In the air
Warning: strong language, explicit sexual references.
1.
I wasn’t to die when the plane’s door opened. But the others were. The harsh wind in my face, the weightless speed felt like utter freedom. No problems, no obligations, no responsibilities. It was just me. Me and nothing else.
I achieved what a lot of people just dream about: I was flying. I was in the air, spread my arms and enjoyed the thin, cold air that made me feel more alive than ever.
And I wasn’t scared. I was completely aware that if I make more mistakes, this flying could very well be the last thing I’d ever do in my life, but man, what an awesome way to finish it. The icing on the cake as some would put it.
2.
I always knew when they checked me out. It was like a 6th sense. They thought they could hide it, they thought they were great actors, gliding through life without anyone finding out their secret. As if it mattered who sucked their dick or fucked their bum. Still, playing their guilt meant more money, and playing innocent meant even more.
So when I met my last ever client on the plane, I knew he wanted me even before he let the thought form in his own head. He was just like the others who played out desperate hunger for men in a cruelly successful business, or in eating around the clock, or in his case, in woman-hunting. He was about 45, well-trimmed, well-built, well-kept. His handsome face was shadowed with the shameful secret, making women want to console him, repair him, love him. He didn’t need love. He needed a blowjob.
I watched him with involuntary admiration: he was good at getting what he wanted. He pretended to be afraid at the take-off, accidentally grabbing the hand of the nothing of a woman in the next seat. He kept ordering drinks as a thank you, and made sure her glass was filled in immediately.
I have this theory about drinking: it’s all just a big lie. Like those pills they give you in different experiments telling you it’s a painkiller but it’s actually nothing – you still say the pain’s away thanks to those pills. It’s just a cover up. You didn’t have an actual pain in the first place – you’d know it doesn’t go away. If the pain is there, it stays there until it’s run its course.
Like when you act madly when you’re drunk and blame alcohol? Bullshit. People don’t do out of character things when they drink. They just get the courage to do what they’ve always wanted to do because they know that if it goes wrong, if it’s embarrassing, they’ve a socially accepted excuse.
So the woman didn’t feel weird letting a stranger she hadn’t known for more than 2 hours touch her thighs. Give a kiss in her palm. Wrist. Up in the sensitive inner part of her arms and with a slight twitch of the head, give an ever-so-light kiss on her boob that made her nipples suddenly jump out. She didn’t mind being kissed on the mouth, being whispered in the ear and when her hero followed her to the incredibly small cube of a toilet, she obediently opened the door and offered her bum.
She came back beaming, even more drunk than before and I raised my glass to her cheekily. I also sent her a strong cocktail to make sure she fell asleep quickly – she wasn’t needed any more. She, on the other hand, thought it was from another bloke that wanted her and she felt swell, beautiful and sexy. Because that’s all it takes: a look you can believe in.
I went back to the loo, knocked on the door he was hiding behind. He left the toilet and I stood close to him. Moving my eyes up and down on his body I noticed that it could be not only a well-paid job but fun as well. He was masculine in a nice, neat, non-bulky way and he smelt clean even after his dirty pleasure. He breathed slowly, looking deeply in my eyes.
‘There’s an empty seat next to me’ I said. I didn’t wait for his answer, turned around and walked back tantalising him with the curves of my bum. I ordered two drinks and waited. He stopped hesitantly in the aisle. It was my turn now to lead the dance of temptation.
‘I believe you’re a scotch-man?’
I pointed at the stewardess with my head, who was walking toward us with the drinks. He sat down and checked my drink before handing it over.
‘And I believe you’re not?’
I shook my head.
‘I’m a dry martini guy, sir’
He blushed at my choice of word.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Donald.’
‘It’s Richard. Cheers, Donald.’
‘Cheers.’
He downed his drink quickly and ordered another one. It was now him in the need of the extra courage and I didn’t mind.
‘Nice watch’ I pointed out. I never liked to be paid in cash with men I fancied. It would make both of us pitiful and the sex downgraded. I didn’t mind it with fat bastards even when they cried in shame afterwards. But with some, like Richard, I felt it my duty to make them feel good after sex, to make them know, it’s nothing wronger with doing it with a man than to shag a nice bird.
I touched the watch and put my thumb on his arm. He didn’t move it away so I slowly stroke him. He got goosebumps. I took my hand away and had a big gulp of my drink.
‘Another?’ he asked. I nodded pretending not being able to talk. He gave me a long, passionate look and I knew I’d won. I dropped the plastic glass “accidentally” and leaned down to get it. I put my hand on his thighs, my head below his legs as I searched for the glass. I took my time and noticed the bulk of his erection from below.
When I was sitting again, I left my hand on his thigh.
‘Sorry about that’ I said. ‘Bloody glass kept rolling.’
Rounds after rounds I got tipsy as well. We kept touching each other briefly and I saw it in his eyes that he wanted more. We both wanted more. It was time. Leaning over him, a hand on his cock I whispered into his face.
‘I’ll keep the door open.’
He was confused until I got up and walked away to the loo. I looked back – yes, he was looking after me.
He didn’t play hard to get any more. After the compulsory pause for the benefit of the other passengers, the door opened. I already stripped in the meantime and he looked hungrily at me. He didn’t bother saying “You know I never do this” like the old fags I usually have to get on with, and who probably have done it more times than me. No, Richard lowered his trousers without another word, grabbed my ass, pulled me closer to feel my whole body and kissed the hell out of me. I didn’t expect him to be but he was an amazing lover. He gave back what he took and I completely enjoyed sex the first time since Martin.
3.
And now I could see Richard, twisting desperately in the air, petrified of death. I had his watch and it felt good to have a part of him. I saw his last woman from the next seat screaming loudly, until the coldness stopped any voice coming out of her. There was the stewardess who, after 16 years, had honestly believed planes were safer than cars after all. There was the mother, the child, the cheating husband, the unsuccessful pensioner – they were all scattered above me, like little flies, sucked out of the plane through the holes that appeared on the side once the door was open. They all knew what was gonna come and they all desperately hung onto the last bit of life they had in them.
4.
‘You need to make amendments to your behaviour’ Mrs Douglas (Dogo as we’d called her) said in her posh accent. ‘I’m finding it difficult to place you with families.’
‘Then don’t’ I said and shrugged looking at my hands. I was annoyed noticing that one of fake nails came off. It’d taken ages to paint them with my own black and white drawing: a cobra around a leaf of marijuana. And it looked like I’d lost one somewhere.
‘Donald, would you listen to me?’ Dogo was exasperated. I liked that. I looked at her.
‘Yeeeeah?’
‘You’re 13. You need a loving environment, you need parents.”
‘I’m not a nutcase. And I’ve had enough of parents, thanks very much.’
‘You know what I mean Donald’ Dogo said to me. ‘Believe me, there’s a family out there who wants a boy just like you.’
‘So why do I need to change then? If they want somebody exactly like me, they have to accept me the way I am, right?’
Dogo sighed.
‘It’s not as easy as that. You have to make compromises when you live with others.’
‘And I do. I get up when you tell me, I go to school, I have the dinner whatever it is, even when I hate it because there’s nothing else. These are compromises, aren’t they?’
She couldn’t answer.
‘Speaking of school, I’ll need to finish my assignment. Is that OK if I go now?’
‘Yes, but Donald. I don’t want to have to have this conversation again. I won’t always be able to smooth things out for you. Marijuana is a dangerous drug. If you can’t stop on your own, I’ll need to send you to rehab.’
Her voice was serious. And sad. So I knew she was telling the truth.
‘It won’t happen again’ I said. What I meant is that they wouldn’t catch me again. What she heard is that I’d stop. We both got what we wanted so I could leave satisfied now.
5.
Marijuana was how I met Martin. He was a friend of a friend of a guy who knew somebody I knew. These networks are important when you want an illegal substance – you can’t possible post it on facebook that you need some weed, can you? I was 14, he was 22. I was giving blowjobs for money to poor old fuckers, he was a gigolo to rich old ones. He didn’t care if it was a man or a woman, as long as they were loaded. He was thin, with black hair that always looked a bit grown out, “It makes me look more boyish” he’d explain, wearing expensive clothes, emphasizing his perfect figure.
By that time, I’d tried sex with girls because I felt it was expected from me. They were around the same age as I was and it didn’t make me feel anything. We’d kiss, I’d grab one boob, touch their fanny to check where exactly I need to put my dick, I’d thrub quickly, come quickly and leave quickly. I never cared for them, hell, I never even cared if they cared for me.
Then Martin came and I fell in love. I didn’t admit it to him though. I didn’t wanna be a fag like the fuckers whose dick I sucked.
‘You’ve got potential’ he told me one night sitting on his couch with a couple friends, getting high.
‘Nice body, sensitive profile, lovely mouth’ he leaned in closer as to examine me and I got a hard-on. He laughed at me.
‘And a nice dick as it looks now.’
‘Fuck off’ I mumbled and left his house, wandering on the streets. A car stopped.
‘You want some money?’
It wasn’t a new client. It was Martin.
‘You want a BJ?’ I asked acting nonchalantly but feeling hopeful. The prospect of seeing his dick filled me with excitement.
‘Nah stupid, I’ll teach you how to use those who think they use you. Interested?’
So I got in his car and in his business. He selected clients for me carefully and we discussed how to get the most out of them in detail. He let me watch his videos he blackmailed his clients with, “So that you know how it’s done properly” he’d say. He even explained how he keeps some visible flow of money to keep the authorities away and hides the rest in Guatemala. We talked about stuff that mattered, stuff that didn’t and we were as close as possible without sex.
Then my 15th birthday came and he threw me a party: dancers, champagne, DJ, all the glamour he could afford. I’d never felt happier. And then during the night he slow-danced with me.
‘Are you ready for a really special present?’
My mouth dried up. I could only nod. Martin took me by the hand and led me to a private room. It only had a bed that was covered in pillows.
‘Get comfortable birthday boy’ he said coyly. ‘Back in a mo.’
He left and I lay down on the bed naked, hard with anticipation. There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in’ I managed to say.
But it wasn’t Martin. It was a girl I hadn’t seen before.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ I asked angrily.
‘Your birthday present’ she whispered and shook her boobs. They were like small apples, just the ones I liked. She danced closer, then turned round, bent over slapping her own bum.
Martin appeared in the door.
‘Happy, Don?’ he asked. I was still lying on the bed.
‘You won’t forget this night’ he said, coming closer. He kissed the girl, inviting me closer with a flicker of his fingers. I got up, walked next to them, touching both their bodies. They involved me in their kiss and I felt Martin walking away.
‘Come back!’ I said hoarsely.
‘Not now, darling, not now’ he said sadly. He sat at the end of bed, watching, instructing, determined to help us give each other as much pleasure as possible. I tried to involve him, touch him, kiss him but after some seconds he always led me back to the girl. This strange threesome left me eager for him but fully satisfied at the same time. It was the first time I truly enjoyed having sex with someone.
‘I wish it were you’ I said to Martin in the post-coital haze he brought me to. He stroke my face.
‘Next year, Don, when you’re 16. If you still want to’ he added shyly.
When he came back from the hospital four months later, he was too weak even to lift a glass of water. I moved in despite his opposition and helped him drink, eat, pee or take a shit. Loads of his friends came over to help him but I was the only one who could ease his pain by rocking him gently as he cried.
‘You should’ve fucked me when you were strong enough’ I told him the day before he died.
‘I kinda did’ he replied smiling.
6.
It wasn’t murder. I’d opened the door not knowing that they were all going to die. I was killing them all but it was an accident. I even felt sorry for them. But it was a necessity. I had to open the door and I had to jump. I didn’t know they’d be sucked out as well. I didn’t know the pilots wouldn’t be able to keep the plane up in the air when a good part of its side disappeared. I didn’t plan to watch them die as I slowly descended with my parachute. I had to jump to get the money Martin has hidden in Guatamala. I had to jump to disappear from the face of the Earth, to have a new life. I didn’t feel guilty. We all have to die some time.
Pieces of my Soul 