On the crew bus to the hotel, I exhaustedly sink towards oblivion. In my last moment of consciousness, I overhear my two crewmates planning to meet to play tennis in half-an-hour’s time. It turns out that these two guys are tennis freaks who buddy-bid, and pull this shit all the time.
It’s no fucking surprise to me that they call him Psycho Saroyin. We lived through my virgin flight, and although we were never in imminent danger, no sane pilot would allow an experienced man to handle that load by himself, no less a novice like me. For my part, I was wrong to allow my stubborn pride to win that particular game of “chicken.”
My flying rust disappeared fast, my spooling-up process was so accelerated that I never wanted anybody else to touch anything in that airplane but me. As it turned out, I had no worries in that department, since those two guys pulled the same stunt on me heading back for Honolulu a few days later.
Jurgenson
Jurgie, Captain Gary Jurgenson, is a pussy-hound pilot who adopts a smooth, shy persona. His little boy face, and Clark Kent style haircut, portray an innocence that allows him to get away with anything. Before every flight terminating with a hotel layover, Gary would disappear from the cockpit for the half-hour before departure, trolling through the school of passengers that swirl near the gate, he would eventually show up in the cockpit with his catch of the day.
The attractive blond woman taking the jump seat today, whose name I’m told is Beth Wagner, is returning to Guam from Tokyo. Jurgie had done it again, here he is, radiant and shyly making the introductions. Miss Wagner, is an Air force Officer, no less. Gary instructs her on the proper use of her seat belt and oxygen mask, and jumps into his Captain’s seat.
Although the FAA strictly forbids any unauthorized people in the cockpit during any phase of flight, Jurgie always has a companion on the jumpseat for every take-off and for every landing on every leg. It’s amazing. One report, one mention of this behavior, and his career is over, along with we fellow crewmembers who were present during the occurrence, us; but he’s even got us mesmerized, cobras facing ferrets. Jurgie is so blase about the matter, he has never risen a hint of resistance. It’s my leg back to Guam, so as we take off north from Narita, I’m busy flying the Narita reversal. I’m tuning VOR’s, setting radials, talking on the radio, doing it all because Gary’s busy pointing out the sights to our guest, as usual when he’s entertaining an attractive guest, he’s paying no attention whatever to the flying.
We are finally established on the airway and at altitude, so Gary asks me to show Miss Wagner the plane, indicating with a sweep of his hand all the “buttons and bows” up front.
The light test is always impressive, since holding the switch to the test position illuminates all the red, green, blue and amber lights up front, so I show her the “Christmas Tree.” Beth Wagner, underwhelmed, just yawns.
“Gary,” I say, “Allow Ms. Wagner to sit in your seat for a moment…” Gary and Beth switch seats, and we position her into the Captains seat, close to the yoke, the steering wheel, so to speak.
“Would you like to see the world’s largest vibrator?” I ask. She beams, “Yes.”
“Put your hands on the yoke,” I instruct, showing her my hands now on the steering-wheel.
As she puts her hands firmly on the yoke, I reach up and test the stall-warning system. The entire yoke and control column in front of both flying pilots vibrate and buzz vigorously in her hands. “You are now holding an 800,000 pound vibrator, the world’s largest.”
Without hesitation, Miss Wagner shoots back, “May I have a moment to reposition myself?”
We fall over, and we know that Jurgie has caught another live one, and will likely mount his catch in his hotel room later in Guam.
Rita Sex
Filthy Farnsworth, Jerry Lovell, and I were heading for Sidney. As usual, we would be staying for a few days at the Sheraton Wentworth, a stately, five-star jewel which is only a block from the Circular Quay, the Rocks, and the Opera House. The rest of the pattern would be two days in Papeete, Tahiti, then back to Sidney for two days, then a return to Honolulu.
Layover time spent with Farnsworth would be fun, but could be hazardous, since Filthy was a heavy drinker/philanderer. Young girls were his specialty, the younger the better, and his “rep” was further polished by the hint of a cocaine habit. I was still a light-weight drinker, and faithful to my wife, Geri.
Lovell was always a lost cause to us on layovers, since he invariably had an advance babe set-up, no matter where we wound up. I’m convinced that Jerry Lovell would have a woman ready in Mombassa, Mumbai or Kabul, were we heading there.
Sure enough, on the flight down, Jerry is tantalizing us with descriptions of his Sidney sweetheart, who he had dated only once before. He’s alerted her to his impending arrival, and now he was salivating with anticipation. Jerry loved to drive me crazy, teasingly refusing to tell me anything about his girls. I just got that Cheshire grin of his, and his patented “life is good!” routine.
After a shower and a nap, I’m down at the bar expecting Filthy to show up, but he’s missing in action. He must have hooked up too. Just as well, at least I’ll be staying out of trouble. To my surprise, Jerry Lovell enters the place. He’s alone, seemingly crushed, the body-language wind is definitely out of his sails.
“What happened to your date?” I ask, half in disbelief, half secretly glad that he’s struck-out.
Jerry orders a Long Island Ice Tea, explaining the components and proportions to the bartender, who’s eager to learn how to make this Yank concoction.
“Keshy, there’s no accounting for the wondrous ways of the female animal,” Jerry begins…
It’s going to be like that, so I switch from beer to double Stoly’s, rocks, with olives. “Okay, I’m ready” I say.
Jerry smiles, it’s going to be good, and he begins: “For months I’ve been joking around with those girls behind the registration desk, here at this hotel. Never thought much of it, just funnin’ around. Three months ago, I’m opening the door to my room, and the phone is already ringing. It’s Rita, calling me from down in the hotel office. “Can I meet her for a drink? Can I be discreet? Nobody in the hotel must know, all that….
“Yeah?” Anticipating the juicy parts.
“It’s jammin’ at the bar she told me to meet her at that night, Aussies wall-to-wall. She’s in a sexy, white- knit dress, sitting at the bar watching for me, and she’s saving a seat for me. She greets me with a wet kiss, we have a drink, she excuses herself to go to the loo. When she climbs back up onto her barstool, her dress hikes up some, beautiful bare thighs. She leans close and whispers ‘put your hand under my dress.’
As I slide my hand up the inside of her thigh, she opens her purse on her lap to show me that she’s removed her panties when she went to the bathroom.”
Jerry slurps an impossible amount of his Long Island Ice Tea up the two straws. I find that I have forgotten to breathe. My dick hasn’t. It’s filling it’s lungs with blood, waiting for the payoff.
“Chubby, as she closed her leather purse, givin’ me that pure evil, Mona Lisa-sitting-on-a-dildo smirk, she opened that velvet, warm, woman-purse thing of hers for my hand. My God, did she know what she was doing to me, it was like liquid gold in there, peaches-and-cream ice cream, put in a microwave for just twenty, thirty seconds.
“She takes my wrist gently, removes my hand from under her skirt, slowly brings my fingers up to her face, slides her lips all the way down those fingers, and sucks off her own juices, never taking her eyes from mine. ‘Buy a bottle of vodka and let’s go,’ she says.”
“Goddam, Jerry!”
“Wait…. You know that the bottle shops and bars are normally separate deals here in Sidney, but this bar includes its own bottle shop, near the entrance.”
Jerry’s ready for another Long Island Ice Tea, and the place is empty except for us, so this time the bartender allows Jerry behind the bar, watching carefully as Lovell professionally brews the otherworldly concoction.
