It’s not about crashing.
I couldn’t give two shites about head butting the ground at sixteen million centimetres per second. I’ve studied the plane crash scenes in Castaway and The Grey. I’ve even considered the possibility of survival. Suppose I had to choose between a homosexual relationship with a netball on a tropical island or getting eaten by wolves in the snow. In that case, all I can say is that my cock is gonna smell like coconut oil and commercial rubber.
My problem with flying is the claustrophobic nature of being trapped in a tin can like a sentient baked bean for a defined unit of time.
I’m no fucking baked bean. I’m a real boy. So I’m sitting here and breathing deep into the tip of my cock like that yoga teacher showed me in nineteen seventy-something. I’m visualising light pouring from my fourteenth chakra filling this damn plane and its inhabitants with love and bliss, but it strikes me that it’s all happening in my head, and I feel that hot and cold sensation coming over me like the start of a panic attack.
My wife tells me to take drugs.
But she hasn’t been on a flight since September 11 2001, hence why we took that nine-hour bloody boat to Tasmania rather than a thirty-minute flight. And dropping pills to solve life’s problems is a slippery slope for people like me.
So sure, now you’re thinking, why don’t I get drunk?
There are a couple of reasons. Firstly booze turns my stomach into the fiery pit of Hades, and I don’t need that kind of inflammation in my life. Secondly, alcohol, aeroplanes and I are a threesome that hasn’t worked for me in the past.
In 2003, I got smashed on a plane coming back from Singleton Infantry School. I insulted the commanding officer of my new unit, snatching the roll sheet from him and calling him a useless prick. That cost me a lot of free time.
Then there was the time they showed Jingle All the Way on a plane, and I threw a whole can of beer at the screen in protest at the worst movie of all time. The can rebounded and hit a purple-haired granny, bruising her head and freaking everyone out.
So, you understand my need to be sober, but the panic is kicking in. I don’t want to be that guy screaming, Let me out of this fucking bean can and banging on the door like Gene Wilder in Young Frankenstein. It’s just humiliating.
I recently read The Twelve Rules For Life, or whatever Jordan Peterson calls it.
His fourth rule is: If you are ever paranoid, have a wank.
It’s solid advice. Praise thy Lord that we have people like Dr JP who have spent their entire lives in academia studying the ideas of others — experts that can light the way for the rest of us fuckheads who have been out there experiencing life like idiots.
I find my way to the bog, and this obese man is queuing outside.
He is eating peanuts, and it smells like fucking peanuts. I want to tell him the bogs on these tin cans are tiny, and if he keeps eating those damn peanuts, he won’t fit. I’m not even sure if he will fit now.
There’s one of those sucking sounds, and the door snaps open. An old man sidesteps out, and the stench of warm, beefy old man shit fills everyone’s nostrils.
After you, I say to the fat man.
No, after you, he insists.
It’s good. I‘m not keen to watch him try and squeeze into this tiny space-age chamber. It would be like watching someone try and stuff an eye fillet into a matchbox, and I think I might get roped into pushing from behind like it’s one of those Japanese train stations. So I thank him, shuffle into the tiny box, and snap the lock shut.
I get my cock out and remember that I don’t even need to piss.
I am here for a wank. But it’s stinks of nutty old man shit. I try and block the smell, but it’s deep, and it’s penetrating my sinuses and taking over me.
They say the air on a plane changes every sixty seconds.
I wish that were true in this bog. I’ve never been good at the standing wank, so I have to sit down, but there’s fuck all elbow room. I’m tucking in my elbows, and it’s niggling on my rotator cuff, which I fucked during a seventy-two-hour golf and coke binge one time. I’m in pain, and it fucking stinks, and I’m trying to connect to that free wifi you get, but there’s no wifi in this stinking matchbox
So, I imagine one of the flight attendants knocks on the door and asks if I would like any ‘assistance’ in dealing with my paranoia. I’ve got one particular attendant in mind. She’s a redhead like my wife and Princess Sarah Ferguson, who triggered my redhead fetish at a young age when she kissed that Paedo prince on the royal balcony.
As I wank, my elbow keeps knocking on the door. I’m afraid someone will think I’m trying to get out. So I have to go left-handed, which is challenging at the best of times. I’m also looking at myself in the mirror, which isn’t helping. It’s a real eye-opener watching yourself wank, especially when tucking your arms in like a demented military turkey. So I close my eyes again.
My cock starts making that wet slapping sound, and there’s no music to drown it out in this fucking air-conditioned cock box.
This left-handed shit stinking slappy turkey wank just isn’t working for me. I’m sweating now, and my rotator cuff is becoming unbearable, and I’m wondering if it’s worth bringing back that pain for the sake of a wank. Not that this is just any wank. It’s an anti paranoia wank, and —
Is everything okay in there?
It’s one of the flight attendants. I cough and tell her I’m okay in a flem-throated mumble.
Fuck this shit
I stand up, do up my pants and press the flusher, triggering the overly dramatic sucking flushing show. Then I wash my hands. I’m not sure if the old man shit smell has gone or if I am just used to it now.
I open the door, and there is a queue of four people waiting for the toilet and looking angry. I’ve been in there for fifteen minutes, and it’s obvious I’ve been pulling off like a God damn pervert. I want to explain my motivation to them, but they wouldn’t understand. The aisle of this aircraft is not an appropriate place for my Ted talk on using masturbation to move through claustrophobia.
I find my seat again, and I put on The Great Outdoors.
Candy and Ackroyd make me feel calm until I get smashed in the back of the arm by the drinks trolley, and my rotator cuff officially flares up. It’s painful, but the attendant is beautiful. She leans over, asks me if I’m okay, and touches me on the elbow. I’m bloody horny now.
I wonder if any of the other toilets are bigger. But I’d have to wait sometime to avoid suspicion. I wonder if I can just wank under this blanket in the plastic wrapping. There’s a bald guy in a golf shirt next to me, and he keeps nodding off. If I wait five minutes, he might be fully asleep, and I can just jack off in peace right here in my seat. Sure it’s edgy, but those porno influencers do this kind of shit, don’t they? Maybe I should become one of them. I could call it The High Flying Wanker or something.
I wait, and just as the bald bastard nods off, the hot flight attendant with the red hair says Tea or coffee? And he perks up. Coffee, please, he says.
Fucking coffee, I’ve got no chance now. She leans over to hand the fucker his coffee, pushing her tits right into my face. What is one meant to do in this situation? Our male psychology tells us to stick out a tongue or do a motorboat.
At the last second, my 2022 brain tells me it’s an excellent way to end up in court. So I have to assume it was a beautiful accident and move on.
Sorry about that, she says with a casual smile.
Fuck this. I get up from my chair and march down to the toilet again.
The bog light is green now, so I know it’s vacant.
This is it Motherfucker I say out loud.
No old man shit smell, no turkey wings. Im going for the standing wank facing away from the mirror. I yank my dick back and forth with the energy of one of those fourteen-year-old Rubik’s cube champions, flashing my yellow teeth and thinking about those boobs in my face.
It doesn’t last long.
Six hundred million tiny transparent tadpoles (TTT) glide through the air like majestic microscopic missiles (MMM).
Their fearless leader yells out,
I told you, gentlemen. I told you I would lead you to victory. This is it now — wait — this isn’t the promised land. Oh, fuck nooooo, I’m sorry, gentlemen.
It’s a devastating sight — six hundred million brave warriors soaked up by a Qantas tissue and sucked out into the skies above Adelaide.
I unsnap the lock and shuffle in a post-jizular trance back to my seat. The bald guy is asleep, and his coffee is sitting there, going cold. I wonder if he is an angel, like Rowan Atkinson in Love Actually — sent from heaven to save me from wanking in my aeroplane seat and getting arrested.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore. I put my headphones in, and Candy and Akroyd continue their antics.
I feel fine now.
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