plane-145480_640You know those titillating Carl’s Jr. TV commercials? C’mon, don’t be coy. You know what commercials I’m talking about. The series with those well-endowed babes dripping hamburger sauce on their not so private parts.

So the wife and I are on a flight home from a weekend getaway and I’m munching on a really great steak chipotle sandwich. All of a sudden I get this idea: If all those Carl’s Jr. femme fatales can achieve notoriety with their droppings, why not me? What have they got that I don’t?

So, by calculation (you wouldn’t think I was just a tad careless, would you?), I dripped some chipotle sauce right on my shirt. I looked around to see who would notice and send my modeling and acting career soaring. What kind of reaction I would get?

Sure enough. I drew the attention of not one but two hotties.  The wife, who just rolled her eyes, shook her head and went back to her magazine, and the good looking, young flight attendant who I’d noticed already couldn’t keep her eyes off me. (Or was it the other way around? I have a standing license from the wife to look so long as I don’t touch.)

Looking for an excuse to engage with me, Chelsea walked over (you don’t think I didn’t manage to get her name) and asked if she could be of help. Of course, I said that would be very kind. She said she’d accomplished great things with club soda and would be right back.

She returned in moments and started rubbing my chest (my shirt!) with a damp “cloth” of sorts. Blushing, she said she knew it looked strange, but it worked better than a regular . . . napkin.

That got my attention (her remarks, not the massage). I looked closer at the cloth she was using. It had an outer blue liner and an internal soft white material. It looked familiar. I kept staring at it as Chelsea worked her magic and the spots on my chest (shirt!) disappeared. When Chelsea withdrew and the sexual tension had abated for both of us, I turned to the wife and asked how could that tiny pamper possibly cover the bottom of even the smallest baby?

The wife just looked at me in disbelief, rolled her eyes again, shook her head again, and went back to her magazine. Subsequently, when she read this blog as my highly regarded and cherished freelance editor (work with me, I’m skirting danger here), she said to me that what happens in flight should stay in flight, that a gentleman does not invade matters reserved to the Sisterhood, and that if I dared to post this blog she’d revoke my license even to look.

Whatever made her think I’m a gentleman?


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