Something far worse actually happened.
On the aisle seat was the typical balding, pudgy, salesman. But oh, the window. Sitting there was a vision of stereotypical beauty. About 20. Obviously naturally blond. 5 button white blouse. Top two buttons undone. Middle of the three remaining also undone, probably unintentional. Perfectly shaped breasts in that perfect size where they don't quite fit in an A bra but B is too big and if you choose the B then the poor sixfoottwo bastard bending over to squeeze into the seat next to you has to see your perfectly shaped perky oh so faintly pinkish brown nipples. The sort of breasts that are only possible in 18-20 year old girls. That warm welcoming smile that restaurant managers pray their hostesses can fake. Only hers looked sincere. Blue eyes the color of Pennsylvania slate. If she wore any makeup it wasn't noticeable. She was reading a book.( It was a Dean Koontz book, but I read Elmore Leonard on airplanes so I have no room to criticize. At least it was a book.)
Eight years ago, if you wanted to send my already terrifying sex drive completely out of control that would have been the recipe. At this point you may actually question why I say that this is worse than being stuck between two atavistic drooling fatties? Trust me, it is. Allow me to elaborate.
This weekend I was home. Coincidentally it was my wife's ten-year high school anniversary. I mention this only briefly as there is another post coming that may take me days to make readable. I spent a fair amount of time seeing her in and out of one sexy outfit and another. "I don't want to look slutty, I just want to look better than all of them." Mission accomplished. My thirst for such things was as close to slaked as it ever can be. In fact, as I sat down, I was not more than twenty minutes from my wife's embrace. What I really did not need at the beginning of this trip is a reminder how much I am going to miss her. the real live physical hunger for her.
I have fallen into a rhythm that has allowed me to survive the ten days without hugs, snuggles and other things. Believe me I am not expecting sympathy. But understand that I have a coping mechanism. A perfectly, valid, functional system of dealing with stresses.
It is much like a train wreck. You know that you really don't want to watch it happen but you can see it coming and you just can't make yourself stop looking. parts of yourself are disgusted at other parts of yourself, but you just can't stop looking. You don't move, you don't talk. you just watch it happen.
The entire ride I try to force myself to just read my book. It fails miserably. She's absorbed in her book, but there is constant movement in my peripheral. She's actually caressing her left breast as she is reading the book. For crying out loud! I have read some Dean Koontz books and I am quite positive that they are not intended to produce this reaction.
Then it hit's me. I realize the answer. A succubus. A living breathing succubus. Sent just for the purpose of torturing me. I bet if I had followed her after the plane landed she would have vanished right into the ether. Knowing this didn't make it any easier to avert my eyes. It did make it easier to accept the torture.
Karmic retribution for my time spent as incubus in between starting college and meeting my wife. Somehow seeing karmic retribution in practice comforts me even when it is happening to me.
