I'd made the flight from Spokane to Bonner's Ferry many times before, but usually had few charters once winter approached.
This day the weather was marginal, leaving me to wonder if I shouldn't tell my passenger that we would have to wait till morning till the front passes. Besides, he was late, and I was tired, hot, and now annoyed as well.
He finally showed up, occupying the passenger seat of a tiny red sports convertible. For several minutes he just sat there, as he and his young driver had what I took to be their goodbyes; but when the door opened, I could see his companion slipping his hand from my passenger's left thigh. He stepped out, looked over to me as I waited by the wing of the airplane, and waved. Almost at once - as a habitual gawker of the male body - I could feel the stirrings that clearly must be linked to my visualizing what his thigh must have felt like.
As he walked over to the plane - actually, he sauntered in that mesmerizing swagger that puts the very best spin on the male torso - my attentions to his thigh now slipped a bit northwards to the full, round prominence behind the fly of his Levi's, leaving little doubt as to the maleness of my charter customer. The stirring in my own Levi's was now undeniable, as my musings were interrupted by...
"Hi, I'm Rob. I guess you're waiting for me. Sorry to be late, but I was... detained a bit," glancing back at his ride who apparently was going to wait to see his friend take off.
"Hey, no prob," I responded weakly. "The problem may be this weather, though. It'll get worse before it gets better. I'd even given some thought that we might want to wait till morning before attempting Bonner's Ferry."
"Well, it's your call," he said, "but it means a lot for me to get there before noon tomorrow. And besides, after today I have no place to stay hereabouts. I thought if I flew out today I'd be sure of making it. But you do what's safe - it's your call."
A part of me (the professional charter pilot) wanted to wait. Another part wanted to stay with this hot looking young guy, and not send him back with his "companion."
"Perhaps we could take off, and judge things from the air. If weather holds, we get through; if not, we land and put up for the night at an airport on route." "Sounds good to me," he said. "Lets go."
Rob was obviously in his twenties, obviously rich enough to be able to hire a pilot and a plane that could seat eight, obviously male, and obviously - intentionally or otherwise - sending messages directly to my groin.
I confess to having spent my recent years as a firm [|-)] observer of the younger male members of my personal society. For me there has always been a real turn-on to watch a nice, round, tight butt filling out a faded pair of Levi's, particularly when their occupant projected that certain matured innocence of youth not yet gone - a quality of casual nonchalance about his own well formed male body that nature designed to entice and seduce those of us on the observer side of the dance.
He struggled up into the right front seat of the airplane, hoisting his travel bag on his shoulder. With the palms of my hands on his firm butt, I gave him the assist he needed to propel himself into the co-pilot's seat of my plane, tossing his small travel bag in the narrow aisle between the rear seats. Nice. Tight. Hard.
I'd already done my pre-flight check, so were ready to go. I made sure the doors were shut and locked, yelled "clear" to the empty field next the plane and lone figure sitting in the red car in the background. The engine stirred and the plane became again a living thing.
As I taxied across the open field, Rob said: "I can't seem to get this seat belt adjusted right. How does it tighten?" I explained, but he kept fumbling with it, having no clear success. I stopped the plane and said: "Here, let me do it for you."
I reached over, made the necessary adjustments to its length, and proceeded to couple the ends. On impulse, I slipped my hand under the belt as if to test its tightness, letting the back of my hand rest on the bulge at his crotch. "That feels real fine," he said. I'd hoped his meaning was the one I took. "Then we're ready," I said; "let's drill a hole in the sky." My attentions, however, we more than they should be on the body in the seat to my right, and the physical stirrings in the pilot.
We were airborne less than an hour, heading northeast over the low terrain between Spokane and the mountains of northern Idaho. The weather patterns were, as always, from the northwest, and off to our left we could see the frontal system converging inexorably toward our destination. It certainly wasn't a hundred-year-storm, and I was reasonably sure we could make it Bonner's before ceilings and visibility dropped to minimums.
We continued to engage in small talk about flying, the countryside below, and his plans for hiking in the mountains of the Kaniksu range of Northern Idaho. But to be perfectly frank, I doubt the weather would have been a factor in our completing the trip at this point. The airport at Bonner's Ferry had a fine non-precision approach, and the weather at our estimated time of arrival would, in my honest opinion (confirmed by a discreet call to Flight Service), be above minimums and favorable for any decision to continue.
"You know, with this weather system converging on us, if you don't really have to be in Bonner's Ferry till noon, my recommendation is that we land and put up for the night. The front is fast moving cold front, and by dawn the sky will be clear and blue."
"Your call," he said. "Is there a place to land? It look pretty barren down there."
"I know a small field near Coulin near the south end of Priest Lake," I said. I did not, however, say also that it was a seasonal field, and closed now for the winter. Yes, planes still come and go now and then, and a few locals park their aircraft on the field year round; but regular operations ended some weeks earlier. In fact I suspected it would be deserted by now. I was right.
We taxied to a spot at the edge of the field, and I shut down.
"Look," I said, "field operations are closed right now, but I have a thermos of coffee, some sandwiches, some peanut butter, and plenty of water. I always come prepared for unplanned stops." "Fine," he responded, "I'm a light eater. But with rain on the way, I know we're not going to sleep under the wing. And there are no structures hereabouts. And I don't see any foldout bunks. So what's the plan?"
He was right, of course. The airplane was not designed as an overnight accommodation. "Well, I've always been able to make do with the aisle, but then that's when I'm by myself. I know it's tight quarters, but it beats the seats."
As we talked, I undid my seatbelt. Again he complained that he could not release his. "How do you get this thing to work," he said fumbling now with the buckle. "Here, let me," I offered.
My hands slipped around the buckle below which his beautiful male prominence was now pressing against the back of my left hand. I pretended that it was stuck, and jiggled it a bit more. Then with my fingers I worked my way around and under the buckle, pressing down on his hardness, clearly with no resistance on his part to my efforts.
I finally "succeeded" in loosening the buckle, and slipped both ends across his thighs, which I patted triumphantly and said "Success!" "Thanks," he responded. Hmmm, for what, I wondered.
By the time we completed our survival class "dinner," the darkness and a light rain had arrived, and I was eager to "get to sleep." You can have the aisle," I said. "I'll try to get a little shut-eye in this seat."
"Hey, no need. We can both make the best of the aisle space. It'll be tight, but there's room enough here for the two of us. I have my bag for a pillow, and you have me as yours."
Wow! An invitation if ever I heard one. My hesitation effectively transmitted back to him my correct interpretation of his last remark. "Well, that just might work," I said. "Good," as he proceeded to settle in with his bag under he head near the cockpit - a place name which held the promise of more than just flight instruments.