Mile High Fail

That awkward moment when...
your body is sent up-
ward in the transportation made
by human innovation to
travel as the bird does.

Sitting in the third seat,
I antisocially fail to smile as
the stranger-- the
other passenger-- comes
to lay claim to
the seat adjacent to
my own. At first complacent, I
prepare for my lame nap
--long anticipated-- however, I
am struck by a notion, perhaps not terribly clever, to
embark on an endeavor that
I had perhaps never thought
to attempt before. Fluttering my lashes to
the position that
flirts and gnashes with
the notion of
sleep, but never succumbing to
its' numbing full-
body effect. I nuzzle close
toward the stranger, who becomes a puzzle to
me the closer I near him.

The touching begins with the atmosphere; I
have edged blatantly towards
his body, away from my window-- thus
confirming, passive-aggressively, my
quasi-sexual intentions. But is the vibe a go? How
am I to know?

The next touch-- nothing taboo for
a crowded plane-- advances to
the thigh. I peek with nervous glances in
order to observe his reaction, or
lack thereof. Thigh to thigh, and no apparent distraction, nor
is there further action from
his initiative neither-- save
his failure to
reject my gesture. But
is there a significant other in
his life? does he or she matter enough to
him anyway? Am I treading in waters rough or
silky smooth? The

subsequent touch
gave way to no more truth, and
failed to soothe the
mounting sexual tension. An eloquent graze
of arms, they collided ever so lightly just a-
bove the armrest, hinting at, ever so slightly, lust and
desire. But
is there truly a mutual fire? Or
is this stranger merely too nice to
request that the intrusive girl
asleep beside him keeps to herself? But perhaps I entice him
with my touch and he simply isn't highly responsive due
to his timid nature
or the awkward airplane setting that stifles-- and
intensifies the overwhelming absurdity of-- this venture for
a quasi-sexual connection? Perhaps these trifles are
too silly to even entertain? Why
should I desire a stranger on a plane? Am
I truly that insane? With

no motion forward or
backward, our
knees' knock in
to each others; they clonk-- a
bit awkwardly at first, but
it eventually feels nice-- not the worst of
feelings anyway. But
is there anything I should say? Or
should I continue the silence? As
always, the awkwardness ensues. But hence, an

additional movement leaps
from my hand, as my forearm slips-- bent-- off
of my lap, and my pinky strokes--
slowly, but
surely-- the
side of his upper thigh. Kinky? My
mind swirls into its' now typical state
of doubt and confusion, with a cyclical rise
and fall of "what-if" scenarios. With
knees and thighs and arms touching-- and
various thoughts
clutching my
logos, my
ethos, and
my pathos-- I

venture on
to capture his
foot and intertwine it
with mine. Through
out this endeavor, I dare not
allow my eyes to sink south and stare at
his shoes and my feet, as
they repeatedly collide, separate, and again meet. Then
finally my hesitance calms
and no resistance is
put up from his side, so
I allow my toe to slowly slide up
and down his canvas shoe,
sometimes skimming flirtatiously with
the seam of his pants-- my compass for
where I stop, lest I feel courageous. And

though I am moved by his sex-appeal, the
necessary courage is a trait I
do not feel. So
in a stale-mate, I
am stuck in this situation-- an
ambiguous opportunity to fornicate or
not to fornicate-- of which I am guilty of the creation. What
should I do? And
who should
I turn to? I
am utterly at
war with myself-- entirely spent
by the stress of
the mess I
have strewn about myself. Now

placing my horniness back on the shelf, I
withdraw my limbs that
held his touch and the slim, but
possible, chance that
a further advance would
ensue. Tis over now, this airplane dance that
never led on to a legitimate romance...doubt.