We were at the airport early. Well, you couldn't blame my wife for pushing it. Just a couple of weeks ago, we'd been hearing horror stories from our cousins in Dallas who had barely made it through security in time to catch a flight to meet us in Florida. So, we had given it plenty of time. And of course, once we got there, there had been no line to check in our baggage, and no line at security, either. So we had a few hours to wait. It's not that there aren't things to kill an afternoon, at the airport. There are plenty of shops, plenty of restaurants, all just outside the security check-in. But, if we dawdled there, would a line develop in the meantime? It was not worth the risk. So here we were, at the gate, with nothing to distract us.
Now, Terminal C, which they spruced up a few years ago, is like a shopping mall. But Terminal B, the international departures terminal, is still a dump. Once you get past security, to the gate, there is nothing. Well, almost nothing. There's a duty free shop, a bar, a news stand with maybe one or two books to browse, just the same ones you would see in the supermarket. Oh, and the same magazines you see in a dentist's office, plus one or two skin magazines. The last thing I needed, at this point, was something to make me horny. We had an overnight flight ahead of us, and a few hours after that before we could get into our hotel. The prospects of convincing my wife to attempt to join the Mile High Club were not good. It was going to be well over twenty-four hours before the next opportunity for sex. And, of course, we had "stocked up" before heading to the airport. I looked at those scantily clad covers without a trace of interest.
Even though we were so early, there was a surprisingly large crowd in the terminal. It was still several hours before any of the European flights would board, but there was one to Montego Bay, supposedly taking off in less than an half an hour. But no one was boarding. There wasn't even an attendant at that podium. There were just a lot of passengers with that airport look to them. Not the bustling look that people have moving to the gate. Rather, the look of resignation that comes from waiting at the gate for a very long time. And, to make matters worse, there was no air in the place. It wasn't hot, but it was very humid, and it seemed as if there was no oxygen. Within a couple of minutes I had a dull headache.
Well, what do you do to kill three hours before you embark on an eight hour plane flight? Really, you are trying to put yourself into an altered state of consciousness, into trip mode. Lunch at the bar, that only killed half an hour, and the beer just made my headache worse. At least it gave me an excuse to wander to the restrooms. They were up by the security area, and there was a little breeze up there, but as you walked down closer to the gates you could smell how stale the air was. So I retreated, to use the water fountain. Not that I was particularly thirsty, after the beer, it just smelled better. It's pretty bad when the air is fresher around the baby changing station. There was a little one, right between the men's and ladies' room, and out of boredom I peeked inside. No babies, just a large, padded table, a sink, a toilet, and, strangely enough, a vending machine for condoms.
"Do you have a grandchild with you?"
A woman's voice startled me. It was a security guard, a large black lady who looked about as bored as I was.
"No, thank goodness." I didn't hear any babies crying in the waiting area. Hopefully, it would stay that way. It always seems like there is a screaming infant or toddler a couple of rows back on the plane, crying its lungs out because its ears hurt. "Just looking around. What's with the condom machine? Maybe it's a marketing gimmick? You have the baby with you, so it's a reminder not to have another one?"
"Maybe. But," the guard added, chuckling, "people make babies in there, too."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, I see people go in there all the time, with no baby in sight."
I gave her a long look. "There's not a camera in there, is there?"
That just provoked a shrug. "There are cameras everywhere, in this airport. Hey," she gave a hint of a smile, "if folks want to brighten up my day, that's their choice. Believe me, I've seen it all, over the years."
"Yeah, I suppose you have."
"I'm happy if they're not doing it right on the benches."
"Yeah, sure."
"Have a nice day."
"Yeah, you too."
So, what do you do to kill three hours at the airport? I look at people. I don't simply look at them, I try to look inside them. I look for clues, I try to figure out who they are, why they are at the airport (yes, I know, to catch a plane, but WHY are they trying to catch a plane?). Who are they traveling with? What's their mood? What do they do for a living? What do they like to read? Most important, if they are ladies, are they wearing underwear? It's not prying, is it? They're sitting right out in the open, waiting to be looked at. If they talk too loudly on their cell phones, what's the harm in listening to what they say? It's a habit I picked up years ago, during my road warrior days. But it's even more fun, with my wife along. It gives me someone to share my speculations with.
We had, more or less by accident, chosen a spot where there were some interesting people to look at. Well, it hadn't been entirely by accident. There was a blonde with a very short skirt seated near us, and I had spotted her from a distance and more or less steered us in that direction, hoping against all reason that she might have forgotten to wear panties to the airport. Fortunately, my wife had accepted my choice of seats without question, and now I had a nice view of tan, well muscled thighs, tantalizing hint of shadow above them.
"That's what we need," my wife whispered, and I thought, yes!, but she was pointing out, not the girl's lap, but the little device she was holding on it, squirming a little to show even more skin, not a trace of fabric yet to shatter my illusions. We usually brought at least one of our laptops along with us, but we had decided they were too bulky this time. I was already suffering from withdrawal.
"I think it's just a DVD player," I whispered back, but I wasn't looking at the technology, I was looking even harder at the girl. She was Sarah, the Goddess of my novels, in the flesh. Well, maybe a tad chunkier, but blonde, athletic, with that look of smoldering defiance. The look got a little hotter, as the departure time for the Jamaica flight got pushed back another hour. The couple next to her, who had been squirming in various erotic positions for a while, sighed and squirmed a little more.
"Look at her," I whispered, "she's can't wait to get out of that dress. She's not going to be wearing clothes for the next week, once she gets where she's headed."
"Okay, Sherlock Hemlock," my wife whispered, "tell me about those two."
"Those two are honeymooners. Look at the way they're all over each other. She's been rubbing her head on his lap, he's got his hand up her thigh. By now they expected to be in a hotel room with a nice big bed."
"Could be. Maybe they are married to other people and are off on a little fling?"
"Could be. Anyway, the last place they want to be in this airport. Of course, there's always the baby changing room."
"The what?"
"The baby changing room. That's what the guard said. People fuck in there all there all time." I might have been talking a bit too loudly, because my wife started to squirm. "Want to try it out?" I added, just to torment her.
"In your dreams," my wife answered. "I'm sure they have cameras in there. The last thing I want is to show up on the internet. Watch my things," she added, and she went off without further explanation. Well, there wasn't too far she could go. No need to worry.
I guess we might have been talking too loudly. The guy across from us whispered something in his lady's ear, and she giggled a little, then pushed him away. The two of them were sitting a little further apart now, and both of them were glaring at me. I couldn't move away too easily; my wife had left her bag on the seat beside me. And they showed no sign of moving, either. They were going to amuse themselves for a while by being mad at me. "Dirty old man," I heard the wife whisper. Well, fair enough, I suppose. But I felt myself blushing a little.
Nothing to read, nothing to do, except to continue my quest for the blonde's underwear, or lack thereof. Then I realized she had stopped looking at the screen of her DVD player, or whatever it was, and she was staring at me almost as hard as I had been looking at her.
"You're going to Jamaica?" I ventured. Now, understand, in my single days, long ago, I probably would never have had the nerve to strike up a conversation with someone like her. And, if I had, she would have given me that cold stare that beautiful young women use to protect themselves. But now, grey hair, that respectable, grandfatherly look, made me safe to talk to. Yes, now that it didn't matter, I had the Midas touch.
Sure enough, she smiled back. Apparently, she had not overheard anything about her wardrobe for the next week. "No," she sighed, "I'm not going to Jamaica, not at this rate. We were supposed to leave three hours ago. And my poor computer is almost out of juice. It was supposed to last me all the way down."
"Maybe you could recharge it?"
"I packed the fucking charger," she sighed. "It's in my luggage. At this rate, I'll never see it again. Or any of my fucking movies."
"At least," I sighed, "you have a computer. A nice little one. Can I see it?"
"Sure." She came over to sit down next to me. "You like to stare at people, don't you?"
"What?" That caught me off guard. It didn't even sound very friendly, although she was still smiling, a little.
"I'm sorry, was I staring at you? Really, I was looking at your little computer."
"Bullshit. You've been trying to figure us out ever since you sat down. You guessed the honeymooners. What about me?"
"What about you?" I took a deep breath. I was about to dive out into the unknown. No more nice safe grandpa. "You expected to be naked by now."
"What?" That caught her completely off guard. Or did it? For one instant I thought she was actually going to slap me, but then she thought it over, and gave me a little smirk I had a sudden suspicion that she really was not wearing anything under that dress, or not much, maybe a tiny, tiny thong.
I turned so I could get a better look at her. Up close, she was shockingly beautiful, perfect skin and dark blue eyes that made me abandon all caution. "You're headed to some place like Hedonism. You aren't planning to be wearing clothes for the next week."
"Could be," she said. "What else?"
