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Jill’s Got Nothing on me Part II — By Mack

Jill’s Got Nothing on me Part II — By Mack

Continued from part 1. Go read it!

Our plane lands in Chicago and I check my mobile boarding pass to find the gate of my connecting flight. I’ve been mentally gearing up to weave through passengers and dashing down the terminal so as to make my connecting flight with its narrow layover time. All of a sudden, my boarding time has jumped from 1:15pm to 8:30pm.

I gave my in flight entertainment one last kiss and told her I had to figure this shit out. To which she replied, “I hope my plane isn’t delayed.” It didn’t even occur to me she might be on the connecting plane too. But I was already gone. My target, the LED departures schedule.

Flight                               UA 1125                                       LAX                            Cancelled

Shit, so that’s why there’s an insanely long line in front of the United Airlines customer service counter. As I wait, a certain someone ends up in line behind me. She was speaking in her faux British accent again. “How can I my flight be cancelled? My manager is going to shit a brick. My shoot is at 6!” Was she really a model after all or was she just keeping the ruse up? As she had a mini tantrum with her manager on the phone, I notice everyone at the counter having little tantrums with their customer service agents. So when I finally get to counter I take a different approach.

Airline travel brings out the worst in people after standing in security lines, sitting in close spaces, playing absurdly high prices for bottled drinks, and fighting for wall sockets to recharge their iPhone/laptop. When the plane schedule messes up, that triggers the already stressed travelers to lash out. For these customer service agents, their 9-5 is bearing the brunt of this frustration.  “Hi.” I said with a smile mixed with a little bit of worry, for disarming’s sake.

Before I know it I’m ticketed on a 2:30 flight in business class. But then I see my friend arguing with her counter service agent, same as everyone else. I approach. They’ve put her on a 6:10 flight out. Using my charm I ask the agent why he can’t get her on my flight and tell him the flight number. The agent is perplexed as if I’d shown him an oasis in the desert.

He switches her flight and British? model girl can’t believe it. For the next hour we talk and she starts showing me pictures of her shoots on her face-cracked iPhone. “You have to sit next to me on the plane. I hate flying so much,” she pleads. “Maybe you can ask the person sitting next to you to switch.” She has no idea I’m in business class and that there’s no one in the world who’d trade 7B for 35E.

If I give the bloke next to her my seat, it will set a precedent I’m not comfortable with. I’m not willing to give up my awesome seat to sit with some girl that my instinct tells me is an attention hungry cock tease, used to having men spend money on and bend backwards for. Maybe if this were a cute girl next door who lived in New York that I could have a future with. But at the same time, I do feel cold  casting her off to the back of the plane as I enjoy my free drinks and extra legroom.

We board the plane and my seat is even better than I expected. There are plenty of seats open in business class. I approach the flight attendant and tell him that I was traveling with a friend. “When our plane got cancelled and we were rescheduled for this flight, they split us up.” He tells me I have to go to the attendant outside the gate and get him to switch it. I do what he suggests but this gate counter guy won’t even look up from his terminal when he tells me, “I’m sorry, it’s too late. Go back to the plane and sit down so they can close the doors.” My phone buzzes with a text message from British? girl. “Where r u? Seat next to me is empty. :)”

I go back to the flight attendant and tell him the guy at the gate was a douche. The attendant replies with, “Okay. Sit down, let me close the doors, see if the other business class passengers arrive. I’ll find you before we take off.” I sit there waiting, anxious. Another text buzzes my phone. “I dont wanna be alone for take off.” I text back. “I’m working something out. Got a trick up my sleeve.”

Finally the flight attendant returns. “Okay, I can do this, but you’ve got to give me your credit card. Everyone has to think you’re paying for the upgrade or I’ll get in trouble. I’m going to run it, but I won’t charge you anything.” I hand him my card and he swipes it handing me back a blank receipt. I go back to British? and tell her to come with me. She’s pretty blown away when I show her her new seat.

We spend the flight drinking shots of Jack Daniels and Bud Lite, holding hands, and drawing lewd pictures on my legal pad. And maybe a few other things. She said she’d never heard of the mile high club before. Much like her hair, breasts, and accent it was another thing of hers I didn’t believe. But I didn’t care.

—Big Mack Attack

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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Jill’s Got Nothin’ on Me — By Mack

We all have heard about Jill’s amazing but suspiciously lezzy luck on her flight to Seattle. But I’m here to tell you, next to me, she’s…I don’t know, something that’s not that lucky. So I’m on this plane to visit my brother. He just had his first kid. I know I’m an uncle now. Uncle Mack, I like the sound of that.

I’m thumbing through the American Way when I notice this girl in the row ahead of me checking me out between the seats every so often. From what I can tell she’s got an immature fire to her. The type of recklessness that would piss someone off just to do it.

“I like your ring.” I didn’t. It looked like something you’d get from a Cracker Jack’s box. But I needed to open the conversation. “Thanks. I like your necklace.” She responded with a smile. Side note. I’m very proud of my necklace. It has two pendants.  One a cross. The other a crescent moon.  People always take a second glance thinking it’s a Muslim symbol. Upon further inspection observers notice the facial feathers that make it resembles something out of a “Hey diddle diddle,” picture book. But it never fails to start conversation.

I let her continue to crane her neck back and talk to me between her seats. The barrier creates safety, but the fact that she’s inconveniencing herself to talk to me is proof she into me, or at least I’m most interesting thing in her immediate proximity.  Strangely enough for a “very full flight,” she is seated next to the lone unoccupied seat on the plane. After the drink cart passes, I depart my seat and go to sit next to her.

In addition to tattoos on her forearms and one behind her ear, she’s also drawn all over wrist in black marker. She’s dressed in tight black jeans, a red tank top, and her hair has a crimson highlight steak in the front. This girl’s got a short attention span. If I don’t keep it interesting, she’ll be done with me in a matter of seconds.

We talked family, jobs, the usual, and I could tell I was losing her. That’s when I noticed her accent was inconsistent. I never really bought her faux british tone. But now she was just going in and out of it. But I didn’t point it out. Then she declared she had 12 bothers and sisters. She rattled off names I suspect she pulled out of thin air. Then I said, “I didn’t quite catch that. Could you name them again.”  To which she refused.

Don’t get me wrong, I generally don’t lie to women, I really don’t. I don’t even embellish. But now it was clear I was dealing with a bullshitter in a bullshitty situation and as Tyler Duden put it, she was “single serving friend.” And, “If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?” So why not? With my hand on her thigh told her I was an accomplished artist and that I’d love to draw her. It was cheezy as all hell but she smiled and said, “Well that’s a good thing cause I’m a model.” I almost laughed my ass off but then we hit a patch of turbulence.

She immediately went into my arms pressing her eyes shut. It was the first truthful moment I had with her.
“I hate flying,” she confessed in an American accent.  After the plane righted itself out she look up at me, vulnerable for a moment, and I went into kiss her. When we pulled away, she was back into full facade, British accent and all and protested, “I never do things like that.” To which I replied, “Neither do I.”

It gets better….to be continued.

—Big Mack Attack

 
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Posted by on September 18, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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That was good, this was better. –By Jill

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I guess I’m on some sort of luck streak. I thought the garbage bag of was a freakin’ God sent, that’s nothing compared to what happened at JFK. (I’m flying home to Seattle to see some wonderful friends.)

As I wait through the gargantuan security line ahead of me there seems to be an express line which is only available to people who waited to arrive at the airport 2 minutes before their plane started boarding. I got to JFK mega crazy early. I don’t miss plane flights and am content playing my 3DS for hours at the gate. But my fellow passengers aren’t so content seeing foreigners in broken English plead with the TSA agent that they’re going to miss their flight. Tensions rise and for some reason a 10 year-old throws up.

Eventually one of the TSA agents cave (something I’ve never seen) and switches one of the two check points over to the express line. Meaning that gargantuan line I’m in now only has one person processing boarding passes. I continue to watch tension around me approach a boiling point. The newly cordoned off check point finally lightens the load leaving my line still congested but an otherwise unused station for metal detector preparation wide open.

Maybe it was my relaxed demeanor (brought on by that bottle of wine I finished before my shuttle) or just my cute smile, but I politely asked the TSA agent if it mattered which metal detector line I went though. He unclasped the elastic barrier and ushered me into the empty line. Booya!

But it didn’t stop there. Flash forward a few hours. I’m in my row 28 C seat (that’s back of the plane by the bathroom/aisle seat) when the drink cart pulls out. Now my favorite drink in the world is club soda/seltzer and for some reason air plane drink carts tend to have only 2 the whole flight. So by the time they get to me I’m S.O.L. With the cart pushed all the way passed me to the front of the cabin, one of the flight attendants, (middle aged, but not yet bitter by old age, she could have been my 3rd grade teacher) walks to the back towards me. I grab her attention and ask her if she’d save me one of the limited club sodas. I know she heard me, but this request seemed to be out of her realm of possibility. She doesn’t respond so much, as she turns away and returns to the cart.

I figure “oh well” and return to my Kindle. About 2 minutes later, she comes back with a full can of club soda and a cup of ice. I feel guilty as the looks of the other passengers glare at me (the drink cart is still about a dozen rows ahead of us).

When the drink cart finally does get to us. Said same flight attendant inquires to my English limited row mates about what condiments they’d like in their coffee/tea. After that debacle of misunderstanding, I ask how much one of the liquor bottles are. Her reply, “how many do you want?” She and I exchange a spark of a glance. I’m about to become a partner in crime and I have no idea why. I simply respond “Two. Jack,” and she slips two bottles of Jack Daniels into my front seat pocket and moves on. “Let me know if you need ice or some more later.” She winks and moves on and I’m dumbfounded.

I’ve had guys buy me drinks and honestly I’ve never felt guilty not even talking to them afterwards. It’s their job to charm or whatever me. If I’m not in the mood to put up with their pick up shit, that’s their sleazy fault. But this…I was confused. What did she want? Did she like me? Was she just being nice? Is the cosmic balance of the universe simply rewarding me for putting up with a year of shit in New York? Or did she want something? I’m sure many guys have lesbian stewardess fantasies and even a few girls like myself. But I’m not the type.

In the end I figured fuck it. If she liked me, let her make her case. There was always the thank you but no thank you, response. I was going to just leave the bottles in the seat pocket, but then I figured if someone found it she might get in trouble. I took them with me and so far on this awesome Seattle trip they’re still in my bag. As for the somewhat sexy cougar lesbian flight attendant? I simply got a wink and an enjoy your stay on the way out.

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Posted by on July 29, 2012 in By Jill

 

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