Billion Dollar Stranger - Stephanie Brother

1

NICOLE

One in fifty people meets the love of their lives on a plane. I read that in a magazine somewhere. Is it the close proximity or the hours of forced polite conversation that can turn to more? Is it the potential shared interests as you jet to a chosen destination? Is it more likely to happen in economy or business class?

I ponder all these questions as I fasten my seat belt and gaze out of the tiny oval window onto the gray airport building as rain forms puddles on the asphalt. Then I tell myself that statistics like that aren’t real. They’re made up for entertainment value. They get people talking, and maybe dreaming. They’re like the fairy tales of the modern day, filling our heads with romance where romance doesn’t really exist. I glance around at the other passengers seated with me at the front of the plane; balding, red-faced, round-bellied. These are the men who are driving the trans-Atlantic business world, not setting anyone’s loins ablaze.

It has been a while since I felt any kind of sensation between my legs. When a relationship ends as mine did, it’s hard to trust, and sex without trust is not something I’ve ever considered. I need a man who’s neatly contained in a bubble of commitment. That’s what keeps my heart safe and my reputation white. It’s how I’ll end up in the kind of blissful marriage my parents have, and that’s what I want more than anything.

The suited businessman nearest to me turns and catches my eye before grinning. There’s a pale-yellow tinge to his teeth, probably caused by drinking too much coffee, and a jelly-like consistency to his neck. And there it is – the truth of what really happens between men and women on planes.

“You heading home?” he asks, with an accent that is so southern, it’s practically dripping with molasses.

I shake my head. “Leaving home,” I say.

His eyebrows rise like two salt-and-pepper slugs. “I love the British accent,” he says.

I want to tell him that there is no such thing as a British accent, but I do the polite British thing and keep my thoughts to myself. To terminate the conversation without being rude – heaven forbid – I begin to dig around in my bag for my phone and the trashy magazine I picked up in duty-free. Mr. Slug seems to get the message, turning to fiddle with the controls on his seat-back TV.

The magazine starts with the usual “10 products that will stop you from looking like an old hag,” followed by “20 outfits no one can afford and would only fit on someone shaped like a pencil.” I flick through, feeling drained by everything that is supposed to be aimed directly at me. Either I have subconsciously slipped out of the target group for this kind of literature, or these kinds of publications are missing the mark. I’m fed up with reading things that make me feel bad about myself. I want articles that inspire and uplift me. I want to know about people who are making a difference in the world. Buried somewhere near the back is an article about sex and relationships. I don’t know why I bother, but I scan through it, finding a sentence that jumps out at me: “Why is it that men can see sex purely in terms of a physical release, but women generally attach more emotion?”

I nod, finding my own attitudes wrapped up neatly by the statement. The author goes on to say that sex should be seen more in terms of its physical benefits and encourages women not to tie themselves in knots of guilt over needing sex outside of committed relationships. Her opinion is that women are oppressed by misogynistic attitudes. Alongside the article is a picture of a shirtless, smooth-chested, six-packed god of a man, and for the first time in a long time, my pussy warms at the thought of sex.

I miss it.

There, I can actually admit it to myself.

I need the release. That euphoric feeling of chasing an orgasm until you finally jump over the edge into oblivion. I need the weight of a man on top of me, strong hands holding me down, fierce eyes burning into mine, everything overwhelming.

I need it, but finding it with all my past experiences dragging me down seems impossible.

I’m a good girl – a respectable girl who makes sensible decisions.

I’m a successful career woman with more important things to think about than sex.

I’m a woman