Talleywhacker

"Sir."

"Hgggh." Jack's eyes opened. A sturdily built woman with shoulders like a linebacker hovered beside his seat, her hand on his shoulder. Her nametag said "Joan."

"Sir, I need you to bring your seatback forward for landing."

"Oh. Right." His ears popped. "Sorry.... Joan."

Jack Talley was old enough to remember when flight attendants were all hot, but too young to have nailed one. And this knowledge tormented him.

Jack wanted to fuck a real stewardess. Like the ones in those old '60s bedroom comedies, where Rock Hudson had his way with every fly girl in a skirt (who cares if off screen he was doing the pilots?). He pictured long layovers with sunny blondes named Inga in powder-blue suits, pillbox hats and white gloves. And slinky brunettes from Air France called Desirée with itches that needed scratching on every continent.

It was way too late for that, though. The age of free love was over; all the Ingas and Desirées were a distant memory of pre-AIDS political incorrectness. By the time Jack was old enough to ogle a stewardess with erotic intent, weight restrictions were out and seniority was in. Stewardesses became flight attendants and the airlines started hiring men, too. Rock would have been thrilled. But not Jack.

It wasn't just the Americans, either: His first trip to Copenhagen, Jack was shocked to find himself served on SAS by brittle, sun-dried bottle blondes halfway to melanoma. Air France was staffed exclusively by bitches with moustaches and enormous noses. Oh, sure, there were exceptions; there always are. But the exceptions sported big-ass diamonds purchased by big-shot pilot husbands. Nothing like a six-figure income and a quasi-military uniform to snag some choice pussy.

The whole situation was his parents' fault, obviously. If they hadn't been such zero population-growth freaks, Jack might have been born 10 or as many as 20 years earlier, thus mathematically ensuring at least the possibility of screwing a hot Pan Am stewardess in the lavatory on a long haul to Milan. The fact Jack existed at all was an accident – the failure of some under-the-counter birth control pills his mother bought in Tijuana. She saved a few dineros and ended up pregnant at age 41.

Bitter? Hell, yes, Jack was bitter. And another thing: What kind of dumb fucks for parents with the sappy Anglo-Saxon name Talley would call their kid Jack? Couldn't they have seen the playground chants of "Jack-Off Talleywhacker" coming from miles away?

Fortunately, he was a resilient young man, and by his senior year of high school, he'd turn the chant into a cheer: "Knick-knack, Tallywhack, this dawg's got a boner!" he'd howl at the girls at any social gathering. The girls would squeal, and his posse, the Dawgs, would bark their approval. Jack Talley was a varsity basketball star and homecoming king, the guy with what would later be called mojo.

But it was 1990, and no number of perky cheerleaders would ever equal the slutty stewardess that wasn't meant to be. Sure, Jack had had his share of mile-high encounters – but poaching naïve college students headed home for Thanksgiving was losing its thrill.

Jack felt the jet hop as the wheels bumped the tarmac. The overhead compartments shuddered as the engines reversed and the 727 slowed to an easy jog toward the terminal. He realized that the mere touch of a flight attendant, even one with the obvious seniority of Joan, had caused him to pop some serious wood. Deplaning would be interesting. He wondered what kind of porno he had on hand at home.

On cue, Joan's voice blared from the overhead speaker. "Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of your Seattle-based flight crew, let us be the first to welcome you to Sea-Tac International Airport. The local time is 8:35 p.m. Please remain seated until... blah, blah, blah – you know the drill." Jack appreciated the attempt at humor.

He watched Joan stand at the cockpit door as me made his way down the aisle Sure, Joanie was more than a little past her prime now, but 20 years ago – he tried to imagine her graying, dyke-cut hair in its natural auburn waves, her sagging boobs still resistant to gravity, her ass ... well, truth be told, he always did like an ample ass, so he wouldn't change much down there.

Hell, 20 years ago, 15 even, this lady might have been the hottest ball-buster on the New York-Paris route.

"Thanks for the great service," he said with his hand extended. She took it, somewhat surprised.

"Thank you for flying with us, sir."

Jack leaned closer, to whisper in her ear, "Y'know, I bet 20 years ago, you were seriously fuckable. Even today, you got me hard. Well done."

As her jaw hit the floor, a self-satisfied Jack Talleywhacker and his boner exited the plane.