by Joe Thomas
“I will ignore that and pretend you are having some sort of Puerto Rican stroke.” I walked off with a trash bag to collect service items from passengers. You know it’s bad when you’d rather pick up half eaten apples, snot rags, and cups of ice than listen to some creepy Puerto Rican pedophile.
Cloris and I made our way to the gate area to find out why our airplane was running late. We hadn’t met the other flight attendant so we assumed she’d show up at the gate. I expected her to be late and she did not disappointed.
I had known Cloris for 15 minutes, and because she was an older New Yorker—and obviously Jewish because she convinced the barista to give her a free espresso pump in her latte—I decided to keep my gay vibe to a minimum. Cloris figured out I was gay within the first five minutes of us meeting. That was fine, but I normally tend to set my gay flame low when meeting new pilots and flight attendants. The only time I ignore that clause is when I want certain people to stay as far away from me as possible. If you want to see a 60 year old straight male pilot hanging off the bumper of the hotel shuttle, just sit next to him and say, “You smell sexy. What kind of cologne is that, Brut?” It’s like spraying a homosexual skunk all over the van. Homosexuality propels dick pilots as far away as humanly possible. Some of them would rather fly the airplane with a remote control from a KKK meeting than sit in the flight deck knowing there is a homosexual onboard.
I meshed well with the crew I was working with, but I still decided to keep my gay mannerisms low key so not to scorch their eyebrows during the first day of a four day trip. I’m no Judy Garland but I have been known to queen out and vogue at the gate when my flight has been cancelled and I’ve been released from duty. I had four days for them to meet the real Joe and ease into my crazy. I felt happy knowing that even though my flame was lower than normal, if we decided to toast marshmallows in the hotel lobby I could be of service.
The entire crew was standing by the gate when the airplane finally arrived and passengers started deplaning. Airline passengers are completely clueless of the airline process. They could be standing at the gate for hours and the moment the airplane pulls up to the gate they will run up and ask the gate agent, “Are we ready to board?”
I’ll never understand it. An older lady did exactly that and Cloris became irritated. “These assholes don’t pay attention,” she whispered to me from the side of the counter, “They haven’t even fucking deplaned yet. Does she think that people just vanish out of their fucking seats?”
I smiled, “Maybe she thinks this is her own private jet.”
“She better fucking think again.”
“I hope she’s in your section.” I couldn’t help but egg her on even though I knew I was taking a chance of landing in Seattle with a flashlight up my ass.
“Hey Joe,” she smirked, “Fuck off.”
Things changed rather quickly after the clueless old lady walked away from the counter and a young attractive man ran up to the gate needing assistance. He was sweating and out of breath which made him even sexier. I didn't have enough time to collect my thoughts before Mrs. Robinson—a.k.a. Cloris, was on him like a river leach. "How may I help you?"
The gate agent and I looked at each other while the passenger answered in a soothing voice that made my pubic hair uncurl, “I was wondering if this flight serves meals?”
He ran from the security line for that? To ask about an airline meal? If he got that sweaty and worked up over airline food, then someone was getting fucked if there was turbulence over the Rocky Mountains. The look on Cloris’ face gave her away: she was definitely rooting for some rough turbulence with a side order of bareback. The thought made me shiver. She whipped her hair back, and at her age that was cause for a 911 call “What’s your name?
He smiled, “Gage. I’m in 1F,”
“Oh wonderful. You’re in my section,” I heard her nipples harden, ”We don’t serve hot food but there is a restaurant right there and you can bring anything you want on the flight.”
I wondered if anything included: rubbers, lube, geritol, and a box of matzo ball mix to gag her with.
After we boarded and conducted our security checks, Gage was one of the first passengers on the airplane. He couldn’t have been over 25 years old and appeared perfectly capable of stowing his own bag, but Cloris wasn’t having any of that. This was her inflight boyfriend and she tossed his bag around like she wanted him to toss her vagina around. She was perspiring and exerting so much energy I was afraid we’d need to get her a wheelchair when we landed in Seattle. While conducting service she talked to him at every possible opportunity and ignored the other passengers in her section. I can’t say she ignored them, but she made it a point to let everyone know that Gage came first, which at the tender age of 25 was not going to be an issue.
Halfway during the flight I walked up to the front galley to make sure Cloris hadn’t gone into cardiac arrest, or worse—experienced a vaginal prolapse mid-flight. Seriously, how much excitement can a vagina that’s been hanging around since the Eisenhower administration handle before it collapses on itself? Definity not a question that I needed answered. I also didn’t want the responsibility of scooping up her aging vagina off the galley floor with a safety information card while the thirsty passenger in 9C rang his call bell for another Sprite. Just in case, and because I have never been faced with pushing a woman’s vagina back inside her, I stopped at the overhead bin where my luggage was and grabbed my flight attendant manual. Whether or not there was a bullet point in the manual under the medical tab for such an emergency was a bridge I’d cross when the time came. Luckily, I never had to cross any bridges. What I did find was Cloris hovering over Gage like a helicopter bringing him things that he wasn’t asking for and didn’t need. I patiently waited for her in the galley and eventually she broke away from Gage and walked over to me.
"Cloris, he’s one man—not a Jewish family of five going on vacation to Orlando. He really doesn't need 17 cans of Sprite and 24 bags of nuts.”
Laughing it off she reminded me of the obvious, “He’s so hot. If I had the chance I’d take him into the lav and fuck his brains out.”
I threw coffee up in my mouth.
As disgusting as it was to hear her raspy vocal chords spew such nonsense, I couldn't help but laugh and feel the same way. Gage was a stud, and without even trying he made my sphincter dance the Macarena. No music needed. He had jet black hair, a chiseled face with a five o’clock shadow, and when he took time away from writing in his journal he flipped his hair to the side, gazed out of the window, licked his lips, and smiled. His teeth were so white and perfect I just knew he gargled with straight Clorox and spit right before he started foaming at the mouth. If he was a spitter I’d have to teach him what all Catholic priests teach their altar boys: only good boys who swallow go to heaven. Gage flipped his hair like he was on the red carpet with millions of his fans swooning over him. In reality, the only people drooling over him were me and Cloris and we couldn’t have cared less about his hair. This was an all-eyes-on-bulge situation. Unless he was hiding Trader Joe’s sausage links down his pants, he was happy to be on the flight.
When I am bored on a flight (which is most of the time unless someone is dying or we are moments away from crashing) I play this game where I like to walk down the aisle checking seat belts. I will admit I am not checking for anything but hard cocks and bulges. It’s the truth. I am not embarrassed or ashamed by this confession. We all do it. Well, I can’t speak for everyone but I can speak for the cock hungry flight attendants. It’s like masturbating. I am sure there will be a few prudish flight attendants who never admit to checking male passengers bulges but they do it. Most passengers may feel violated by this revelation but welcome to our world. We feel just as violated the moment you step into our galley and decide to yoga pose your fat ass in our Au Bon Pain salad.
Gage spent much of his time deep in thought. He chewed on the end of his pencil, stared out the window, and then wrote something down. I trie
d eavesdropping but he was very good at closing the notebook after jotting down a note. Maybe he was writing his number down to give me when he walked off the airplane? A total cock slap in Cloris’ face. The way this was going I’d end up getting his number but need maintenance to replace all the emergency flashlights on the airplane.
The more I watched him the more I sensed something wasn’t right. Like I’ve said before, I have the worst gaydar in the world. Helen Keller had better gaydar than I do and anal sex is part of my daily regimen. I am dead serious. Anal sex is my One A Day vitamin. Actually, at my age it’s more like One A Year, but who’s counting? The ability to pick out another gay guy goes beyond my reach and unless he’s in full drag—or trying to stuff me like a Christmas turkey—I am oblivious to his homosexuality. Liza Minnelli married a gay man and her gaydar is finer tuned than mine. I am either completely thrown off or blind to most advances by gay men. I believe most straight guys are gay, and when I do meet gay guys—unless they just wrapped up a production of Cats—I think they are straight. I’ve never been able to master my gaydar, which makes sense because I’ve had way more sex with heterosexual men.
I sat in my jump seat while Cloris was in the front lavatory. She gave me explicit directions, “Don’t look at my man.” The moment she locked the lavatory door I decided to keep at least one eye on him at all times. He knew I was watching him because whenever he looked up I’d turn my head fast. When we did make eye contact, I smiled and he refused to respond. That made me angry. I started having a five hour crush on him and daydreaming that he was my inflight boyfriend. I was no better than Cloris. I was no better than a whorish fly girl. I imagined roasting peanuts on the coffee pot hot plate for him, and using all the maxi pads in the lavatory to stitch together a perfect pair of couture slippers telling him, “Don’t worry about getting your feet wet with all the piss on the floor, your slippers will soak it up.” I sensed there was more queer coming off Gage than from the members of a gay marching band wrapped in rainbow flags, but that was just my inner desire. My gaydar was never accurate. He’d walk off the airplane and I’d never know if he was gay, straight. or transgender. The fact that he didn’t smile back made me lean towards transgender.
Cloris and I took our seats during our final descent into Seattle and the wetter his lips got, the hotter and moister she got. I was afraid she was going to combust and all I could think was, "Where the hell is that Halon fire extinguisher?" Oh right, it's under my seat. She was hotter than the most intense girl scout campfire which made me instantly crave s’mores. It was in that instant that I smelt something odd. The faint aroma of mothballs and Earl Grey tea surrounded me so I asked, “Are you British?”
“No. Why?” She responded but continued looking at Gage.
“Just curious.” I realized that Pablo wasn’t the only one who smelt a simmering vagina. Had he passed that along to me so many years ago while we stood in the galley talking about his “bitches?” More importantly—was I now Puerto Rican? If so, I’d fill out the paperwork for my food stamps and cancel my car insurance the moment I got to the hotel.
"Oh my god! He is so hot. I love everything about him,” she started fanning herself with her PA book, “I’m sweating so fucking bad."
I gave up worrying about her raping me with an emergency flashlight. Obviously, she’d be taking all the flightlights with her to the hotel and spend the night shooting morse code into her uterus. I had enough of this foolishness. As the airplane touched down I snapped, "Calm down. You’re a fucking mess. I can smell your uterus burning all the way over here."
She laughed out loud, “Do you think he can? I hope so.”
Airline Passenger Insanity
Flight attendants don't have the luxury of picking the passengers who travel on their flights. If we did, each seat would be occupied by someone sexy instead of asshole kids, crazy people, the elderly, or anyone requiring a wheelchair. Did I lose you at wheelchair? I apologize. There’s nothing wrong with someone dependant on a wheelchair, I just don’t want them on my flight. It’s simply too much work. Does that make me sound like a total raging bastard? I apologize, again. I’d honestly settle for passengers who actually read their boarding passes, say please and thank you, and take their anxiety medication before they arrive at the airport. If it's the fast-acting kind, they can even take it at the gate before they walk down the jet bridge. I don’t care.
Lunatics come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and religions. Even if a flight attendant makes eye contact with each passenger boarding the flight (good flight attendants always try to do that) crazy often slips by unnoticed. Not every wacky person looks like Crazy Eyes from Orange Is the New Black. A trip to the airport turns the calmest human being into a menace to society; a ticking time bomb waiting to explode at 38,000 feet—and always right before beverage service. Drama regularly happens once the flight attendants bring out the beverage cart. And why not? The most opportune time to start a riot on the airplane is when it’s humanly impossible for the flight attendant to get away from an attacker. I probably shouldn’t have said that. Forget that last sentence. I’m serious.
An airline passenger’s true insanity comes to a head when they arrive at the airport. If you don’t believe me just go to your local airport, find a seat, and watch the madness. Have you ever sat at the gate area and watched people swarm around waiting to board a flight? It’s thrilling. The biggest problem are large families on vacation, in particular parents with their three children, carrying car seats, luggage, personal items, and diaper bags trying to go on a family vacation to Disney World. It stresses me out just thinking about it, and I don't even have to take out my liquids or remove my shoes. I’ve probably watched more marriages fall apart working one flight to Orlando than Dr. Phil has seen in his television career. Why do they do this to themselves? They’re just asking for a horrible travel experience marked by so many failed expectations. No three year-old remembers meeting Mickey Mouse. At that age they barely remember not to shit themselves.
Human beings and chaotic airports are an emotionally toxic combination. If you’ve ever spent any amount of time at the airport you completely understand. My job would be easier if airports were empty. An empty airport sounds so attractive. No children yelling. No long lines for coffee. No wheelchairs running over your sore achy toes. There I go again with the fucking wheelchairs. Hopefully nobody from the ADA is reading this book. I realize a fully functioning abandoned airport is not possible but I’m taking a moment to daydream. Think about it: a deserted airport. Sounds lovely, right?
I’ve encountered countless stories and experiences throughout my years as a flight attendant; some my own and some shared with me on the jumpseat during long red-eye flights across the country. The idea of remembering them all is overwhelming. This book would be over 1,000 pages and there are enough ridiculous books that large (I’m talking to you, Bible). What I’ve retained in my memory are the experiences that I’ve laughed about and retold to friends over the years. The same stories that I am sharing in this book.
Like the flight I worked out of Jacksonville one morning when it was so fucking early my coffee hadn’t kicked in yet. I was in the front galley preparing oatmeal for breakfast. Nothing glamorous. I wish I carried eggs and bacon around in my tote bag, but I’ve been known to forget to pack underwear so there’s no way I’d remember scrambled eggs. We finished beverage service quickly (passengers are rarely thirsty that early in the morning) so I took the opportunity to scarf down my breakfast between call bells and questions regarding when we’d be landing and what body of water we were flying over. It’s usually Lake Idontgiveafuck. The precise location of this lake is lost to me but I am certain it was named by the Native Americans.
I quietly hid in the front galley from the judgemental eyes of the passengers in the first few rows. Seems like a shady move but it’s necessary. The second a flight attendant contemplates eating food, or stealing a moment for a drink of water to stay hydrated, a passenger undoubtedly require
s service. It never fucking fails. It’s as if they huddled together at the gate area prior to boarding to work out their game plan.
Skinny old lady in 1A: “Mildred, we need you to keep your eye on the fat bald one with glasses. The moment he attempts to drink or eat anything I need you… Mildred? Pay attention and put your croissant away. Like I was saying, when the fat bald one tries to eat, you ring that call bell.”
Mildred: “What if I don’t need anything?”
1A: “Doesn’t matter. Your job is to ring that call bell. And Bob…”
Bob: “Yeah. Right here.”
1A, “Every time he sits down you need to get up and use the bathroom. And stretch in the galley. That’s extremely important. You can’t stretch enough.”
I began stirring my oatmeal when I heard a strange clipping sound coming from the other side of the bulkhead. The bulkhead is what separates the galley from the rest of the airplane. Snap! Crack! Pop! Sounded like someone was deep into a box of Rice Krispies. I slowly peaked around the bulkhead to see a very beautiful dark-haired women in 1E attacking her feet with toenail clippers that resembled pruning shears. How did she get that weapon through security? Not the clippers but those sharp dagger demon nails. Those toenails belonged in the National History Museum attached to a life-sized Neanderthal mannequin, not on the feet of a passenger on my flight. This lady had the thickest toenails I'd ever seen on another human being. Each time she clipped one it pinged into the air like a rocket. She was a toenail ninja and I was afraid she’d put someone's eye out, or even worse, get one of those talons in my oatmeal. If I had crunched down on anything other than my spoon she would have gotten a face full of Quaker Oats. Her discolored nail clippings flew around like confetti—great if it was New Year’s Eve—but it was the middle of September and there were no balls dropping on this flight.
On a flight to an island in the Caribbean, a male passenger, probably in his early thirties, waited patiently in the back galley to use the lavatory. For reasons unknown to anyone with a functioning brain, he pulled out his dick and began pissing on the galley floor.
