Suzanna Schlemm

You board late. The stewardess literally closes the door behind you.

Flushed, you scan row numbers as you come down the aisle, a gash of red lipstick.

That empty seat next  to me, I hope will become yours.

You, smiling: Hello.

Me: Hi.

You, pointing at yourself then the seat: I’m here.

Me, standing to let you pass: Welcome. And one more time because I am both a gentleman and a total dweeb: Welcome. You made it.

We are airline-close. Proximate. Intimate. Shoulder-to-shoulder.

You, settling in: Caramel?

Your right hand reaches across your body, palm upward offering a muted black rectangle of chocolate dusted with white flecks of salt.

You: Save it for after take-off. Helps pop your ears. Like gum—just less bovine. Mooo!

Me, accepting: Thanks. A mutual smile.

We taxi and take flight. I reach for the caramel sitting patiently on my knee and bite.

Salt on the tip of my tongue followed by liquid sweet pooling at the back of my mouth.

I lick my lips. The salt burn returns.

Me, turning to speak but too soon: Rode vloed.

You: I’m sorry?

Me: The caramel, it’s really good.

You: I’m glad.

Me, admiring the spray of freckles across your cheeks: So where are you headed?

You: All over, I guess. Amsterdam to start. You?

Me: I’m picking up a car, then probably heading south.

You: A car.

Me, smirking: A car.

You: Until then, you’ll just be crossing the ocean with a perfect stranger.

Me: Yes, perfect.

Then, it goes kind of deep.

The porthole is cold, black ink. We lean toward each other beneath the milky pool of the reading light. Talk and talk.

Oscar Wilde. River stones. Transmissions. Personal obsessions laid bare. A hand brushes a forearm accenting points.

You: I’ll be in Europe for 29 days.

Me: Almost all of August.

You: Did you know that, back before Jesus, August had 29 days?

Me: Weird. Really?

You, brown eyes staring into mine: Oh, yes. August used to have another name too. It was called ‘Sextilis’.

You: In Latin, it means ‘lots of sex.’

That was when you arched your back, reached underneath your skirt with both hands and pulled your underwear down below your knees.

You, tucking black panties into seatback, stretching across me toward the aisle, mouth at my ear: I’m going to visit the restroom. Coming?

In the bathroom, impossibly tight. You push my chest until my back is against the wall.

Your hands are unclasping my belt. I fumble with the door lock, slide it into place.

You: Don’t move.

Your knees straddling  me, locked against the wall. Opposed by your heels digging into the cabinets.

You pull your skirt up and flash me your pussy.

Me: Jesus.

You, again: Don’t move.

You arch your pelvis and receive the tip of my cock between your lips.

You are unbelievably wet, and it takes all my strength not to come right there.

Me, again: Jesus.

You pull away and then take me in again ever so slightly.

Your hands reach behind my buttocks and you ask: Ready?

Our eyes lock and you pull me in completely. A mutual gasp of connection.

From there, we are pitching against each other, fucking like the plane is about to drop into the Atlantic.

Hand soap propelled across the counter to the floor. Paper towels exploding out of the cabinet. Our ecstasy: a force field of chaos.

The mutual hum of our bodies. We come together in an explosion that cracks our image in the mirror.

I collapse onto the toilet seat, panting, my head resting against your belly.

You, then, turning, slipping out the door: I’ll leave you to clean up, k?

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