I was going into my fourth year with Continental, and had spent all that time in the engineer’s seat on the DC-10 in Honolulu. Not flying the plane was driving me crazy, and my scan (the practiced, patterned review of the flight instruments) had gone to shit.
My last job had me flying six and seven legs a day for Eastern Metro, Jetstreams without autopilots, in and out of Atlanta-Hartsfield. I had been at the top of my game. My scan had been developed to a point where I saw all the instruments at once. This mid-focused Zen state allowed me to know everything about the airplane’s performance, without consciously realizing it. Now it was all gone, replaced by rust and lethargy.
At that time, Singapore Airlines was hiring expatriate pilots for their 747-400’s on five-year contracts, and I was more than ready for the change. My FAX and phone correspondence paid off, and I was invited out for an interview in Singapore. They provided tickets for me, and I arrived in Singapore with a few days to spare before my appointment.
To get my weight-to-height just right, I went at it whole hog, jogging for months. I rented a suit for the interview. Some friends from CAL Honolulu base had preceded me out there, and I lunched and had dinners with them, to catch up on old friendships and to pick their brains for information about Singapore Airlines and life in Singapore.
Wishing to have a good night’s rest before my important interview the coming morning, I booked a massage through the hotel, for six in the evening. This was to be a legitimate massage, not the “steam and cream,” so common in the orient.
At six P.M., I dutifully present myself at the hotel’s health spa, and I’m introduced to this gnarled, chestnut-colored Malaysian woman who was to do the honors.
Disrobing in her private cubicle, and positioning myself face-down on her table, I was almost asleep by the time the old lady nudged me to turn over. This was going to be perfect. I was going to have just enough energy to crawl into my own bed for a great night’s sleep. Lapsing back into my stupor, I was totally relaxed when her mouth engulfed my penis. My entire body levitated off the table. My mind, racing to catch-up with this unexpected sensation, directed my mouth to say, “What? What?”
“Theengensahr.”
“What?”
“Theengensahr.”
She pointed to my unresponding member… “You have to make certain that the engine is working.”
I mentally slap my own forehead, oh “The engine, sir” is what she had been saying, while offering me this extra service.
The speed of thought is faster than the speed of light, I’ve always believed. Unbidden, my brain instantly asks my dick and my conscience, in that order, whether I can lay here with my eyes closed, pretending a young, pretty girl was fellating me for love, not for money. The answer came back, and “no thanks” was my response.
I’ve told this story to Geri, who finds it hilarious, as I do.
Once, I told it to D.B., and when I was finished telling him the story, he looked at me in his shit-eating, fish-eye way. “Now Steve, your tellin’ this story to me now, not to your wife,” waiting for me to confess my guilt.
I broke out laughing, not saying another word.