0 comments/ 9658 views/ 1 favorites Dalí in the Skies By: avasogently I psyched myself out for this seven-hour plane ride to Madrid. My five-page article last year in Allons! magazine, on sex tourism in Paris, had caught the eye of a prominent travel books publisher – a bruiser with Olivier Martínez eyes and a Javier Bardem smile. I learned via our virtual tryst that the head of Azul Books shared my love for the films of Buñuel, the art of Dalí and the acquired taste for amontillado sherry. In my last e-mail to the Spaniard, I'd been effusive about writing for Azul and asked if he thought I was a real comer, to which he replied that I had incorrectly conjugated the verb comer. My apology was answered with winking text detailing, in Hemingway fashion (think A Moveable Feast), how he planned to whisk me off to Majorca and eat me out between body shots of that expensive sherry. Obviously my enthusiasm about being published abroad had been lost in translation. Now I'm becoming anxious about landing a contract with Azul, not to mention taxiing into Madrid. Turbulence puts the fear of God in me, and if the meteorologist on that Spanish-news program on cable had her ears to His mouth, thunderstorms are pending in the capital city. Momentarily I pretend that I'm carrying an umbrella in my briefcase and that I didn't hear "una posibilidad de un 90 por ciento de lluvia" in the mid-November forecast for Madrid. I don't care what's on the menu up here because I already can taste the tapas, which will be free after all the cañas I'll line up at the bar this afternoon. I'll need all the liquid sustenance I can muster in preparation for a hectic Spanglish check-in and a "randy"-vous doubling as a business meeting with the Azul publisher this evening. Anticipation of a tapas orgy in Madrid has me strolling the Iberia Air aisle with 100 percent confidence and a wide-lipped smile. At five feet two inches, I'm dwarfed by the tall businessmen ahead of me, so it's a struggle to spot my section. Indeed, I have gotten lucky – much luckier than Azul's head in his surreal, Buñuelesque dreams starring little old moi – because I nab a window seat. The other two seats are empty, thanks to two would-be passengers who probably are relieving each other in a loo at Kennedy Airport in lieu of boarding this flight. I toss my monogrammed briefcase and tweed swing coat into the spacious overhead compartment and stretch out in style. "Yo no soy Señor Valencia García y Fernández. Yo soy una mujer," I say twenty minutes later to a haughty flight attendant before she pivots on stilettos, puzzled and undoubtedly dizzy. After the necessary announcements and precautions from both captain and flight attendant – and an hour waiting for tardy passengers – we are primed for takeoff. Hmmm, still no sign of my section mates, I ponder. I size up the creative possibilities of this much legroom, freedom and semi-privacy. As soon as the airplane is safely among the clouds, I begin fantasizing about a short story that I could tap out on my laptop: an absurd tale about Gaudí returning to Barcelona, but reincarnated as a thirtysomething woman artist who's pissed off at the way La Sagrada Familia has just been completed. A chill seizes my extremities, and I abruptly dismiss the story idea. My thoughts turn to Señor Valencia García y Fernández, whoever he is. Maybe he isn't the guy I'd imagined rubbing one out or receiving head in a men's stall, after all. I'm aware of the frequency of these toilet sex encounters because, long ago, I was married to an airline employee – a member of the hypersexual ground service crew. His version of foreplay was regaling me with true stories about quid pro quo sex for access to Europe-bound luggage, female flight attendants initiating gangbang layovers, and an onanistic male flight attendant hitting three octaves while loosening a toilet seat off its hinges. To my dismay, the detailed narrative about the screaming wanker was a firsthand account. My secondhand memory of the event is evidence of the baggage I still carry concerning the failure of my first marriage, though it solved the mystery of an inordinate amount of gay porn I used to see in his video library when we were just dating. The timing of this recall, however, is pertinent. Listening to other passengers muttering obscenities under their breath about this delayed Iberia Air flight, I understand how so many people reach their destinations extremely late – and with tampered or burglarized luggage. I wonder, almost out loud: Glad I left my only pair of Louboutins at home. I should be one to talk about the poor soul with the glistening boner back at the airport, the guy with a surname as long as the trail of brave, red-kerchiefed hombres who run with the bulls in Pamplona, for I nearly missed the flight myself. I'd been searching for my favorite pantyhose, to no avail. I found a pair of silk stockings instead. My heavy thighs made the effort far from hasty, but the friction from twisting and turning left the crotch of my thong damp. Now here I sit, only six more hours to go, and my thighs are exposed to the frigid air on the plane. After buzzing an Iberia flight attendant for assistance, it takes her some time to sashay over. I request a blanket and another eternity later get to cover my legs with a navy-blue number that depresses me suddenly. Though not enduringly, as will the rain forecasted for Madrid this afternoon. The air hostess says only first-class passengers receive blankets. When I raise my skimpy, wool, pleated gray skirt to reveal a zebra-print thong hugging my voluptuous hips, she licks her lips and disappears through the curtain. Within minutes I have not one, but two blankets, yet I'm still freezing under the chilly stare of the air slut. I'm annoyed by her presence but my clit betrays me and pops out, pressing against the zebra thong's soft and, now, wet cotton. I can't wait for mealtime, so my hands venture beneath the blanket to find a sweet snack. My ebony fingers dab around in my dampness for what feels like hours but amounts to minutes. My clit is so swollen that it feels as if it's going to burst through my navel. Imagining its deep flush sends the blood rising to my face, creating the impression that I've delicately applied rouge. I need to take the edge off a bit, so I caress my mound upward and outward, indirectly contacting my clit. Soft moans escape my throat. Inevitably my digits find their way to the throbbing bud before it returns to its protective sheath. As after a delicious meal, I lick my fingers clean. The flight attendant watches with parted lips as I repeat, but in slo-mo. Just for fun, I ask her for a napkin and deliberately brush the back of her hand with my talons. To see her knees go wobbly and her figure dash in the direction of the kitchen is worth the seduction, judging by how much wetter my thong has become. I peek under the blanket to get a whiff of my pussy. Hands dawdling between my thighs again, I drift to sleep. But not for long. How could I have known that a tall man seated one row back was spying on me while my eyes were either glazed-over or closed? He ambles over to my seat and clears his throat. Leaning down while grasping the seatback, he whispers that he was stroking his stiff dick beneath his own double layer of blankets. I'm concerned that he's aware I'm tapping my foot, but when I turn to meet his gaze, I'm startled that it's fixated on my pouty lips. While I was immersed in my own erotic heaven, he says, he watched me suck pearls of cum from beneath my airbrushed, acrylic fingernails. An image invades my consciousness of him shooting his baby batter on the seat ahead of him. The violence of that thought stirs the wetness in my nether junction, and I find myself shifting slightly under the blankets upon the man's hesitant pat on my thigh. Is that a groan? I inwardly inquire. I dismiss the primal sound as a pre-orgasmic hallucination. Taking the empty seat beside me, the dark-haired stranger rolls his calloused palm over my knee. No words are spoken as his furry hands dawdle between my thighs. My arched back tacitly permits him to reach behind to grope my asscheeks. Instinctively I part my thighs, just a fraction to trap his hand. At first he feigns struggle, but the caressing of my behind weakens my defenses, and soon his hand is free to roam again. When his fondling and my wiggling cause the blankets to fall away, my soaked zebra thong exposes an erection between the stripes. He traces a forefinger along the outline of my bulging clit, which makes me flinch, so he slips the thong to the side and paws my thatched mound. What I ask of him next – to write naughty messages on my thighs — turns out to be a poor effort to procrastinate from the inevitable: digital penetration. There's something crude about fingering; it's void of the soul-sharing that can happen during intercourse, even between casual lovers. Like a Houdini illusion, the stranger's fingers disappear into my cunt and my soaked thong emerges from his jacket sleeve. Bedazzled, I reach out to grab my panties only to see them vanish. Defeated, I fall back onto my seat, which shifts into a reclining position on its own. At this angle, I can splay my legs as widely as a circus acrobat, giving his middle and index fingers a deeper plunge. Unlike under the Big Top, though, I have no safety net. To my surprise, his nosy digits begin to thicken upon each thrust into my moist hole; elongate with every teasing of flexing walls. Playing Pinocchio in my pussy, he has me wondering about all the lies a man can whisper into a woman's ear and forget by the time he cums. More evasive than invasive, I muse. My consciousness flickers back to the moment, and I feel the intensity of his fingering and how wantonly he's tapping my clit. He says he loves the feel of my juices and cream, that my nether parts are like a sweet shop in the friendly azure skies. I watch him marveling at how my natural lubricant expands to viscous strands as magical as any spider web. My mind drifts off to the imagery of his fingers walking the tight wire of my elastic cum. In real time, though, he's drooling upon my hairy vulva, and that drives me wild. My belly sinks in to his every stroke. How he ticklishly arouses me! I can't get enough of his toying and caressing, his teasing of my sheltered funny bone. It's one of the few times I've ever laughed in a lover's presence during physical intimacy – and perhaps because we're strangers zooming tens of thousands of miles above our perfunctory lives. The man's itinerant hands travel up my back, and when they meander under my lacy black bra, he glances up into my wide-open eyes. Like a magician, he undoes all three metal hooks of my bra as if the tips of his fingers are magnets, and I respond with, "Bravo!" After he claps his hands twice in the air, a red rose rises from the deep valley of my cleavage. I applaud his lewd one-man circus, happy to be his cheap side show. My engorged lips are the price of admission, and he gently lifts himself to press his puckered set against mine. Perhaps the air on the plane has worn thin because I'm gasping for oxygen upon his vigorous cupping of my water balloon tits. I moan into the nicotine stench of his opening mouth, and with one swift move, he snatches off the fleece blankets. I suck his steamy tongue as if it were a huge prick pinning me to my seat. Suddenly I'm at a carnival, flashing my knockers to a hawker while I aim my cocked arcade gun at a clown's gaping mouth. "Like an absurd blow job from a distance, hehe," the carny tells me. But before I can claim my stuffed purple monkey, I flash back into my body here on the plane. Lip-locked with this brawny stranger, I feel oddly refined in his crude embrace. I wish not to be rude, however. I can't object, anyway, for his tongue does an acrobatic dive toward my tonsils, rendering me mute. Like a mime, I gesture wildly with my delicate hands, which his palms dwarf and guide to his ruddy, hammerlike dick. His is a large, fantastic tool similar to the one I spied at the two-minute carnival visit. Only this one's made of flesh that his fast-coursing blood has hardened as bone. This strange man with a clown's hands and, now, a circus tent for trousers dawdles between my jugs, while his hammer seems to slip from my grip. Could he have come so soon? I wonder. As if he can read my mind, he tells me, "Don't worry. It's my pre-cum," then urges me to taste it. He shows me why he favors kissing me, raising an eyebrow as gingerly as a trapeze artist's limb, and then swoops down to nibble my lower lip. He licks a bit of his own pre-cum from my lips and then sucks my upper lip and kisses the tip of my nose. In this moment I notice his bulbous nose, not unlike Karl Malden's, though not as phallic as Jimmy Durante's. I'm not short on talent, so I perform the amazing feat of singlehandedly coaxing a foot of cock through his tent flap. A free hand soon becomes prisoner of his balls, failing to juggle them in the ballooned space of his pants. The sexual tension around us in the adjacent window seats climbs until our libidos walk a tenuous level higher than this jumbo jet's altitude. The clown-stranger's cock points toward some unknown erotic galaxy as if to beg the gods there to suck it. Taking on a new, divine persona, I elongate my mouth to mirror my nether channel and feast alone on my ripe ambrosia. Sucking and licking such firm fruit, I am as giddy as the woman-girl back in carnival time, savoring a red candied apple, none too eager to get to the seeds at the core. "I command you to suck it!" the man wants to shout. Lest he jolt the slumbering passengers nearest us, he whittles his order down to a whisper, his throat left trembling and mine soon filled with post-Fall earthiness as blistering as a comet's heat. After he nuts on my swollen tongue, I deliberately taste the seeds of his masculinity but resist the temptation to swallow his delicious secret: that he desires to plant a part of himself in my womb. A scowl curls a corner of the stranger's lips, as if I have rejected him, and out of the corners of mine oozes his viscous off-white jizz. In an act of compromise, I urge him to continue down this seamy alley through the clouds where stop signs do not exist. We've ventured far past come-hither fingers and other coy gestures. A hum of satisfaction swerves up from my diaphragm. My tongue wags like a fleshy dial entrancing the driver from the speedometer – an image that Dalí would've rendered aptly. In his ears, I imagine my lyricless erotic melody turning to static that mingles with the airplane's engine noise. With so many miles to go, there's no slowing down our passion. The double-jointed, passionate stranger thumbs my nipples on tits that swing like pendulums, and he reaches around to maneuver his fingers into my soaked zebra thong. Leaving his tent pole slick with its saliva, my now-cavernous mouth trails echoes of lusty cries formed where his cockhead defied gravity past my tonsils. As I descend on his resilient dick, I bury my yelping into a blanket he has thrown over his shoulder. Between the plane's sharp dips and his enormous swells inside my channel, I'm experiencing a wicked case of turbulence. Nowhere near satiated, though aching from his cock's reverberations in my pussy, I huskily protest and ease myself off his skyward gear. My cunt's aroma released into the stilted air is driving him wild like a kamikaze pilot. He wants to dive. "Eat me," I command him. "Eat me and I'll let you fuck my fleshy pussy until we reach Spain," I taunt him. He grunts his approval. Cocking his head, he kisses my neck in disparate sets of foreign phrases. He savors Breton sea salt on his tongue, as if it whipped up from the Atlantic Ocean far beneath us. He licks his parted lips and threatens me with his lust: "Woman, I don't know who you are, but I'm starved, and I want you to satisfy me." On my neck I feel teeth like limestone from Liguria marking his territory, the bruising there sure to turn the shade of blue sea that leads to a grotto before deepening to a shade of purple found in Sardinian sunsets. He travels to my southernmost erogenous zone and possesses it, too. My cries, which evoke Morocco's Great Crested Grebes, drown out the sounds of his indulgent sucking of my vulva's nectar. He dallies there, his rhythmic lapping triggering my dam to break, layered folds flapping until my clitoris aches for sweet relief. But he refuses to abandon me; he desires my complete surrender. He alternates his wet pleasuring with blowing light breezes on tenderized flesh, and I bend his ear by delivering feminine oceanic vibrations from the grooves of my conch. I emit shrill entreaties in the cramped space, struggling with my surroundings to find balance while the man unravels my mystery and suffocating insecurities. Everything appears askew, from the window shade and fleece blankets to our perspiration-drenched clothing rife with rips, cum stains and stray coils of my silver-flecked hair. My newfound lover encourages me to declare ferociously our forbidden lust, which takes me over the edge once more. I secretly wish my rutting yelps would seep into the pores of every passenger and crew member. "Yes, come! Allow me to taste you, my siren," he says. If he only knew – I'm still out at sea, clinging to the Rock of Gibraltar while the Barbary apes pound their breasts in frenzied approval of our erotic scene. My own primal screams are deafening, though I imagine the man is mocking me. Yes, he's smiling and now roaring like the apes. Amid a fit of lagnolalia spoken in four distinct tongues, he cups my asscheeks and probes my winking eye. I wince from the pleasurable violence of twisted finger fucking and thrust my cunt in his face. He spits on my clit, then nibbles gently around the stem till the gob drips from my flared labia to my spasming cunthole, where it waits for his tongue to mix it with mango liqueur. My clown pirate, wannabe daredevil pilot, returns to pleasuring my neck but pauses the enchantment to ask my name. I refuse to disclose, so he dirties my ear to excess and squeezes my rear until I nearly cave in. I squeal as he hunkers down to suck my nipples until they harden like thimbles. My breathing quickens upon each caress of my breasts, their dark complexion as tempting as the skin of eggplant. Returning to my vulvacano, he finds me burning. And yearning. I long to come in his large, firm, pale hands. He keeps me at the brink of ecstasy by switching from licking my clit to penetrating my navel with his meaty tongue. With his fleshy lips, he traces the black line from my innie to my mons veneris, taking time to comb my silvery pubic hairs with his chalky teeth. I pull back, pressing my derriere into his hands, feel him pinching my flexing cheeks, all the while swirling his hot tongue around my clit. My rear end flinches and gyrates in his palms. He gently rotates my coccyx before planting his mouth on my perineum, the easier to bury his tongue in my cunt as if securing treasure fathoms deep. My jaws tighten harder than the muscles in my calves, yet I'm bucking as if I were un gardian on a Camargue that snorts and gallops through the Rhone delta's salty marshes. With the stranger's finger rubbing my clit while he devours me, I can't stop the primordial ooze from steaming out of my pussy. Without an intermission he switches rhythm to the sensual sounds of flamenco's castanets, his probing tongue ejecting me out of my body. Itching sensations of rose petals brushing my ear match the tickling of his dark curls against my quivering tummy. I hallucinate handclaps among our audience of suddenly awake passengers fixated on our decadent fucking, a conquest made all the more turbulent by gusts of wind and thunderclaps. Perhaps I am imagining sound effects of a disapproving God turning the other cheek while slamming His fist into His palm. Dalí in the Skies My bailaor's pillaging, Moorish passion sends me afloat over Seville, my wiry pubes morphed into a black-and-silver wingspan. Any condensation on my sturdy wings is surpassed by the moist result of his square chin tapping against my flapping thighs. I push aside an effervescent cloud to spy wide-eyed on myself through a curtained window, which is drawn only to a sliver as if to seduce jet-packing voyeurs to cruise at breathtaking altitudes. Staccato thoughts trot through my mind as I watch us -- two nomads lost in a hypnotically choreographed dance. Feigned words of protest fail to leave my throat, so I lip-sync a jealous gypsy's melody. Aboard the plane, we're an Andalusian illusion. My stack heels stomp out each little fire created by his knees rubbing through the holes in his peasant trousers against the carpeted floor. Red ruffles of my skirt rise and fall above my invader's forehead rocking against my gyrating pelvis as he hums and strums in the absence of guitar. Re-emerging from my depths, he sings, "Cariño," viscously glistening from the tip of his generous nose to his prominent Adam's apple. He moans a guitar into existence but in the image of his dick, which he strokes until pre-cum tears turn into a raging rainstorm. For the moment, he leaves me shuddering in his puddle of released anger, my skirt bunched around ample hips and my clit protruding from bushy lips. In his solo afterglow he forgets about the steel taps on my heels and that we have no rubber soles to keep us grounded, should lightning strike as violently as he had inside me. If I should get struck, so would he if he touches me. And I know that he will touch, and taste, me again because he knows that my territory cannot belong to him. My terrain changes hands with every war waged over my soil and through my seas, not unlike the country over which we are flying. Ancient conquests are in my blood, variations on Muslim Moor and Sephardic Jew leaving their indelible marks on a land cloaked in Catholic ostentation. No matter how often I cross myself, the sinner overshadows the saint. In this stranger's hands I'm the controversial, violated Black Madonna incarnate, robbed of my child while lactating breasts get suckled by men thirsty with lust yet yearning to be nurtured. Before I can sink deeper into these irresolvable issues, I sense my air companion's heat rising again in his eyes and feel his throbbing hands upon my thighs. Where a short while ago he gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, I gasp from his thick cock's penetration. Staring inside the window at my earthbound self, my feathers stand on end from this spectacle of public fornication. Ditching Cloud No. 9's delusions for the heaven inside the cabin, I find my voice again. I delight in how it projects from the diaphragm with melismatic joy. He invites me to his erotic dimension of infinity with, "Siempre quiero tu bonita negra chocha, mi amor." I answer, on the verge of climax, "Siempre, mi capitán." Out of thin air, a tricorn pirate's hat appears, but I place it on my head instead of his. "Aaargh!" I declare upon feeling my captain's tongue swim out of a slippery cove and snake the short distance to a black abyss. Bobbing on his invasive kiss, I am buoyant. We're both drunk with a swashbuckler's sexual joy and oblivious to goblets and life preservers alike. It's a mystery as to how I can keep my balance in this rough sea now that the captain's tongue has taken on an unfamiliar brazenness. I grasp my black coral-tipped breasts for fear that intense knocking might shatter them. He relishes rimming my rear with gusto. Tugging at his matted dark curls produces sighs as ominous as a fiercely bowed cello. Digging my talons into muscular shoulders elicits an "Aiii, aiii!" that resounds through my opening and magically delivers cries from my own throat. The stimulated areolas on my dark nipples threaten to squirt milk down his undulating back. "Oh, cariño," I moan over and over until only "Ohs!" remain. Bolts of lightning strike the airplane like curses from jealous gods, penetrating my back, legs and pelvis. Sent into a full-body spasm, I arrive again and again as if I'm a plane re-approaching the tarmac. Ever the sadistic charmer, he refuses to let me taxi. He fingers my pussy while I spasm again, this time jerking his cock. He asks, "You want this bone, bitch?" in a pitch midway between a tenor and a contralto. Stunned out of my own aria, I'm beamed back to earth for a nanosecond, wondering where both his Spanish and his manners have flown. We both switch gears, marveling at the grotesque dents in the seats from our lovemaking. My pussy is making squishy sounds as my body wrestles with his. Kneeling before him on the seat with a litheness that would impress my yoga instructor, I prepare to give him the best handjob on this side of the clouds. We've no time for tantric sex, so I tighten and slacken my grip on his lingam for the express purpose of ejaculation. Within minutes, my left hand is a blur. I delight in his pained expression as his back tenses and eyes bulge from the terror of losing control to a Black woman. If he only knew how determined I am to taste his spunk, he might freeze the semen within his testicles. But I'm the conqueror in this round of our sex play, watching his White stare and listening to his breathing grow more rugged. My victory is short-lived. I notice a wedding band on a finger that he eases between my succulent lips. His bejeweled digit simulates irrumatio as his sweat-slicked pelvis thrusts rapidly toward certain pleasure. The digital penetration forces me to accept his status, a callous convention that feels cold and hard in contrast to my lips' beauty – the texture of orange slices and the color of a Mediterranean bay at dusk. I trade one ritual for another, leaning down to kiss family jewels that must have blinded mistresses into affection. In his excitement, he inadvertently brands my shoulder with his ring, causing me to bristle at the offensive symbolism of being a marked woman. Resigned to my fate, I slob his knob like a whore, switching up the rhythm to deep-throat him with abandon. When I pop his dick out my lips so I can give him a spiraling handjob, he's so close to blowing his load. I hunker down lower to suck and lick his blushing twins, fulfilling a fantasy of the jet-black courtesan from my earthbound dreams. My jester tastes of the sea, but also of the forest on the Canary Islands. I greedily clamp my lips onto his veiny purplish crown. The suction becomes too much, though. He removes his dick out of my mouth and orders me to deepen my cleavage so that he can give me a raw tittie fuck. Not a minute goes by before he grimaces, his prick jerking up and spewing cum from neck to nipples. I rub his cream into my swinging eggplant tits while he slaps his dickhead on my extended tongue. Buttcheeks clenching, he wrings the last drops of cum onto my wagging tongue. When the post-orgasmic shuddering is over, he rests his head between my thighs while I sketch hearts and stars with strands of semen around my emerald-hard nipples. As his cum drips down into his sweaty curls, I scoop a dollop of it with my thumb to spread across his lips and around the tip of his schnoz. He inhales, smiles up at me and I break into a vocalese rendition of "Granada," plucking acoustic-guitar notes on his earlobes while he lightly thumps the top of my wet clit. "Excuse me, miss," I hear a voice say. Standing before me is an airport employee wearing a stern countenance framed by a dark bob and a navy blue turtleneck sweater. I manage to open only one eye, but a glance at my watch shows I've been asleep for several hours. So much for listening to well-meaning friends telling me to arrive four hours early, I muse. The employee pipes up, "Your flight to Madrid will be boarding soon, miss. Please follow me to check your baggage." I'm stunned but instinctively rise to my feet, clinging to my briefcase. Accustomed to traveling light, I nearly leave behind my 24-inch upright. Before the employee can rescue my luggage, a tall man with dark, curly hair who has just exited the men's restroom wipes his hands on the sides of his baggy trousers, walks over to my upright and then rolls it in my direction. "Ahem," says the efficient airport employee, breaking our spell. Then she turns to admonish the man with large pink hands, saying, "Now, now, Señor Valencia García y Fernández, you wouldn't want to miss your flight home. What would your circus troupe do without you?" Between the Azul Books publisher and this clown, my mind spins of tapas and beer, laughter and fear, hands on silk stockings and bare-ass-spanking cheer. A dizzy spell twirls into the direction of a big red nose, whose owner sweeps me up in his arms and tickles my toes. He whispers of candy-apple-sweet, sticky lies. "Next stop: Madrid, by way of a grand trapeze in the skies."