Skydoll: Destination Unknown

Galley Gossip, Heather Poole

Galley Gossip, Heather Poole

Here’s what I’m working on now….  

1.

Diet Coke – no ice, Club soda with lime, coffee – cream, the never ending beverage service, that’s what I’m doing when I hear the muffled sound of a cell phone ring.  Immediately I shove a plastic scoop into a drawer of ice and trudge to the front of the aircraft wearing combat boots.  In the first class galley I make the announcement that it’s time to turn off and stow all electronic devices, we’ll be landing soon.   As I walk down the aisle checking each row for compliance, I notice my bra, the hot pink lacy one, is on the outer side of my uniform dress.  Christ!  I sprint to the back of the plane, but as soon as I reach the coach galley I hear it again, a song I know well. I spin around looking for the guilty passenger.  That’s when it hits me.  That’s my special ring!

“Flight Attendant Connors,” mumbles a manly voice in my ear.  I feel his warm breath on the nape of my neck.  The palm of his hand runs up the length of my leg, pushing my skirt up along with it.  I inhale, almost forget to exhale, as the hand moves across my thighs, between my…

Gasping for breath, I bolt straight up in bed.  Awake, I’m awake, wide awake now! Two seconds later my head hits the pillow and my eyes close.  My mouth is dry.   Water, I need water.  Only there’s no way I’m getting out of bed to get it.  The thought of moving, let alone standing, practically kills me.  Just when did it get so hot in here?  I kick off the sheets, toss and turn and now I’m cold.  I reach for the covers and pull them halfway up my leg when, uh, what is that?  I touch something warm and hard and, and, and -

Fuck.

Actually what I meant to say is FUCK FUCK FUCK.  Because this is not my bed.  Oh no.  My bed, ya see, is white and fluffy.  Not big or blue. This room is nothing like mine: small, light and cheery, cluttered with clothes and paperback books.  Oh no this room is huge and dark and meticulously clean.  Not to mention there’s a man, a NAKED MAN, lying in the beside me.  Based on his broad muscular shoulders and light brown wavy hair, it looks like he might actually be hot. Not that it matters.  Really.

Pulling what has to be Egyptian half a million thread count sheets up to my chin, I remind myself that life is about the choices we make. More importantly it’s about taking responsibility for those choices. Even the bad ones. Like this one. Because what we do, what we say, what we even think impacts us in ways we can not imagine in the future. This is what I’ve been telling my friends whenever they come to me for advice on love, life, men, whatever. It’s the same thing I’ve chosen to live her own life by, which is why, and I can say this with utmost certainty, I’ve made all the right choices in my short twenty-five years.

Until now.

God this is bad, real bad, worse than bad.  I mean did we?  I don’t know.  I don’t want to know.  What I do know is I have to get out of here and quick! But when I try to move I can’t because my legs are tangled in the sheets. No way do I want to disturb the guy before I have a chance to get my thoughts together. Not ready to face reality, take responisibilty, I slowly lean back into the pillows, careful to keep the bed still.  Holding my breath, I try not to hyperventilate, not to panic, not to freak out.  What the hell happened last night?!  Think, Nicole, think!

I remember the bar, a hole in the wall kind of place on the Upper East Side that caters to airline personnel by offering buy-one-get-one-free drinks to anyone with crew ID.  A way to entice those without crew ID into the place.  There to celebrate a coworker’s birthday, I flashed my badge at the bartender and half jokingly ordered a gigantic apple martini with an investment banker on the side.  After one (or two) very strong drinks, I found myself on the dance floor doing the electric slide.  Yes, I have a sick obsession with disco, even when I’m not drunk.  It was when I slid to the left, I made The Announcement.  Oh God, The Announcement, why did I make That Announcement?!  That while I may have been the dry humping queen of Queens, I’d only had sex with six different men in my entire life.  They were all different men, totally different men, I swear.  That’s when, at least I think it’s when, First Officer Meyers did what he always does after he’s had one too many.  He placed both hands on my breasts and squeezed.

Okay it’s important to point out, at least it’s important to me to point out, that the only men I typically allow to squeeze my breasts are either in love with me or have the potential to fall in love with me.  I’m not a believer in free squeezes.  In fact the only action my boobs have seen in the last few months came from a distinguished gentleman seated in 3B who awoke with a start just as I was leaning over him to fix his neighbor’s reading light.  Well that’s if I don’t count my gynecologist, two year-old nephew, and some drunken perv on the subway last week.  Unfortunately the only drunk perv last night seemed to be me.  And for the record, so I don’t come off like some ho, some drunk and slutty disco dancing ho, the only reason I allowed First Officer Meyers to squeeze my boobs for what some might consider an awfully long time was not because he had a lot of fantastic things to say about my B-cups, though it did warm my heart, but because he was drunk and gay and dating my best friend Sean.

“Girl, you need to loosen up and have some fun,” I vaguely remember Sean saying, snap snap snapping his sassy fingers in front of my flushed face.  We all slid to the right. “For Christ Sakes,” he said, lifting a knee and clapping. “Try taking a walk on the wild side sometime!”  That’s the last thing I remember before it all went black.

Looks like I finally took that walk.  Too bad I can’t remember it.

Oh sure there’ve been times, plenty of times, I’ve wished I were that girl, the walk-on-the-wild-side-kind-of-girl, the kind who’s not afraid to do what she wants when she wants with whomever she wants just because she wants to. But for reasons even I don’t understand I care too much about what people think of me. Of what I think me!  I’m a good girl, a nice girl, a girl who doesn’t get drunk and sleep around.  (Though it does sound kind of exciting, doesn’t it?  Okay, okay, so I may have had that almost one-week-stand last year with the Dutch medical sales rep from Curacao in Amsterdam. That was different. It was totally romantic. It took place in a foreign country.  It just didn’t count, okay!

Too bad this one might.

 

 

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