Maggie and Me - How I Met Maggie

I am sitting here trying to slog my way through what is a thinly veiled attempt at literature when I look up and about 100 million dollars in modeling talent is 12 feet away, soundly asleep, in what most normal people would call a luxurious recliner. We are about 60 thousand feet or so above the Atlantic ocean on our way to London.

How does a nobody like me rate a free trip in a Gulfstream to London? How the hell does a nobody like me get introduced to the director of a 60 Minutes segment as "My bestie, Georgie" by the focus of that same segment?

I got here because I got a text that read (aside here, texts don't usually SAY a fucking thing) London awaits, pick you up in 2.......

You want proof that the world is a fucked up place and life is totally unfair? I get personal texts from a super model. A fucking super model that gets flown around in private jets and gets one or two hundred thousand just for showing up. And lucky me she likes to take me with.

Back to my real reason for being. I am an editor (aside: ok assistant editor but fuck you) trying my best to get through something that has like zero chance of ever getting published. I always push all the way through because starting out I was given something that my boss had skimmed and hated. It took me two days to suffer through the first three chapters. Later, while taking a shit, I picked it up again and it got better. By the end if was great.

My boss worked through the beginning with the author and this past winter we gave her a 500 K advance on book 6. So yeah mother fuckers, I now grind my way through to the bitter end with everything I am given.

But this mess, yuck. I put it down and get another beer and sit to once again study one Margret McDermott Morton. She is easy to look at. Even for a hopelessly hetro girl like me. And no you fucking perv we have nover gotten together. Not even a kiss. Well a real kiss. She has no makeup, put down 3 bourbons and s sound asleep. She s fucking beautiful even now. And people that only see that part of her they don't get to know just how beautiful she really is.

I sit back at some 600 miles per hour and day dream back to how little me got to meet the even then famous teenaged sensation Maggie Morton some 5 years ago.

My best friend in high school was Jennifer Wilson. She was tall and thin, almost painfully so, and I was... well I was the opposite. Our loving classmates called us hot dog and hamburger. We were all we had as friends and were always together.

Without getting into too much of the gore that is high school for unpopular girls I will simply say that she called me out of the blue to say that she was coming to the city and could I pick her up at the airport. I had to explain to her, what with her being, as I once was, a hopeless suburbanite from Massachusetts, that I neither owned nor did I have access to anything even resembling a car because I lived in FUCKING NEW YORK CITY..

So blah blah, this fucking story is too long already because everyone is only interested in Maggie, she was there because she won an audition as a model. When I met her at the airport I didn't recognize her. The years after high school had been extremely kind. Twenty two years old and every-fucking-body turned to look at her as she walked by.

Anyway blah blah blah I accompany her to the audition and the agency accepts her and then one of the secretaries just randomly hands us tickets to a fashion show that afternoon. More blah blah and Jennifer is in heaven and I am suffering through fashion shit that I could never wear and more than likely no one would even contemplate letting me wear. Next thing fast forward to the after party and we are sitting with..... you got it, the young and beautiful edition of Maggie Morton and two other established models.

Not that the present edition of Maggie isn't even more beautiful. And yes I have a girl crush on her and again fucking NO we have never been together sexually so shut up.

My friend Jennifer was over the moon and even I had heard of Maggie. So we are all getting along famously and I wander off to find the ladies and 5 minutes later Maggie comes across me, on my knees giving that super cute waiter "the best blowjob I ever had" (aside: his words not mine, although I have been told that my lips and tongue are magical).

So the night ends and we all leave together because they are going to graciously give us a ride home in their limo. All is going only so so because Maggie keeps glaring at me. Finally she can't take it any more and blurts out, "You are fucking blowing a waiter next to the restrooms, seriously."

Shit, I guess I did make an impression on her. I just shrugged and Jennifer looked at me like I had just chopped up baby Jesus with a fire axe. The other two models are not even paying attention because they have a bottle of champagne that they walked out of the place with. (aside: if two well know fashion models choose to walk out of an establishment carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses, no one is going to stop them. No one.)

Maggie rains all over me until they drop us off Poor Jennifer is mortified and I am like, 'I should have told that stuck up bitch to fuck off'... or worse. It is like 2 or 3 AM and I finally get Jennifer into my apartment and we go to bed. I arise at 6 AM and I am later walking to my office at 8 when I get a call.

It is none other than her highness Maggie Morton and she is all like.... 'I feel so bad. I was out of line. Let me take you to lunch at Maximus. How does 1 sound.'

I say ok but on the rest of my walk to work I am perplexed about two things. How the FUCK did she get my cell number and more importantly how is she gonna get us into Maximus the day of.

Oh wait... she's fucking Maggie Morton.

Ever have one of those moments when you are thrust into a situation where you feel like you are so small you could sit on a razor blade and dangle your legs off the edge and then suddenly you are royalty?

I get to Maximus, never been to the place but of course heard a lot about it, walk in and I get a blast of arctic air from the hostess like, "How could I possible help YOU?"

Then from behind me I hear, "Oh there you are."

Maggie Morton walks in and pretends to know you and all of a sudden the bitch can't do enough for you. Anyway, more blah blah blah, Maggie is all apologetic and gushing about how fun you are and next thing you hear is....

"I am going to Paris this afternoon, wanna go with?"

Fuck yes. And oh by the way, you can feel free to shit all over me on the way there and back about my physiological need to suck off every dick on the planet.

So I throw shit in a small carry bag and get picked up by a limo at 3 and at exactly 4:41 I was blasting off headed east over the Atlantic...... in a private jet,,,,, with a fucking super model.

At this point let me tell you about my vast experiences flying in airplanes. I had seen them flying over my house as a kid and I might have even paid attention to them. I had seen several of them at JFK as I rode in a hire car to pick up an author. Up to this point... never been in one.

Oh, I forgot to mention the panic that set in as Long Island Sound was rapidly vanishing beneath us. Since I had never been further north than Nashua or further south than Atlantic City in my entire life, guess what I didn't have. A fucking passport. Well shit, might as well enjoy the flight over and let the shit fall where it may when we get to France. At least I can tell people I was at the airport and all about my subsequent arrest.

It was just Maggie and me on that plane and we sat across from each other as the plane 'attained altitude' (aside: see I learn fast about shit). Maggie asked me if I wanted a drink and me being the very high class bitch that I am said, "sure a beer would be nice"

Yeah I like beer and dicks, so sue me.

She got up and came back with a Stella for me (aside: always a good choice) and a brown liquid on the rocks for her. This was the first inside lesson that I learned about Maggie. Bourbon was always the first choice but a good whiskey was acceptable, but never, fucking NEVER, wine or champagne. And you had better have the strength of an elephant and the resolve of a Buddhist monk if you wanted to try to get beer into her mouth.

She took a sip of her bourbon and smiled at me and said, "So tell me about Georgia Hale. And don't hold back about your fascination with cocks."

OK, thing number two about Maggie Morton. She had a foul mouth. She had the way to look and come off as the most prim and proper straight laced girl but she was a seasoned pro that could hang with anyone.

Choosing not to bother her about the minutia of me not having a passport and no way to actually get into France once we landed I opened up about myself. I told her how I was raised in a kind and loving home by dedicated parents whose only real down side was that they had a hard time showing their emotions. While they were always supportive they weren't huggers and not ones to show a lot of emotion. Either negative or positive.

While my childhood didn't contain a lot of what some would see as love and affection I had a safe, secure and well nurtured upbringing. My only problem or issue from my upbringing was that I was, and this was by a lot, the least productive in a family of over achievers. Mom was a college professor, dad ran an auto repair shop and was a mechanical wizard at most everything. Then the oldest son, well he was mensa level that was deans list at MIT.....

"Wait," said Maggie stopping me. "How old is your brother?

"I dunno he would be like 25 or 6 now," I answered.

"Because MY fucking older brother went to MIT," she said dialing her phone. "What's his name?"

Wait do those things work at like 60 thousand feet? And his name is Jason. And NOT Jay. He hates Jay.

As she is talking to her brother I ventured to the back of the small plane to see if Stella has a sister.

"Our fucking brothers knew each other at school," Maggie said hanging up her phone.

"Well it is nice to know we both have fucking brothers," said I offering a toast with my freshly opened Stella.

And that was the way the first hour of my first ever airplane trip went. I learned that Maggie Morton and I had remarkably similar family situations. The rest of our child hoods had precious little in common as she was a runway star at 15. Me, nothing worth mentioning. Ok I did play clarinet in the school band. With Jennifer of course. Neither of us was very good and the only thing I put in my mouth these days is.... well you know.

Maggie announced that she was going to go in the back and take a nap. Thing three about Maggie Morton. When she goes to sleep she is out. She can sleep anywhere in anything and is dead to the world. I suppose a spotlessly clean mind can do that for a girl.

Me? I don't sleep much. I lie down and there is so much shit rattling around the noise alone keeps me awake. On a good night I might get 3 or 4 hours.

As I am sitting there wondering what to do, the co-pilot stops by and, pointing to the back, announces that he is going to join her for a nap. He offers me the chance to sit in the cockpit with the pilot.

I think why not. And maybe now you are thinking, 'ok knowing her history, she probably goes up and gives the pilot a blow job in the cockpit..... ok it is after all a COCKpit.

But no, you chauvinistic mother-fuckers, the pilot was a woman. Ha!

OMG there were buttons gauges and levers everywhere, but the pilot smiled and motioned for me to sit in the second seat. She was an interesting and ruggedly attractive woman, about 40 or so.

"If you don't mind, how did you wind up knowing her," she finally said as she motioned to the back of the plane.

I went through the whole tale, and yes I included the part about having a waiter's cock in my mouth because pride is definitely one of my vices (aside: is pride a virtue or a vice?). Then I added, "Don't say anything because I don't want to be the authors of any stories about her."

She smiled and said," Don't worry about that. You get at all mouthy in this line of work you get run out of it pretty damned fast."

We toasted with my warm beer and her cold coffee and she graciously explained the inner workings of a Gulfstream jet. Most of which was either way over my head or totally forgotten in less than 60 seconds.

"Is being a pilot like this as awesome as it seems," I asked.

"This gig is awesome," she said with a huge smile. "Because she wants to come back right away we get to stay in Paris for the trip back. A free little vaca."

"What do you do," she asked?

"You mean other than sponge free rides to France like you," I joked back? "I am an editor. I read shit for a living."

"There must be some good stuff."

"Oh yeah. And when you get one it can be very profitable. At least for my boss and the company. But you have to sift through a lot of dirt to find a gold nugget."

"What do you read for fun?"

"Are you fucking kidding me. I read for hours. When I am away from work the last thing I am doing is picking up a fucking book."

"Fair point."

The co-pilot came back and offered her a coffee or a nap. "I'm good" she said as she snatched the coffee.

I left them to their domain and went back into the cabin to get another beer bypassing the manuscript I had foolishly brought along thinking that I would waste any time at all actually working. I also bypassed the urge to get another drink and sat in a chair and looked at her sleeping there and said to myself, "Georgia Hale, what the fucking hell are you doing here."

Damn this chair is comfortable. I was asleep in 60 seconds.

The next thing I knew the co-pilot was gently waking us to go back to the other chairs and buckle up as we would be landing in 10 minutes.

Ok so for anyone who has not flown the only way a civilized person should fly let me explain the process. There is NO check in. There is no security there is no nothing. The jet lands and taxi's to an hangar away from the main terminal where a limousine awaits. You get off the plane and into a car and in a half hour you are in a French restaurant having a late light dinner with a super model and a well know fashion designer.

Passports, those are for peasants I suppose.

And that my friends is how a nothing girl like me meets an icon and winds up in Paris for free. How she becomes her bestie? That happens after some shit, serious and otherwise, gets seriously crazy.

Oh and just so you know. I would rate the dick of that seemingly aloof French waiter as about average, while that designer's assistant was definitely an A plus. And he managed to cum three times. Oh boy, lucky little me.

See you all next time. I have a flight to catch and another manuscript to read.