Author's Note: A few years back, when this was written, Tonya was the hot, white-trash celebrity slut de jour. There's a lot of heart, and a lot of personality, in that tough little bod, and her fans are legion. Enjoy, and your comments/votes/contact are very welcome.
***********
The young woman seated next to me really wasn't much of looker. Sort of white-trashy, I thought, with her stone-washed jeans, odd-colored fake nails, and cheap perm job. I wondered why someone like this was flying First Class. She smiled at me, and I returned the smile, but then she dove into her book, and I went to work on my laptop.
We didn’t begin conversation until the attendant offered us mixed drinks, and we both ordered a Cosmopolitan, a vodka-cranberry-juice-Cointreau-lime concoction that had been popularized by “Sex and the City” and was the hot new drink in NYC (where we were flying from to San Francisco). We exchanged a few words about what a tasty libation it is, and each ordered another with dinner.
Relaxed and settling in for a long flight, we began chatting and learning about each other – although my seatmate seemed to enjoy talking more than listening. This I didn’t mind much, because she had a pleasant, strong voice -- not trashy or heavily accented.
She revealed her identity slowly, informing me that she was a professional ice skater, no longer competing. When I stared, obviously trying to place her face, she then said, in a confidential whisper, “I’m Tonya Harding.”
The grin on my mug let her know that I didn’t find this revelation distasteful. To the contrary, I expressed great interest in learning everything I could about what it’s like to be Tonya Harding. And she told me.
As the cabin lights were dimmed and most of our co-passengers drifted off to sleep, we talked nonstop, sipping on a couple of Coronas, which only served to lubricate the conversational wheels.
I work in professional sales, and so I am a skilled interviewer and listener. This combination led to Tonya sharing intimate details of her life that I’m sure the most intrepid reporters couldn’t dig up.
We were getting to be old friends when the subject of her X-rated home video surfaced. At this point, Tonya, obviously drunk and unabashed, moved her face within an inch of mine and, with a giggle, whispered that she’s made more money from the sale and distribution of that video than from all her years in competitive skating. At first, she was upset about its release, but when she saw the moola streaming in, it wasn’t such a bad tradeoff.
I asked her how she felt about total strangers viewing her naked body and watching her get it on with her ex. She said, for her, it wasn’t so different from an audience watching her skate in those sexy outfits – and she was sure that plenty of people, both sexes, got turned on and fantasized about her just from looking at her clothed.
I joked that she was a “cocky little tart,” and she laughed loudly. We stared at each other for several seconds, then, in a disembodied voice, I confessed that I would enjoy seeing that video VERY much.
“Yes,” she giggled, “I’m sure you would.” She dropped her hand into my lap, giving my thigh a playful squeeze and, at the same time, rubbing her shiksa nose against mine. I felt my heart pounding, and I knew I had to taste her sweet red lips. We kissed lightly … once, twice. Then she pulled me toward her, mashing our mouths together, thrusting her tongue against mine and exploring my mouth.
We made out like a couple of horny teenagers. Taking a breather, I whispered, “What’s in that tape anyway?”
“Everything,” she said.
“Everything?”
“Do you like sucking?” she breathed in my ear.
“Yes.”
