I typically admit that I'm not the easiest guy out there, though I'm often driven by the desire to fuck as often as possible, and let my dick do most of the seeking. I most certainly find myself scanning for opportunities everywhere I go.

One such time, after working an event out of state, I picked up on one such opportunity at the airport baggage claim. She had a presence to her that exuded confidence and comfort, without conceit or self-righteousness. She fit most of my bill, with an athletic appearance like a triathlete, and the business demeanor of an attorney.

I could see she'd ride me perfectly, for as long as we needed, without the bullshit to drive each other crazy – and not in a good way. The crazy she's drive us to would leave us both panting.  

I don't even remember how I approached her (I sleep on planes habitually, and am still coming to as I circumnavigate the airport), but I know that we definitely caught each other's eyes before making our way to the parking lot shuttles. I was on the phone and noticed her as she pulled out a complimentary reminder business card, and when I saw we were headed in the same direction, I made sure to announce it.

She and I continued to casually converse, but with enough flirtation and tension that cased even shuttle driver Sheryl to throw me curious looks, wondering whoe my new Sunday travel companion was, and how we were so involved without her prior knowledge.

(Is it sad that I travel often enough for the shuttle driver and I to have formed a kind of friendship bond?)

I found out that this girl worked in marketing and was originally from the east coast, both points that left me more turned on, though a little more precautious. Maybe not a lawyer, but she still could manipulate her way through my zipper – and quickly.

I couldn't wait to be tangled up in each other's clothes as we ripped them from each other, and that we wrestle each other immediately. Had we not been next to the highway in the middle of the day, I think that we were about 30 sex…seconds away from doing just that. However, we were already finding that we were both lived in the Hollywood area and were caravanning toward a weekend-ending fuck-fest.

We exited the parking lot elevator on her floor and turned the corner as she set off the unlock button of her car. Her little red car, 12 spots from our steps, lit up in the afternoon light. The bleep of her security system turning off, and the announcement of her doors being available, shone like a beacon.

Minor problem: she drove a Mini-Cooper. I faked a text coming in, and said that I'd call her later, as I turned toward the elevator.

She reminded me that I didn't have her number. I confirmed this as the doors shut.

Sorry, clown, this ride is for adults only. 


Francesco Marino.

LA Weekly