Tuesday, November 25, 2008

DOLLY, a "Broken" Story

Alison Tyler had another contest the other day where she asked writers to expound on the concept of broken in 250 words. I came up with this:

© 2008 by EllaRegina

At college Dolly understood that something was amiss. While glimpsing bolder girls parading naked around the dorm bathroom, Dolly realized she had nothing between her legs. No hair, no lips: just a fleshy mound with a tiny grommet from which urine flowed. The other girls had sprouted curious flowers there—petalled flora releasing exotic fragrances.

Before Thanksgiving Dolly went on her first date with a nice boy named Arthur. They kissed. He put his tongue inside her mouth. Dolly liked that. Arthur touched body parts even her doctor had never visited. Eventually his hand found itself atop Dolly's hillock.

"That's a vacant lot, Arthur. No grass. No furrow." She pulled her daisy-print underpants down to show him exactly what it was that she did not possess.

"Oh, my!" he exclaimed. "Well, isn't that ducky! Never mind, Dolly. You've lots to offer, and it's better this way—no worries about babies."

Arthur taught Dolly how to take his hard penis into her mouth and suck it until buttermilk came forth. Then he folded her like a clotheslined towel and demonstrated how he could fill her plump behind with warm cream using his rigid staff. They found much to enjoy together, despite her empty canvas.

After Christmas vacation Arthur brought Dolly to a tattoo parlor. While the electric needle man busily engraved a © and MATTEL above Dolly's ivory rear, Arthur distracted her from the pain—discreetly unzipping and placing his cock inside her lips like a pacifier until the jobs were done.

Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.

Monday, November 3, 2008


A clip from The Opening of Misty Beethoven, a Golden-Age-of-Porn classic, and the stimulus for my story, Maiden Voyage. You need not have seen this wonderful piece of cinematic history to appreciate my tale but if you are familiar with it you will find little clues along the way serving as subtle references. The male protagonist is named in homage to Mr. Jamie Gillis, Renaissance man, superstar and the film's leading actor, shown above. Thank you, Jamie Gillis, for your blessing and inspiration!

Fasten your seatbelts and enjoy the flight!

© 2008 by EllaRegina

I have wrangled one of just a hundred coveted seats on the inaugural transatlantic commercial flight of MaidenAir® -- the first carrier devoted exclusively to female passengers. Their slogan is long on pun and short on grammar: MaidenAir, th'AIR for Her...™, as if copywritten by Lady Chatterley's lover had he been a Madison Avenue ad man; but I am enchanted by their Pepto-Bismol-pink aircraft and cartoon logo: a bulbous blushing airplane nose penetrating the void of a soft billowy doughnut-shaped cloud -- an almost perfect smoke ring -- white cotton candy against a crosshatched pale blue sky.

Online booking lists options, questions, an enigmatic travel wardrobe caveat -- "two-piece outfit only: top and bottom; no dresses, jumpsuits, et cetera, allowed" -- and one strict directive: "No carry-ons permitted: your every on-board need will be taken care of," a promise at once frightening and reassuring. I choose window seat 34A, my brassiere size -- a superstitious air-travel ritual -- and indicate meal preference: Asian VegetAIRian. For "sexual orientation" I scroll until the appropriate selection appears on the horizon amidst a multitude of possibilities and put my cursor arrow within the square outline next to "Heterosexual, mostly," clicking a check mark into the empty space. Form completed, I am e-ticketed for MaidenAir® Flight No. 001 (MA-001), departing New York City (JFK) 02 May at 19:30; arriving 7 hours and 10 minutes later on 03 May in London (Heathrow) at 07:40.
Crossing the Boeing 747-400's threshold is like swimming through a gynecological speculum into an endless tunnel of pink; I'm inside a 416-seat vagina. The color scheme dominates the cabin interior -- carpet, upholstery, walls, storage bins, barreled ceiling -- as well as the flight attendants' uniforms: bubblegum pink on the women; a boisterous peacock hot pink for the men, down to the shoes, a fleet of which stand guard winging the entrance, welcoming us onboard one by one. Pre-takeoff classical music pipes in at an ethereal sound level: Beethoven, "Für Elise" -- feminine, calming. Royal Class™ is enthroned behind a pink velvet curtain; Coachman Class™ is where I belong. A phalanx of flight attendants -- male and female -- stands at the airplane's rear, hovering like a raincloud, as we find seat assignments matching the information on our pink tickets.

For this maiden voyage only one quarter passenger seating capacity is utilized: every ticket-holder is surrounded by empty spots ; alternate rows are occupied -- a sparsely arranged checkerboard. I stow my jacket in the overhead bin and claim 34A, a pink burrito wrapped in absorbent toweling, window shade open -- a startled eyelid -- black tarmac below and beyond. On the aisle seat to my right are three neatly folded pink blankets -- I can almost see static sparks radiating from the synthetic fabric -- four head-sized pillows cased in same, and a pink rhomboid vinyl zippered tote with bracelet-loop handle, MaidenAir®'s logo on its front; underneath, in block capitals: SKY-BAG™. I unzip to inspect the contents:

One pink toothbrush, MaidenAir, th'AIR for Her...™ along its top; U.K. on the bottom in raised letters.

A finger-length pink tube of presumably pink toothpaste.

Pink dental floss threaded on a dollhouse-appropriate spool.

A pink satin eyeshade with pink elastic band.

One pink headset.

Two pink foam earplugs.

A pen, memo pad, diminutive body lotion vial, lipstick and sealed moist towelette, all boasting the MaidenAir® logo, each item pink.

A mini-dispenser of hot pink Tic-Tacs.

A pink plastic comb, embossed with the now-familiar MaidenAir, th'AIR for Her...

One pair magenta anklet socks, of a singular design: plastic Louis XIV heels, pink, adhere to the anatomically correct area, creating a hybrid sock-shoe with non-slip zig-zag-runnered traction soles.

Spiraled transparently-wrapped pink condoms in five different sizes, London landmarks on the shiny packaging, keyed to symbolically denote the enclosed products' dimensions. In ascending size order: Cleopatra's Needle obelisk; Tower of London; Nelson's Column; The Monument to the Great Fire of London; Big Ben.

A pink-topped clear cylinder, the magnitude of a small cucumber, containing a gelatinous substance; printed longitudinally with the London Underground symbol and TubeLube™ in a Gill Sans font.

A thumb-sized pink plastic bottle of the official MaidenAir® fragrance; it smells like semen mixed with pineapple and cumin but is not unappealing.
In the seatback pocket facing me, next to a pink vomit bag and MaidenAirWaves, the in-flight magazine, a rigid laminated folded menu board presents wordless diagrams picturing faceless humanoids performing assorted activities. On one side, the usual safety instructions; on the reverse, other visualizations -- tableaux simply rendered, yet clearly conveyed via nimble economy of line: women in airplane seats, nude from the waist down, no features except for red O mouths, no pubic hair, pink seat belts fastened, legs sloped over forward seats, also strapped down with pink belts: held yoga poses; limbs open and waiting like unemployed nutcrackers, the odd heeled anklet sock-shoes on all feet. Next to the battened-down women, pink flight attendants, male and female, engage the seated passengers in a variety show of sexual acts -- the kinds feasible onboard a 747-400 with a cruising speed of 565 miles per hour traveling at 35,000 feet. My forward seat ahead does, in fact, sport ankle-cuff-length pink belting on either side, mirroring the board diagrams.

I gaze out at the high gloss pink wing -- the aircraft body seems to have been painted with nail polish -- a red light blinking at its end. I vibrate between my legs, synced to the pulsing signal. Yes, this will be an interesting 7 hours and 10 minutes. I have not flown in too long a time, in every sense of the word, and MA-001 could be just the ticket; I am more than ready to be launched.
Good evening, Ladies and Ladies! Welcome aboard MaidenAir®'s inaugural voyage, flight No. 001 bound for London Heathrow. We are there for you! Each passenger has been assigned a personal Coachman or Coachwoman based on the collected booking form data. He or she will do whatever possible to make your MaidenAir® experience a most enjoyable one. We wish you a pleasant flight. Thank you.

My Coachman is Jamie G., according to his nametag. Salt and peppery, handsome, Beatle-inflected English, an older man; my type, on the nose. I swoon, feeling an immediate intoxicating chemistry. One hand wears a pink latex glove. Jamie G. politely asks me to remove all clothing from the waist down. I hand him black garments, black underthings and black boots; he puts them in an overhead bin. My Coachman shows me how the funny sock-shoes are worn. He lays my calves over the forward seat, pink belting fixing me in place -- I would open my legs for him anywhere. He modifies the seat angle so I am at an alpine pitch, genitals aligned with the forward seat top. Once limb configuration satisfaction is achieved, Jamie G.'s latexed hand gives my pussy a warm fondle. He sucks pink thumb and forefinger, extending the remaining three to me. I eagerly oblige. His head brushes my goosebumped thighs; burrowed in further investigation, skywriting an indecipherable message on my clitoris. Were I not moored I would be levitating. "You're ready for takeoff, Miss 34A," he determines, restoring the seat to its default state. He unfolds a pink blanket and covers my nakedness. He knows how to find me later. I'm not going anywhere; he's got me in a holding pattern.
The airplane roars, taxiing down the runway with increasing velocity, and soon I perceive loss of ground contact and hear the wheel mechanism retracting. We are quickly whisked aloft as if by a gigantic pink patent-leather glove; the borough of Queens falls away outside my portal, a toy village panorama.

There is the usual wordless safety demonstration run-through but I never pay attention; I do, however, take notice of the ensuing pantomime: a menu board sexual position sampler; performed in the nearest aisle by a Coachman-Coachwoman duo and across the cabin by two Coachwomen -- one tantalizing preview, albeit a dressed rehearsal.

Something drops from above. It is pink, plastic, shaped like a penis and filling up with air.

Ladies and Ladies: The CloudPleasers™ have descended! Place this interactive self-inflating device firmly in your vagina, secure the Velcro strap behind your waist and breathe normally. The CloudPleaser™ will expand, conforming to your interior dimensions; its sensors consistently monitoring your body temperature, vaginal wall pressure, blood flow, lubrication, pulse and contractions throughout the flight. Please observe the nearest seatback video screen. Our patented chartHERflight™ system records and constantly updates your readings in real time as well as documents the aircraft's location, ground speed, altitude and distance traveled at any given moment. You can track your comings and your goings: the pulsating pink CloudBursts™ represent your arousal; their size correlates to your excitement level; static pink circles indicate orgasms reached. Upon deplaning your complete flight registry will be automatically sent to the e-mail address you provided when booking. Keep your CloudPleaser™ inserted during the flight at all times or until a uniformed Coachman advises you to remove it; kindly refrain from touching the device as it is set on automatic pilot. Finally, with your health and safety foremost in mind, MaidenAir® always uses fresh CloudPleasers™: "one woman, one flight, one CloudPleaser™," manufactured from our proprietary hypoallergenic material, MaidenTex™.

We offer every amenity to help make this a thrilling journey. Our in-flight entertainment service takes off with your SKY-BAG™ headset. Plugged into the armrest receptacle, it connects you to an array of stimulating cinematic material and audio selections designed to enhance amorous urges. We have placed a complimentary copy of our titillating in-flight magazine, "MaidenAirWaves," inside the nearest accessible seat pocket; feel free to take this with you when we reach our destination. Your overhead PheromonAir™ nozzle, releasing a customized formula expressly blended for each passenger, is sure to inspire the optimum in-seat head trip. Blast off, with pleasure!

I lodge the ballooning gadget as instructed and twist my air nozzle open full throttle -- palpably more desirous when the current is aimed at my nostrils. I rig the headset, activate the video program and tap "entertainment preference keywords" onto the finger-sensitive LCD panel: Straight; Extreme; Oral; Anal; Babymaker. A grid of windows, each bearing a frozen image, floods the screen. I play them simultaneously, a 10.6" diagonal orgy: enormous engorged cocks, many hairless holes, white semen abounding in dolphin fountain spouts. Were these not obviously pornographic they would be great advertisements for Elmer's Glue. There are several audio channels: musical choices, orgasm sound effects and an adjustable click track thumping a single beat; I find the collective video Babel's accompaniment. My CloudPleaser™ steadily, actively fucks me, its rhythm ever-changing, based on what I watch, what I hear, what I inhale and my physical reactions to their commingling.

I look at the chartHERflight™ monitor. A lower-case t-silhouette representing the aircraft is situated on the map near Nova Scotia, a line from the t leading backwards to JFK and forwards over the Atlantic, towards the British Isles. A cluster of glowing pink round CloudBursts™ is already registered, like beads on a wire; I'm an in-progress pearl necklace being strung, jetting across the ocean.
Beverage Service commences. Jamie G. brings my pink lemonade-vodka cocktail, a Misty London™, no rocks, exactly as per the booking form request.

I peruse MaidenAirWaves: video synopses are skipped -- I hate plot spoilers; enticing photographs beckon -- vintage as well as contemporary -- grouped by category, subject, sexual predilection; erotic writings, from Catullus to Sappho and beyond, are alphabetized by author, including my favorite, Anonymous. The magazine's pages also function as a catalogue, detailing products for sale in MaidenAir®'s bulging Cloud9Shop™: an arsenal of vibrators, dildos (one- and two-seaters; with or without harnesses), plugs, beads, gags, whips, spanking regalia, bondage toys, sex games, condoms and lubricants, DVDs of all in-flight videos; everything duty free. I worry that the potential estrus generated by this entertainment multi-tasking -- reading, gazing at photographs and item specifications, watching videos and listening to audio tracks concurrently -- will burden chartHERflight™'s circuits, but they appear to handle, as I do, the abundance of stimuli.
Jamie G. arrives with my meal, lowering the nearby tray table. I unpeel the foggy steaming clingfilm topper, its exterior scribbled in pink marking pen: 34A amid a cartoon cloud outline. Dinner is excellent: spicy chickpea and vegetable curry, cold Indian beer. There is salad but I'm full; the untouched Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil package enters my shirt pocket -- I can't let such a delicacy be discarded.
Jamie G. returns and gives me a quizzical look while collecting my pink tray. I resume in-flight entertaining -- multiple CloudBurst™-inducing passages scribed by my preferred author. I glance at the seatback screen whenever I detect that familiar twitter, seemingly occurring more frequently and intensely if Jamie G. is within sniffing distance. My necklace is assembling quite nicely. I may have the chartHERflight™ log printout framed.
Beverages accumulating, the loo calls. I ring for my Coachman, pressing the armrest's C button until a pink light winks overhead. Jamie G. resurfaces, undrapes me, disconnects the CloudPleaser™, unbuckles my legs and acts as escort to the WCs -- I toddle awkwardly on sock-shoes -- dutifully waiting beside me in a long queue of semi-clad women and their respective Coachmen and Coachwomen. Red OCCUPIED lights are illuminated; contented high-pitched vowels emerge from within random compartments, floating like rows of excited comic book letters. Jamie G. explains that the WCs double as menu board diagram practice rooms and fitting booths for Cloud9Shop™ merchandise; there is even a dedicated MileHighDungeon™. Flashing green VACANT, one door opens; a Coachwoman steps out, gripping two leather paddles, followed by a dazed twinkling tittering passenger wearing the same outfit -- waist-to-toes -- as mine, except for lavender-pink heels and matching stripes dividing anklet backs like seams in silk stockings. Her dimpled buttocks are pinker than anything onboard.

I relieve myself and Jamie G. resets me in 34A, CloudPleaser™ reinstalled. Shades have been drawn, lights dimmed; perhaps a nap can be managed.
I leave the pink world for several hours, dreaming of cocks -- flying cocks dripping with white glue, winged cocks in all sizes, a rare-bird aviary comprising different flesh tones, feather curves, free-falling freewheeling flying styles -- some riding the wind, others against it -- making their loop-de-loop rounds in the skies. A wayward cock loses its path and flies into my mouth, a lost bird. I clamp it between lips, engulfing warmth and heartbeat. I taste its semen, which recalls pineapple and cumin. The bird is moving. I undo my eyeshade.

This is no dream. Jamie G. straddles me, his Boeing 797 filling my mouth, discharging, air-dropping its cargo. I swallow avidly; I had room for that salad after all. A handful of new CloudBursts™ glimmers on the screen. And I'm not the only one: my lavender-pink-heeled aisle mate is being very well attended to by her Coachwoman, poised betwixt strapped legs, a mammoth condom-covered pink rubber phallus mounted on a thigh harness -- my neighbor's mouth and pussy alternating as its target. Her unplugged CloudPleaser™ hangs in mid-air, flying solo, abandoned: a wet pacifier, temporarily out-of-service. The woman six rows away is a twisted pretzel, ankles flanking her head, seat tilted so far back she's practically upside-down. I see glittery navel adornment and shaved landing strip. A Coachman is plowing her rear with his oily pink cock: Cleopatra's Needle, Nelson's Column at most, but doing its job well -- they caw like seagulls. All around me I hear mating calls of wild birds and can distinguish moving figures in the cabin's semi-darkness, lit only by pink safety lights tracing the aisles.

Jamie G. notes my wandering magpie eyes. "Give me your SKY-BAG!" I hand it over, hypnotized. He rips off a condom -- The Monument to the Great Fire of London -- removes my blanket and flips back my seat. Cock airworthy and skyward, he applies TubeLube™ to His Royal Hugeness and the condom's pink exterior once it's rolled on. "I'm heading towards Pudding Lane!" he declares, referencing the Great Fire's source as he skydives into my pussy. His lips find an ear. "Actually, Miss 34A," he whispers, rotating his monument like a propeller, stirring me up, "this batch is improperly marked; it's really Big Ben."

"I thought so, Jamie G.!" In no way is he a mere column.

The condoms also have sensors; my chartHERflight™ chronicle is virtually uninterrupted. Mine is a Coachman par excellence. He contributes a strand of static and palpitating CloudBursts™ to my transatlantic pearl necklace. The towel under me efficiently absorbs all copious effluvia, my private bouquet permanently impregnated in its fibers. Truly, the whole aircraft exudes Eau de Vagina by this point, what with a hundred of them being happily serviced, one way or another.

Jamie G. stores his personal gear and unbuckles me. "Come," he says, uncorking my CloudPleaser™, grabbing the pillow stack and a few condoms. "We need more room for the in-flight entertainment I think you'll enjoy best of all." He leads me to a bulkhead where a gauzy pink curtain on a ceiling track cordons off several square meters. The space is intended for wheelchair-bound passengers but there are none booked. Jamie G. organizes me on elbows and knees, slipping a pillow beneath each joint. He encircles my waist with a pink belt attached to the pink carpet -- otherwise used for securing rolling paraphernalia. "Safety first!" he says. After cuffing other floor belts around ankles, mine and his, he palms my small breasts, causing the Extra Virgin Olive Oil packet to cascade down.

"Aha!" he exclaims. "Just what I was looking for! Miss 34A is a very naughty girl. Not only hasn't she finished her supper but she's absconded with the fixings!"

"How did you know?!"

"It's my job," says Jamie G., "plus our sensors take inventory."

"I'm sorry. I don't like seeing food go to waste."

"Oh, that won't happen. Don't worry!" He rips open the plastic -- I envision rich golden-green oil welling at the brim. I turn, watching him spill precious liquid into his hands, rubbing them together.

"That's pretty fancy skin cream, Jamie G."

"Not its ultimate use, Miss 34A..."

I feel Jamie G., all hot and hot pinked against my bare thighs. One olive-oil-dressed finger makes a maiden voyage, probing an untreaded passage.

"I've never done this!" I say, surprised.

"I read your booking form," replies Jamie G., "and am familiar with the Miss 34A history. You're curious. Or...?"

"Yes. I'm an intrepid traveler who believes in exploring untrampled spots off the beaten path."

Jamie G. concentrates on his spelunking, adding oil and more fingers to my Chunnel.

"It's chiming time for Big Ben," he announces, momentarily departing from my posterior. He fits a new condom on his timepiece, tossing it abundantly with salad dressing. He imitates the clock tower, gently gliding his wide-bodied fuselage inside my evacuation door.

"Ding Dong Ding Dong, Ding Dong Ding Dong," he sings,

"Ding Dong Ding Dong, Ding Dong Ding Dong.






(He is completely within me by the fifth Dong.)



It must be 07.00 in London. I am being driven by a piping baguette and speculate whether our destination is not Paris instead.

Jamie G.'s body covers my back -- on top like a tandem parachutist -- and begins to buck, pressing, deeper yet, transcending what I thought was the frontier; my head mashing the cushioned pink wall as if it were a pillow. His heat, his weight, his touch, his voice, his breath, his cock, his smell. He sends me into a raptus: besotted, mesmerized -- I would do anything for him.

"Wait until you see the CloudBursts™ I'm going to drop," he whoops. "You won't believe your eyes!"
"Hold on!!" commands Jamie G. between primordial squawks. Turbulence never comes at a convenient time and this occasion is no different; we are also descending. My rear is airborne but his architectural anatomy tethers me, as do strips of belting. The airplane rattles and shifts altitude at a jerky pace. One hundred women are screaming, whether from sheer ecstasy or fright I have no idea. Through the thin curtain I sense vague luminous rectangles: one hundred video screens flicker like winning slot machines in Las Vegas -- one hundred chartHERflight™ paths beaming enough necklace bling to stock Tiffany's.

Jamie G. pulls a mouth-level telescopic disc from the wall. Out pops a pink rubber cock, like a magic trick snake. "This will stabilize you," he says. My lips surround the pink horizontal. Indeed, with this orthodontic-retainer, his salad-dresser holding up the rear, belts cinching my waist and our ankles, the 747-400 could flip over, twirling three times like a test pilot action, and we'd still be right where we are.

I am flying. We are flying, high, very high, in the sky; soaring -- the airplane's nose pointed down, Jamie G.'s cock ascending. A smoldering liquid oozes from the skyhook tickling my uvula. It tastes like semen, pineapple, cumin and is rather appealing. I produce appreciative noises while drinking; I am tanked.

"That's our MaidenBlaster™ fuel," says Jamie G., hands grasping my midsection. "All Coachmen donated. It's running this bird, too, oil prices being what they are -- circulated throughout the cabin as well. But it's only to be shared with extraordinary passengers -- like you, Miss 34A." When he utters my name fiery oil loads his condom -- I wiggle my ass in response, captivated by every word -- and, at that precise moment, wheels kiss tarmac in a smooth touchdown. There is applause, maybe for the landing, or our floor show, its shadow play likely visible from behind the scrim. My rectum contracts, thirstily guzzling what remains of the olive oil, my throat behaving similarly with the MaidenBlaster™ fuel. Jamie G. keeps Big Ben ticking as I shudder.
Ladies and Ladies: Welcome to London Heathrow Airport. Local time is 07:40. For your safety and comfort we ask that you wait until we have come to a complete stop at the gate before summoning your Coachman to properly assist you with deplaning. On behalf of MaidenAir® and the entire crew, I'd like to thank you again for joining us on this very special voyage. We hope you've enjoyed the flight and look forward to seeing you onboard again in the near future. Have a nice day and thank you for coming and going with MaidenAir®!

Once the airplane is halted Jamie G. detangles us, tucks himself in and helps me up. I can barely stand or walk. He provides careful guidance back to 34A, unlatches the overhead bin and reunites me with my New York City mourning costume. The chartHERflight™ screen is overflowing. Static pink circles throng the original line; offshoots have blossomed, forming a flow chart -- not much can be seen of water and continents. Jamie G. takes a hot pink 1-inch-diameter badge from his trousers. Two yawning black m squiggles, resembling tiered birds spread in flight, span edge-to-edge. He pins the ornament to my jacket. "Miss 34A, you've earned your wings."

I cannot deplane without assistance. Jamie G. knows that; it's his job. He supports me as we wait to disembark. I dangle my SKY-BAG™ -- it's all I can lift. We begin moving, slowly, behind other passengers -- many of whom are also having trouble in the basic ambulation department -- and their attendant Coachmen and Coachwomen. While vacating I glimpse the cockpit yearningly; pilot and co-, sitting: grinning, sunburned, pink. Next time I'll ask if I can visit.
One hundred pink wheelchairs fringe the ramp outside the airplane exit door. Jamie G. settles me in one and we're off. We pass the boarding gate where a batch of giggling women -- gazing at us in wonderment like hungry puppies -- awaits this particular aircraft, departing for JFK in a few hours, after it's been cleaned, refurnished and refueled: one thousand MaidenAir® Coachmen are probably within a designated hangar, taking that matter in hand at this very instant. I am wheeled to the luggage carousel where our bags, home-delivered courtesy of the airline two weeks pre-boarding, are swiftly retrieved: one hundred identical pink rolling duffles, front and back touting MaidenAir®'s logo, with the phrase I'm coming and going! -- figure-eight orbits of white calligraphy -- repeated in an overall pattern.

Jamie G. hitches my bag to the wheelchair, rolling us toward Customs and farther, through a series of automatic pink plastic-padded sliding doors -- gaping swollen labia as they open -- until we greet crisp English air. A hundred black London cabs are queued; one is hailed. With pink duffle deposited in boot, Jamie G. transfers my still-trembling frame onto the back seat, and bids me adieu.

"Good-bye, Miss 34A," he says, leaning against the lowered window. "It has been my pleasure taking care of you." Jamie G.'s odor perforates the confined space, entrancing me, and I realize: those were his pheromones emanating from the nozzle like a genie from a bottle. I was sprayed with Jamie G.; held under his knee-weakening spell the entire voyage -- during my occupancy of 34A, and directly from the source when unseated in his vicinity. I am too spent to do anything but smile.
I watch Jamie G.'s figure become a pink matchstick, then vanish beyond the plump-lipped aperture of the pink MaidenAir® terminal. I roll up the glass to contain and enjoy him for as long as I can.

I begin to doze and am roused by my burly, behatted Cockney-accented cabbie:

" 'ello, Lovey. Are we coming or going?"


He starts his engine and we launch into the thick of London, webbed in early morning haze, on the wrong street side. I hope two weeks here fly by as I'm already thinking about my return trip.
Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.