“I don’t know. Maybe I’m talking out of my ass. Seems logical, though. They’re supposed to be pure and stuff, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Dude. How much torture do you think one man can stand? He already has to feel guilty about whacking off. He’ll never, ever get to put his dick in anything warm and wet and soft unless he buys something from one of those porn stores. The only good thing left is getting shitfaced.”
“The thought of having to resort to something like that makes my hangover feel like it’s not so bad.”
I nod in agreement. “I hear orgasms help get rid of headaches. When your friend comes back from buying condoms, you can test that theory.”
“I’m waiting until we’re on the plane.”
“I plan to destroy that bathroom like all the others I’ve been in today, so you might want to reconsider that option.”
“I’ll get there before you have a chance to annihilate it.”
“Pfft. Good luck with that.” I’ve mile-highed before. It’s not as awesome as people make it out to be.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the hard metal chair. I need to schedule a massage. My back is all knots. My massage therapist is going to be pissed at me for letting it get so bad. I pay her good money to manage my body, though. Plus I have a trainer who will force me to do yoga and a bunch of other non-manly-yet-super-effective training until I’m back in order.
Maybe Sunny’ll want to give me a massage when I see her. Better yet, maybe it’ll have one of those happy endings I’ve been hoping for.
I hunt for my phone in my backpack. I find it under an exploded power gel pack. It’s covered in the sticky goo.
“Jerking it to pictures of the girlfriend again?” Randy asks. There’s almost zero intonation, so it’s not as funny as it could have been. Also, it would be true if Sunny was willing to send me some good pics, but I haven’t asked since we’re not in a place where it’s kosher.
“She sent me a video message last night,” I lie.
I don’t know why I’m bothering to check my phone in the first place. It’s totally dead. There aren’t a whole lot of places in this airport to charge it, and I’m not all that interested in sitting on the floor by the one outlet across the room to make it happen. The plane will have a port. I can do it then.
I use the sleeve of Randy’s shirt to clean the screen.
“What the fuck, Butterson? Did you just wipe your splooge on me?” He practically jumps out of his seat. He must stand too fast, because he stumbles and grabs his head, almost careening into a woman walking by.
He grabs her by the waist and apologizes. She looks terrified, and also possibly interested. I toss the mostly empty packet of power gel on his seat and root around for a Wet-Nap in my pack. I find one at the bottom of the bag, under the now slightly soggy kid art. Tearing it open, I clean my phone. This is when emergency bathroom run number one happens.
I’m out of my seat, clenching my ass cheeks, and gunning for the bathroom just as Randy sits on the half-empty gel pack. I’m sad I don’t get to see his reaction, but I can hear him yelling, so that’s something.
Karma gets me for the gel pack. Our flight ends up being delayed thanks to a three-hour rain storm. I make five more trips to the bathroom before we board the plane; two are false alarms, but the other ones are genuine emergencies. I even push someone out of the way to get to a stall. I apologize while groaning through the first wave of hell. On the positive side, the stomach cramps seem to have slowed by the time I take my seat in first class. I pull my hat down so the brim covers my eyes, stretch out my legs, and relax while the rest of plane boards.
“Sir.”
A tap on my shoulder forces my eyes open. It’s a real task. All I want is to sleep until we get back to the States where chicken wings come from chickens. I blink and focus on the brunette standing to my right in the blue uniform.
She’s smiling the standard flight attendant smile. “All bags need to be stored in the overhead compartment for takeoff.”
I’m hugging my backpack. At some point I must have started using it as a pillow. “Oh. Right.”
“Do you need anything before I put it away for you?” she asks. Her eyes drop to the bag. I want to keep the Imodium with me since I’ve been chugging it like beer at a frat party.
“Yeah. Hold on.” I open the pack, find my phone, passport, and anti-shit serum, then zip it up and pass it over.
Once she puts it away, she hands me one of those inflatable neck horseshoes. “If you need anything else during the flight, just let me know. I’d be happy to serve you.”
It would be a normal thing for a flight attendant to say, except she ends it with a wink that makes it seem like she’s offering more than the usual services. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Takeoff is fine, apart from more stomach gurgling. Randy is in the aisle across from me, one seat back, still flirting with the woman from the lounge. If he’s honestly planning to mile-high it today, he should hit the bathroom and wash off his light saber. As slutty as I’ve been over the years, I’ve never done anything that gross. Not that I can remember, anyway.
I’m reformed now. I have a girlfriend. Okay. Sunny hasn’t quite agreed to be my girlfriend, but we’re dating, and I’m not seeing any of the bunnies on my contact list. I’m not even answering their calls or replying to their Facebook messages, or tweets, or Instagram comments.
Getting Sunny to believe I’m only into her is more of a challenge than I expected. Relationships are way more difficult than I remember them being in high school.
During my first season in the NHL, I tried the girlfriend thing. It was long distance. I lived in Miami with the team I’d been drafted to, and she was at college in South Carolina. It didn’t seem that far. I had all this money, and I hadn’t learned how to manage it yet. I figured I could fly her out whenever I wanted.
It didn’t turn out to be quite so easy. She met some guy in her program and broke it off with me at Christmas. After that, I decided it would be better not to get serious. There were plenty of girls who were cool with it just being about orgasms and no emotions. And I was good with that, until I met Sunny.
Since we met, we’ve been talking on a regular basis. I’ve even flown out a few times to see her. The situation is a little more complicated because of Waters.
This trip to Haiti didn’t happen at the best time. Things were already a little rough with Sunny before I left. I wanted her to come with me, but she already had plans to attend some conference on karma or chi or something like that. Sunny’s really into chi.
Anyway, I got a little clingy—meaning I Facebook-stalked all the posts on her wall and maybe sort of kind of threatened to kick some guy’s ass for saying she looked great. I apologized, but I’m not a hundred percent positive I’m totally forgiven. Then I took a call from a bunny while Sunny was sitting right beside me.
After ten days of no contact, apart from last night’s phone call, I’m thinking I need to start stepping up my game.
As an NHL player, I can get pussy whenever I want. I’m not being an egotistical jerk. I’m just stating facts. I’ve been cashing in on this for the past several years, so I know. After a while it starts to get a little…I don’t know what the word is. Lonely, maybe? Boring? Hot sex isn’t quite as hot when it’s followed by selfies of me and the bunny in bed with captions like “I SCORED with Butterson!” Trophy, smiley face, celebration horn emotions included.