to the broken ice, those cold blue eyes. She came back with a cup of water. I wasn’t prepared. I tried to reinforce our last encounter by pausing in the midst of her eyes again, comfortable and confident, before thanking her. She smiled and walked back again. That was it. This wasn’t going to work. 

How could I fuck this woman in the bathroom? I needed a plan. I needed to be aggressive. And just as I had made up my mind, she walked by again. My heart started beating faster. She walked straight to the bathroom. Adrenaline exploded in my veins. I felt sick. It was a sign. It was wordless communication. An invitation. I had to do it. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the forming jetlag, the altitude getting me up off my seat and in motion towards the bathroom, too hazy to question myself. I made my way down the narrow aisle, making sure not to bump any elbows or make any noise. 

I suppressed my nerves standing by the bathroom door, in the dim lit space between two doors, a black curtain behind me, and the open space of sleeping travellers in front of me. I tried not to plan ahead. I would just overthink it. Just do it, just do it, I stood there holding it together the best I could. Waiting. Waiting on a girl that was in the bathroom. A minute passed. The rush started to thin out. My nerves went back to normal. Another minute passed, another momentum passed, all my thoughts fell into place. What was I doing? I was waiting on a girl that had been in the bathroom for minutes. Sometimes it takes a while for reality to sink in, but it always does. The beautiful blonde was taking a shit. I was standing on the other side of the door with a forming erection while she was shitting. That’s what I was doing. That was my reality. That was me. And before doubts could set in, before I could entertain the idea that maybe something other than the endlessly obvious was happening, one of the passengers walked towards me, destroying any and all possibilities for good. She walked over wrapped in a blanket and I cursed her with one half of my thoughts while the other half thanked her for the excuse to  walk back to my seat before it was too late. 

There’s no words to describe how you feel once you’ve confused the need to push feces out of an asshole with an invitation to hot secret mile high clubbing. Embarrassing, ridiculous, pathetic, I pushed my head into my little airplane pillow and went back to sleep. Three more hours til it’s all over again. 

I was fading out of consciousness when I realized that at the very least, I had found a way to the human being inside of that machine. I exhaled slowly. Then there was silence, and then I started to laugh. “She was taking a shit!”. Michael turned towards me. “Sorry?”. I pretended I was asleep. Goodnight, Michael. Goodnight, Europe. Farewell, adventure, and may we meet again.

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