Flying High by Rachel Kramer Bussel Page B

to see if I can catch the lingering scent of his hand on the paper.
    Yes, it’s my rule not to sleep with men I meet on airplanes, but I might make an exception for Paul. After all, he helped me keep my vow not to masturbate under the blanket—and every manager knows that delegating a task is not the same as doing it yourself. Besides, thanks to him, I’ve learned another valuable lesson as well.
    Sometimes breaking a nasty habit can be very nice indeed.

URGENT MESSAGE
    Rachel Kramer Bussel
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    The fact that I have to travel a lot for my job as a fashion photographer has always been a sore spot with my boyfriend, Brandon. He works the day shift at a French restaurant, and in many ways is more of a homebody than I am. I like a fast-paced lifestyle, which is why I moved to New York in the first place, but even though he thrives on the energy at the restaurant, he’s happy to veg out in front of the TV or just explore the city. Still, we fell hard for each other and weren’t going to split up simply because sometimes I have to hop on a plane. The chemistry between us was strong right from the beginning, and hasn’t let up, so we’ve learned how to deal with my traveling with frequent phone calls and hours of hot sex when I return. We balance our nights out with ones cuddled in front of our fire-place (yes, we have one in our apartment), watching movies or having luxurious sex on our shag carpet.
    When I have to go out of town, though, he practically sulks. Or at least he did until we devised a high-tech, ultramodern, yet
perfectly dirty way of dealing with my absences. I had heard on the news that several airlines were now offering in-flight instant message and Internet services. What better way to keep in touch with my man than by sharing every X-rated thought I had, while on a plane filled with strangers?
    Usually I try to fly first class, where I indulge in champagne and ice cream sundaes and generally pretend I’m on vacation, rather than heading off to work. But since I’d had to book a last-minute flight, I’d been stuck with the only seat left—a middle seat in coach. Oh well, how bad could it be? I thought.
    If you’ve ever asked yourself that dangerously rhetorical question, you know the answer: very, very bad. I wound up stuck between a drooling older man and a fidgety teenager of indeterminate gender. Though I’d never cheat on Brandon, I’d at least have wished for some eye candy, a hunky man—or, hell, even a curvy, cleavage-baring woman—to keep the edges of my vision occupied. So I turned to what at first seemed like a last resort: I logged on to my computer. The teenager was listening to some very loud music and the old man was nodding off, often with his head collapsing onto my shoulder. As I waited for my laptop to load, I knew that at least I could get lost in the endless offerings of the Internet, which I often do even when I’m supposed to be retouching photos or replying to email. It offers endless distractions and can keep up with my ADD brain much better than even a juicy novel.
    The prospect of going online was enough to make me forget about the cramped legroom—did I mention I’m five-eleven?—and lack of food service on a cross-country fight. I went on and immediately checked my email, then logged onto IM, hoping that even though this was a red-eye, one of my friends would be up. Well, one of them was—a very close, personal, sexy friend. There was Brandon, or rather, Randyboy69, as he so often was
when he wasn’t at work. We’re an equal opportunity online addiction household.
    Hey sexy, I typed, shifting in my seat as I pictured him wearing just a pair of gray cotton briefs as he watched the latest episode of “Entourage,” probably with a beer, or perhaps a joint, in hand.
    You stuck at the airport? he wrote back.
    No. I’m stuck in the hell that is coach. I’m high.