May 2007 - Fred has to go back to northwest Kansas to help his parents in the cleanup of the family farm destroyed in a tornado two months ago. This is the third time he's been out to help, staying anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. I've been out there twice, getting in the way more than helping, but at least I can drive his elderly mother the 45 miles to the nearest Wal-Mart for the essentials it takes to run a home. Starting all over isn't easy, especially for a woman of her age. For me, it's more like babysitting than anything else, but I like to think it helped a little.

I've told Fred I would be happy to go with him. They're my in-laws, so to speak, so I'll help if I can, as long as I can have liquor. In a town with a population of about 350, counting the dogs, I need liquor, damn it! A gay bar? I don't think so. Denver is at least a four hour drive away, and in the outback of Kansas, it's not a good idea to be caught gazing longingly at a cute farm boy's crotch. Since I can't do that, a bottle of hooch is mandatory. Fred agrees.

I can't take off work for an entire week, so we decide Fred will drive out by himself, I will fly from Kansas City to Hays, Kansas, a few days later. We're amazed to find that there actually ARE scheduled flights from K. C. to Hays! Who knew?! He'll pick me up at Hays International Airport for the 3+ hour drive to his hometown. After a few more days of cleaning and salvaging, we'll both drive back home to Kansas City.

I'm excited. I enjoy jetting off to exotic places like Hays.

I haven't been on an airplane since before the September 11 attacks, and don't really know what to expect at the airport. I've heard I will have to take my shoes off, and possibly be subjected to other not-so-nice searches, so I opt for not wearing my metal cock ring. I don't even own a metal cock ring, so it's an easy decision to make, but figure if I did own one, it would not be wise to wear it. I've heard stories of how those little devils – or big devils, as the case may be – can trip the metal detectors.

I get to the Kansas City airport the suggested 2 hours before takeoff, wearing clean underwear just in case. Yup, gotta take the shoes off. I walk (it was more of a prance, really) through the metal detector with no problem. No buzzer, no «Step over here please.» Well damn it! The security cop was a hot looking man, too! I quickly try to think of something to do to make him frisk me. It doesn't work. I grab my shoes and shuffle to the waiting area.

Of the other passengers in the waiting area, one catches my eye. Quite tall, probably 6'3.» Wavy black hair, close fitting blue jeans, work boots. Nice. Very, very nice. Upon closer inspection (imagine that!) I notice his forearms. Hairy and well-muscled. This guy looks like he just stepped out of a Gillette commercial. Or, more likely, a Built Ford Tough pickup advertisement. The man is beautiful.

For the next 2 hours I fantasize about the security cop, Mr. Forearms and myself intertwined on a bed somewhere doing all sorts of no-no things to each other.

For a brief second, my Southern Baptist upbringing kicks in and I'm deeply shamed by my «recruitment» fantasy.

Screw the shame! I return to my dark, delicious dream of the handsome men. Security cop has his tongue in my ear. Just as I'm licking Mr. Forearm's neck, a pert young voice announces over the loud speaker, «If you're going to McCook, Nebraska, get on the second aircraft on the left. If you're going to Hays, Kansas, it's the first aircraft on the right.»

What the hell? I look out the window of the waiting area. There are 6 airplanes, 3 on the left, 3 on the right. They're tiny little things. This is NOT what I'm expecting. I'm used to Delta or TWA (yes, it's been a while since I've flown) and a covered tube to walk down to a plane that seats 150 people. What I get is a hot tarmac, verbal directions and an itty bitty plane that seats 19. There probably won't be Bloody Marys on this flight.

Did she say the first one on the right? The second one on the left? I'm not sure. I head for what I hope is the correct airplane. When I climb the five steps to enter the plane, a guy wearing clothes that kind of look like a uniform asks, «You goin to Hays?»

«Yeah. Are you?»

«Yeah.»

Success!

As luck would have it, Mr. Forearms boards and takes the seat beside mine. (There IS a God!) This is a small plane. The aisle is – maybe – 20 inches wide, with one seat on either side. Forearms sits down, stretches his right leg out, brushing it against my leg. (Oooooo!!) He flashes a smile, showing me white, perfectly straight teeth. «Excuse me» he says.

«That's ok. It's kind of close in here.» I say. I was tempted to add, «I enjoyed it!» But this is Kansas City, not San Francisco.

We small-talk for a minute or two. He's close enough that I can smell his breath. Minty fresh, of course. This man could not possibly have bad breath.

He's saying something about his farm, 35 miles from Hays, but I'm lost in beautiful green eyes with eyelashes any drag queen would kill to have. I'm gently stroking the inside of his thigh, my hand moving upward slowly. Just as I'm licking his neck again he says,

«………she's giving birth to our fourth child in August…..»

Shit.

Married.

Four kids.

My fantasy of joining the Mile High Club with this incredible man is dashed.

Oh well. I guess that's why they call them fantasies.

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