Another trip across the country meant another hour in another airport, or two, or three, how these things seem to extend. The businesses never work on your time, always too early to check in or too late to the gate, but it hasn’t left yet and if you’re on time, the plane is late. In America everyone is lounging at the airport, ready to pass through the Podunk town on the monitor, which happens to be where the nursing home his significant other’s mother is lounging, all the days passing by here through a tube, like always waiting at the airport. Some lounging near the outlets, precious commodities, stuck eating pretzels and cookies waiting all night, until the airport closes but not the shuttle, one more trip out to the airport, enough time to sleep, check out, grab the shuttle, but still too early to check in. People were cozying up to every corner in the terminal, sleeping eyes peeping open to see what’s happening with the next flight, where to, who gets to go home, who gets to pass through some Podunk town… Security line, I don’t like the body scan, I want them to pat me down, does not matter what they look like, I’ve done worse. But before that, tension in the line and nonchalance as my eyes rest on the tight gym shorts resting upon a shapely ass, curvy under the cheek, as if smiling, perking, but full, a real roast of a behind, brown smooth skin hinted at the lower back, welcoming as a soft leather, an undershirt, hiked up a bit because everyone wants to be comfortable at the airport. He pulled out a Dominican passport and I smiled as I thought about the tones of his skin, the grace of his legs and the tightness of his abs. Even a little belly would look good on him if he could suffocate me with those legs, making me swallow him like he belongs deep down my throat… He passed into the x ray scanner that zooms around his body like some Disneyland future world we can pretend we are safe in and everything is just a ride and while this passed, a blue officer, a meanie of the airport was on my port side and out of my mouth came “Can I be pat down?” But my eyes had never left the Dominican man, who was sitting in a chair fixed to the ground, putting his shoes back on. I thought I caught a glimpse of the spandex undoubtedly under his shorts, my own penis pulsed against the satin thong I had donned that day, in leggings too rubbed out for decency when two strong palms grasped my lower hips and my penis jumped in shocked premature ejaculation, as if frightened into a sudden orgasm as I looked up half in terror and half arousal at the TSA agent, a fat face and goatee, sunglasses dangling from a leash around his neck, despite working inside all day long, crew cut, parched lips, and a nametag HART. I was unaware whether that was a given or family name, but we were both embroiled in great confusion at the situation. Seeing as I had no pockets, HART let me quickly passing to put my shoes back on and my hoodie from my shoulders to my crotch to sop up the semen seeping from my scant ensemble. A man, seemingly molded from the lower half of HART replaced with greater girth and the thickness of a redwood, with a complexion burning from the flourescents, said (in a voice I would call a shout but only because I am especially sensitive to loud sounds, but here we will say ‘in a forced voice’) WAIT The blood drained out of my face when I realized my shoes were almost on but my bag had not been retrieved from the conveyer belt of x rays and radiation. It had either been snatched up by mistake or has gotten caught on a mechanism… I caught a peek at the monitor and saw the 9 inch dildo thick with veins that was at the bottom of my luggage, hidden, afraid it would fall out on the airplane and the WAIT man standing at the monitor motioned to a slightly tanned man in the same clean pressed shirt, looking like the drippings and leftovers of WAIT and HART, nicely assembled into a figure that could’ve stand to be on a billboard and not just smiling at the end of the security check point, safe from advertisements. IDEN his name tag said and he wore latex gloves because he was the one who opened up the bags to see what mysterious, long, rubber, vibrating or not, but solid, thick object could be hiding at the bottom of the bag of someone who potentially would bring mass chaos to a flight, someone, who in this case, happens to be mopping sweat from his brow and thighs in sudden exhaustion and anxiety as IDEN begins to pull the butt plug from the depths of the backpack. He pauses, realizes what he is dealing with, pushes the toy back in the bag and turns to me. He smiles and steps aside, offering the bag returned in a sweeping gesture indicating his inspection proved to be on false pretenses. At this time, the Dominican was nowhere to be seen… Perhaps he could catch him in a bathroom, always a risky operation in an airport, but often the only time you can get a little privacy. Smoking is pretty much banned all around the country unless you’re in one of those mountain states Utah or Colorado, cowboys and ranchers, sheepskin coats and nasty homophobia… I had been delayed at airports before and often can only find solace smoking in the bathroom because what are they going to do? Evacuate the airport for someone smoking in the bathroom? Someday there’s going be to newsbroadcasts and firetrucks screaming up the tarmac followed by ambulances for the fire and the explosion to follow when the cigarette which had set off the fire alarm also clogged the pipes, connected to all the other stalls, a whole wall and another, plus two rows of urinals, a labyrinth of relief, all backed up and misfired and flooding the bathroom, not to mention the sprinkles overhead, the arab businessmen and Chinese families and fat wisconsites running like the rapture was here, all because someone smoked a cigarette in the bathroom because he was selfish, mad his flight was delayed, there was a safety concern, they could’ve crashed if they just took off, he’d never make it home, plus, what would he be doing but whiling the time away lying around, stroking his penis gently but never ejaculating… Plus, if you don’t find a buddy with a delayed flight and needing a little help with some details on the next flight, you can always tug on yourself silently, taking off the bullet belts and studs and bondage belts that rattle and jangle and let people know where you are, but still the moral question begs, what if some child hears? What is there to hear if you are just wasting time sitting on a toilet and could be smoking a cigarette and causing a great disruption in national air traffic, especially being careful as to remove all metal accessories, but finding a partner and servicing him in the bathroom is a completely different matter entirely. First I stand with a cocked stance and hope a stray foot falls across mine, establishing the dominance and invitation. The tricky part, where the moral question comes up is coming out of one stall, to enter another. If anyone sees, it’s over. Just leave and walk around the terminal, go to another bathroom and wash your face because there is a child out there who, if they did not see you soaked in your fluids, saw you about to enter another stall for perhaps, some other means than to find a spot more hygienic than the previous one. But if no one saw me go in… In a crystalline moment in the airport bathroom, lights still dingy, some sink running in the background., the soft thud of the lid of a garbage can falling back to the front of the device. Almost too quiet for an encounter, add in some sniffling, a cough from another stall, one or two streams, average, whizzing to completion. And when you cross over the threshold, who are you face to face with? The daydream of the security procession or the nightmare, red faced, a real WALTER hiding from his wife in boat shoes and khakis, with a thin, hairy penis that is throbbing red but unsure whether it is hard or soft.

You’re either bored at a red light, or you find some way to entertain yourself. Some people don’t even notice them, breezing through the rests like awaiting each heart beat as it was meant to be. There are those that occasionally check their surroundings, where they at, the cross streets, if they have been there before. And some are cruising down the streets and gliding to an easy stop at each red light, as if to travel so nonchalantly that yellow lights have already become the new alert to might as well saddle up next to the white line or yellow bumper in front of you, with a secure press on the brakes, landing you stably behind another. All this happens in a moment, with movements so well-rehearsed, that to describe them is more energy expounded than to process the action itself. In that second moment, there is the primary glance and the wholeheartedly satisfaction of a stare. Stares happen. They happen on hot days when traffic is backed up in the city because the o’s are playing downtown, between cars and down the boulevard, out of windows and between the homeless and the window washers, who you got to make eye contact with if you don’t want them to clean your windows. It happens on wintry days especially in the Midwest where people slip and when you yourself are walking down the icy street with a windchill below no one keeping score anymore, and you are suddenly lifted into the air and smacked onto the sidewalk, not missing an inch of your back, flopping like a businessman onto a hotel bed. You got to just breathe and realize at least someone probably thought it was funny. There are the stares through the city and the stares back, at the shapely hips and sharp curves of ladies, the way men are walking, whether a man bothered to dress up. Depends on where he’s going, who they are trying to impress. In different neighborhoods, some can’t stand the stares of children and some can’t stand to see others lounging on the stoop, afraid and face forward like blinders perpetually adhered to one’s level of comfort. There are men waiting in traffic honking at women, tossing glances out the window and getting nothing back but exasperation (it never works). There are quick glances and long stoic stares down side streets at young ladies twerking with their friends, music pumping, hearts pounding, chest heaving and sweat pouring despite the foliage on an endless summer day, our generation’s hula hoop, no need for the cruise by when you are just houses down anyway. Sometimes it is a stop light when a big truck saddles up next to you and looks down at you, down your shirt, questioning how much of you is real and what is just make up made up to seal up a past scarred with people looking at me for the wrong ways. And they are up there, their eyes feeling for yours, first on my shoulder nonchalant, as if I looked now it would just be a coincidence. Or a little higher up the curls of my head, a piercing in my ear to right in my eyes, as if to command, LOOK AT ME RIGHT NOW, all while behind those ears is a certain banging so loud it drowns out even the npr. It is my heart, my andrenaline, brain, not sure if I should spit out my open window up into his, or meet his eyes. When I turn to see him there’s a hatred in his lust, the kind of man who will squeeze you black, slap it in public and wince in private. I swear he licked his jowls but luckily, it is easy to send him a smooch and speed off because when the light changes, the perk of being low to the ground is being able to get away. And I’d rather die than hit the brakes.

I Like Big Courtney. I like the way her droll hips seem to trail after each other and follow in sway beside her shadow, like a constant rippling of flesh through the air. And I like the way she stops, I like the way she stands and how she dominates the space she’s in and the clothes she’s wearing and I like when her chest heaves and her breathe streams out her mouth with a puff of smoke, smoking or cold or whatever, fire breathing, deep down, like a volcano, like as if she was connected to the earth’s core itself, like deep in her burns rocks so hot surrounding the molten lava, whatever keeps the gushy core of the Earth together and from tumbling out like a rouge egg falling off the counter, burning so hot like the end of the cigarette she’s holding near your hand because her hand’s on her hip and her hip is slung towards you. I can feel the vague hairs and a hint of roses hand lotion, more like a bathroom than a hotel suite but better than lemoney fresh, which is le money basic fresh. She got huge lips that hug her cigarette and pounds of flesh the gasping of air and breath of smoke disappears into and it really seems like she is providing more to the Earth with what exudes from her that what is taken into her. When one goes to fuck Big Courtney, they fall in. There is only her, as if there’s no mattress, no room just a space, but a space big enough and it all seems to float in comfort enough. But you can dig your head deep and gasp for air and dive under, find comfort in her snatch between her legs and licking the splendor of her halls, every scraggly hair signifies that you are here for Big Courtney’s pleasure, take her as she is. Delve in deep and no matter how much pressure, how much of yourself you throw in there and how much muscle you can get behind, there’s always room for more, more pressure, each handful is like pushing sand up a hill, yet it feels like a slightly better angle is achieved but here you are working and sweating, swearing and sliding and banging hard, with hard thighs of your own backing a slick thick cock feeding deep beyond what one assumes is all her folds, yet it feels like a constant pillow, like next your pelvis and thighs and ass are falling into her with her vice like hands, long and slender, with gripping power on your ass, clawing open your cheeks as you seem to fall into a pit, moaning and wanting to bite any flesh available to your mouth as she grips your hair with her other hand, unresponsive to her emotions as her faces squirms in terror and delight, like demons and gangsters having too good of a time, howling to the rooftop, her voice as deep into every corner of the room as the air itself. And her grip does not even realize the great pressure your skull is forced into her bosoms, endless waterfall of breasts and your tongue is digging, clutching for a nipple to tease, as if to stay afloat in this cataclysm of orgasm and emotions, screaming at each other and hating each other one moment and absolutely needing each other the next and cramming as much of their bodies together as possible. And when you’re exhausted with Big Courtney, she spills over the bed for a moment until you realize it’s you falling, constantly headed towards the floor until your fall becomes very real and she’s up like a breeze, as with no effort at all, already slipped into some silk and relaxing, lighting a cigarette, hands headed up the mink and furs and mini skirt covering enough and g string covering nothing but disappearing up her ass nonetheless and like that thong disappearing up her ass, you’re out on your house, suddenly in a suit, headed to work, or home or the bar or a café or just somewhere to sit down and put one’s head down in one’s palm and the only thought that can pass is I Like Big Courtney.