by JyllDenver
10:31am (Local Time)Why does an airport as big and new as Denver International not have fucking WiFi in the domestic terminal? There are four frozen yogurt stands in the food court, but no internet? I feel like this is the Midwest and not the Pacific Northwest. Get with it, cowboys. Oh well, I can post this later.
Just a quick update on my flight. Something Stupid and Bloggable Happened. I feel like part of it was my doing, most of it was his, and the inspiration was my dear friend in San Francisco, Chei.
Chei is gorgeous, smart, tough, and one of those general ass kicking girlfriends that make life worth living. She is also a notorious flirt and a famous (and self-described) hustler. At any given time she will have four boyfriends, two dates, and three guys that she’s simply “seeing”. And a full time job and grad school and time for a daily 4 mile run. The girl is an inspiration. She isn’t a slut, she doesn’t seek male validation through random one night stands or trysts or anything like that, she is simply a masterful flirt. I haven’t seen her in about a year, and you know how when you miss someone, you feel their presence all the more? Well, CheiChei, here’s to blaming you for what happened on the plane to Denver.
I was bored sitting in my seat so I had wandered into the cabin kitchen to swipe snacks from the business class tray. I managed to pilf a deluxe bag of trail mix and some wasabe chips, and I was trying to figure out how to jack a big bottle of sparkling water when the flight attendant, who happened to be quite cute (and long haired!) came in right as I was making my move. He grinned and handed me the bottle. We got to talking, and he told me that he was a massage therapist. I used to work as a receptionist in a spa, so blablab we use that as a premise for flirting. He asked what kind of massage I liked best, and I said deep tissue, so he was like okay, turn around, deep tissue it is. (That, by the way, is the master pickup line of all massage therapists, including Chei herself). I figured what the hell, I’ve been up since 2am, lugging suitcases and coffees all through Manhattan, I have no intention or means to shell out $120 for an actual deep tissue, go for it buddy. So I flip around and am standing against the wall between the lavatories and he gives me a killer, and I do mean killer, upper back massage. No molesting or weirdness involved, (barring the weirdness of a flight attendant giving a traveller a body massage mid-flight in the kitchen between the damned bathrooms). He said in his professional voice, “In order to reach your lower back, my hands are going to touch the tops of your buttocks, okay?” Which sounds creepy but it’s what all therapists say before they do it because people get freaked out. I was like dude, go, thinking that after the amazing 10 minute upper back he’d just given me, if he wanted to cop a feel he was welcome to it. He was really professional though, and worked my lower for another 5 minutes.
Do keep in mind that throughout this, people are coming to use the bathrooms and here I am stretched against a wall with a big retarded smile on my face and homeboy working his magic. I’m thinking that either a) he gets off on backs or b) he’s a bit of an exhibitionist. Either one is perfectly okay with me, to each his own. After he was done, he did some pressure point stuff to my upper spine, then he said, “and then, when you get to the tailbone, which is here--” and tried to touch my tailbone (which is like mid ass) I decided that things had gone far enough and said, “Yes, I’m well acquainted with my tailbone” (yes, I did say ‘acquainted’) and thanked him and went back to my seat.
What an odd end to an otherwise uneventful-to-the-point-of-misery flight. Thank you, Massage Fetish Flight Attendant with No Sense of Boundaries, my back neck and upper buttocks feel great.
