When you’re about to take a flight, the only thing you desire is to have nothing to do with anyone.
Not that I mind a bit of chit-chat, Okay? But usually, when I fly from Gatwick to London, it means I’ve been up since four o’clock, I’ve been on the National Express for three and a half hours, and I’ve been waiting at the airport for at least two hours.

“Do I even want to have a conversation?” No, I don’t. sorry.  

You’re sitting in your seat.

I usually take the window seat.

Do you?

Fine.

That day I was the only passenger in row six.
I wanted to sleep.

Landing at Malpensa, Italy will take an hour and a half.

I love planes, but somehow the Bournemouth-London-Malpensa route is becoming tiring for me.

So I told myself that I would sleep. But, no. She, Consuela (like the protagonist of Philip Roth’s The Dying Animal), one of the stewardesses, decided that I was her target, the perfect victim.
People were still taking their seats.
A light, unhurried rush.

Okay, we are there now. No way I’ll convey this story talking in the past tense.

Agree? 

‘Hello.’
I look up.
‘Hi.’ And of course, I smile back at her.
Blonde. Tall.
My brain’s circuits are set on ‘please make it quick and painless’.
‘Is there anything I may do for you?’
I replied, no, I think I have everything with me.
She blinks and walks away.

That was only the first half of the movie. 

When the plane takes off, and after the explanation of how the life jacket and oxygen masks could (might, as well as might not) save your life in case of ditching, I close my eyes.
I can’t get to sleep. I try to imagine something, It is beneficial for me to actively seek out compelling ideas for a potential novel.

She, however, passes by with the trolley. Alone this time.
Consuela (obviously, I still don’t know her name) asks those ahead of me if they want a drink or food.
I never take anything on the plane. My stomach cannot digest well during the flight, I would end up sick.
She clearly noticed me looking at her.

How could I not?
She is gorgeous!

When my turn comes, she asks me if I want anything. I reply that I am fine.
Consuela insists by offering me water.

‘Maybe some water will do.’
‘You look so familiar,’ she admits, surprising me. ‘Are you Italian?’
‘Yes. I guess my accent stands out.’
She giggles. I’m embarrassed, my throat is dry, and I miss salivating.

You know, it’s just those situations you don’t expect.

‘No, well, you can tell. Italians are beautiful,’ she says.
‘You’re too kind. Where are you from?’
Can’t say exactly where for reasons of privacy. So, I reply that I live in Dorset too.
‘Ah wao. Maybe we could catch up one day.’
Yeah, sure, of course, I think.

She has to get on with the cart but lets me know she’ll be back.
In fact, after half an hour, Consuela approaches me again.

I am no longer able to fall asleep. I keep thinking about her. I look at her. Honestly, I spy on her. I already know that she is my type. Consuela has a solid butt and skinny legs. She must be almost as tall as me, another detail that suits me.
Yes, true, I stare at Consuela as if she were an object, but I know nothing about her, and the first impact is what counts, especially if you are on a plane that will be on the ground in another half hour.

We have a brief conversation before I give her my number.
Consuela wants me to know that she sometimes goes skiing in Italy with friends. Dolomites.
I pretend to know the places she mentions, and the reason is that I skied as a child and then got injured, a fact that kept me off the slopes for the rest of my life.
A painful experience.

I spent ten days in Italy.
I messaged her one afternoon and we arranged to meet.

When I got back to Bournemouth, all I did was think about her, and we arranged for an afternoon in the vicinity of the New Forest. 

We walked for an hour, stopping to look at cows and horses. We returned to a pub where she wanted to drink beer. There, we started to get closer.

We sat in a narrow corner and were arm in arm.
I don’t remember much of the conversation.

Consuela says that she regularly visits beautiful places but never has time to stay long enough to enjoy them to the fullest. She likes being a hostess.

When she tells me that she struggles to have a private or social life, I realise that I am there to fill that void. And the way she wants to fill that void is to have sexual intercourse.

We kiss. I’m halfway through my second beer. I actually thought that if I kept talking, we wouldn’t get much done and Consuela would think I am an idiot.

She lives nearby.

So, we end up at her place after going for more beer.

Consuela shares an apartment with two other people.
As we entered her room, I didn’t have time to look around, we fell into each other immediately.
I pulled off her shirt, and squeezed her breasts, kissing the nipples that were pink against the white layer of her skin.
She unbuckles my trousers in the meantime.
I’m ready of course, but she must have thought my erection wasn’t enough or maybe she just felt like sucking… It.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that she does, she goes down and after a while, I have to stop her from going any further or else I would have come before completing the intercourse.

I lay Consuela on the bed. I stand as I penetrate her and watch her breasts dance.
There is a strong feeling of satisfaction and pride in what is taking place. Consuela seems to know exactly what to do to incite the worst parts of me.

Then she does a strange thing, she wants my hands to bite my fingers and… that’s fine, I think, if it’s OK with her, I don’t object.

Only then, I turn Consuela over, supine, in the oldest position in living memory.
The satisfaction reaches its peak. As I penetrate her from behind, I stimulate her clitoris with my fingers so that we can reach orgasm together. And, indeed, that is what happens.

We lie on the bed. Consuela laughs. I ask her if there is anything in particular she finds amusing, but Consuela replies that it is the effect the orgasm has on her.

Consuela puts on some music. She likes a little beat between us. I let her do what she wants.

After a while, she asks me to take her behind, again, but this time I have to go for the other hole.
I’m not sure I want to do it, I don’t know her and I’m afraid that the condom might break if I go that way.

Consuela, though, has Vaseline or something that looks like it. I have one neuron in my brain, and that’s enough to convince me to try.

So I turned her around, massage the soft, full dunes of her buttocks, slathering on some kind of cream and… well, I was ready.

At first, I lifted her to help me penetrate her better. Then, once I was done, I allowed her to lie down and continued to wiggle on top of her, saying words that were… let’s say, not very nice.
She, however, appreciated it.

Did we see each other again after that?

Yes. One more time and the story went more or less the same way. Normal sex at first, and then by other means…

Consuela said she was busy, and that she was often tired, but I know the truth. She must have found another chicken to roast.

I never felt offended.

If she had wanted something more, I would also have agreed to pursue such a complicated relationship, but she never gave me any reason to believe that she desired to commit herself differently.

This story, like any of the previous ones I have told you, led me to a reflection on what my relationship with women has been and to the realization that I no longer want to commit my time to fleeting experiences like these. I know they will happen, and I probably won’t be strong enough to give up, but I now have the certainty of what I am looking for and what makes me palpitate when I meet a woman.

If you have any curiosities, leave a comment below.