American Sex Fiend

I hate flying. The second the plane is airborne I picture midair collisions, engines bursting into flames, exit doors ripping off and vertical nose dives into the ocean where killer sharks are waiting to devour me. Having an overactive imagination isn't always a good thing but, as I reach Row 11, Seat F and come face to face with an exotic creature of unknown origin...my flight is looking a lot better.

I have uncanny luck booking seats next to beautiful women. Capitalizing on the good fortune is another story. There was Bambi of Bel Air who vacationed with her family in St. Barts and winced when I told her I live in North Hollywood. There was Elizabeth the USC grad who was shocked I'd never read Jean-Paul Sartre. "Yes, I did go to college," I kept reminding her. Now I was getting another chance.

"Excuse me...I think that's my seat."

"Oh yes," she replies with a thick accent. "Let me take other seat."

I smile politely and push past her to the window seat. I always prefer the window seat so I can monitor the amount of fire pouring out of the engines during a disaster.

I introduce myself and she tells me her name is Sachlia.

"Beautiful name...I've never known anyone with that name."

She nods with no clue what I'm saying. The plane lifts off and I forget to imagine it bursting into flames. We reach cruising altitude but Sachlia passes out. Oh well, at least I have time to think of witty material.

Hours later I snap out of a deep coma, wiping drool away from my mouth, hoping she isn't looking. I glance over and see her smiling shyly. There's an awkward pause.

"So are you from Portland or just visiting?"

"I visit family there." Oh that accent. It must be Brazilian. I pray that it is.

"Where are you from...originally?"

"I live LA but I from Iran." Wow, I was only 8,000 miles off. It crosses my mind that I might need to convert to Islam just to get laid. Having never dated a Persian woman, my curiosity is piqued but my bladder is full. I desperately need to hit the can.

I squirm in my seat asking mundane questions a limited English speaker can grasp. 30 minutes later I decide to make a move for the laboratory until I look down and realize I have a massive erection.



Only three things give me uncontrollable erections: having to urinate, being nervous, and women with foreign accents. Dealing with all three issues, I yank my shirt down as far as I can but the outline of my cock is still clearly visible. She probably thinks I'm some sort of American sex fiend, I think. I move the belt buckle over my package, careful not to attract attention downward.

I shut my eyes and think about baseball but there's nothing sexual about this erection. My dick's just...being a dick. Out of control and evil in nature it's punishing me for all the coffee I drank at Starbucks.

"Are jou okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, thanks. I just don't like flying." She has no idea what I'm saying and for some twisted reason that turns me on. Maybe I am a deranged sex fiend, damn it! No, no, block out those evil thoughts. Think of Jesus. He pops into my mind complete with beard and flowing robe but unfortunately he has a raging hard on too. Great, now I'm going to hell for sure.

Sachlia has a concerned look on her face. I'm no doubt scaring the hell out of her with an anxiety attack brought about from a massive rush of blood from my head to my...other head.

I grab a magazine, unbuckle the seatbelt and stand, using the periodical to hide my shame. I move past her then head towards the back of the plane. I get to the bathroom but there's a line of old ladies. I'm going to piss myself, I think. Then what will I do? I get to the bathroom and empty the content of my bladder in record time.

I make it back to my seat with renewed confidence and strike up more conversation. I manage to make her laugh and I'm starting to feel a boner-free connection with Sachlia. As the flight lands it's the moment of truth. Time to make a move but it has to be low key. This girl's probably been wearing a veil for most of her life. Giant erections might not be her thing. Luckily my penis is behaving once again.

"Hey have you ever been to LACMA?" I ask her. "The LA County Museum of Art?"

"Oh no but I love the art," she says.

"I go all the time," I say. (I've been once.) "They have a beautiful Persian art exhibit there." (Probably not.) "You should really see it," I suggest. "I'd be willing to take you."

"Really? I would like this."

"Well, let me get your number and we'll talk when you get back to town."

She writes down her number and hands me the piece of paper. I fold it in half, slip it into my pocket and smile.