Triple D Deb Takes An Airplane Trip

Dear... well, I don't know what to call you so I am just going to say "you." Dear You: I cannot believe I got on that plane. Just after the doors closed, I had almost decided to jump up, fake an illness, and back out. I was ready to do that when I felt the little thud that tells you the plane has started to back up from the gate.

Trapped. But the thud either caused or coincided with a tingle between my legs. The excitement of what I was about to do was talking to me. It was saying: "Hello. I am your excitement, and I'm coming with you on this trip. You didn't forget and leave me at home, like you may have thought."

Then I did what you said. I used that tingle against my panic. The fact that it worked - not completely, but it did work - gave me confidence that you knew what you were doing.

Which is weird because I was the one doing it. I was the one crossing my legs and bouncing my ankle to keep the current flowing as the plane sat on the runway. I was the one closing my eyes and squeezing pleasure from my helpless position in 22E. I was the one who called up from memory the dead calm in your voice when I phoned you earlier today and tried to back out the first time, before I caught the cab to the airport and got on this flight. I thought you would tell me, "You can't do that, you promised. We made plans!" It was a shock to hear you say, "Well, of course you can do that. You can change your mind. It's no good unless you choose it."

I was the one who floated on that calm in your voice to the bathroom in the back of the plane so I could try one of the "exercises" you gave me. Standing in front of the mirror with the top button on my jeans undone and my hand shoved inside, thinking about our - which is really your - plan.

I did those things. You weren't on the plane with me. And yet each one gave me confidence in you. Because your little tricks succeeded. You said don't fight the fear. Coat and soften it with excitement. I did that. You said find men on the flight that you could look at with lust. I did that too. You said (I think this is your exact phrasing) "find pretty women with flat chests and smile inside at how big you are." That one really worked. Especially when they smiled their B-cup smiles back at me, cluelessly. "Sizing up," I called it. It was fun. And I found myself looking at triple-d me through your eyes, approvingly. Nice trick.

Also, it was brilliant the way you asked me to bring things to dress them up in, because what happened is what you said would happen. I start planning my outfits on the plane: what I would wear when I met you in the hotel bar after checking in and going to the room you arranged for me. What I would change into the first time you told me to slip into the bathroom and come out with a new look. What I would pick if you told me to "go younger."

By telling me to pack six bras, six tops, six sweaters, three skirts, three pairs of pants, right there I had 1,296 combinations (if my math is right, is my math right?) and that does not count the four pairs of shoes I brought, all the underwear, stockings, garter belts, camisoles. The string of pearls. With so many ways to present myself to you, I of course began to wonder which ones would "work." And inside that feeling was something I recognized: how badly I wanted to please you with all that I brought. With all that I have.

I didn't get a chance to see the pilots until I left the plane, but, following those instructions, I winked at the silver-haired one and then pranced up the jetway with a completely obscene image in my mind. You had put it there, but I chose it. That's the way you operate, isn't it?

When I got to the terminal, located the restroom, and closed the door of the stall behind me, I discovered the evidence for how well your "coat and soften" had worked. There was lot of evidence! I lingered in it. Then I washed my hands, though I didn't want to. I had to, because I had to keep following your instructions.

That's what I'm doing now. I'm sitting down outside gate A12 with my laptop and my reluctantly cleansed fingers to type this email, because you told me to. In a moment I will push send. Then I'm going to roll my rollaway out the door of the terminal and look for your car. We have delicious plans. I'm glad I didn't back out.

When I see you, when we first meet, please tell me what to do. You're good at it.

Deb