I take airplane flights, at huge heights

9/9/2002 9:55 AM EST  I never liked flying in the first place, used to have nightmares about it. Not nightmares of dying in a plane crash or anything like that, just of getting on a plane. In the nightmare I’d be walking up one of those staircases like the president walks down waving, the ones they rollup to the door on the plane. I’d be walking up the stairs screaming, fearing for my life. I mean these are simply small tubes of aluminum that we sit in while whizzing around the sky. If you think about it, this concept is insane.  If God wanted us to fly and all that.  Yet here I sit. 32,000 feet up in the air. I almost didn’t make this flight, almost ran the hell off right at the start when the captain announced “Ladies and gentlemen, this is you captain Omar…”. A red flag popped up. I’m just a little hypersensitive these days about planes. And guys named Omar.  This was my fourth flight for business this year but it being the week of the one-year anniversary of that day was grating on my nerves. I’d never flown for business before, never had to. This is my luck, planes are hijacked and flown into buildings and a few months later I start flying all over the place. Fuck me.  10:45 AM EST  I looked out of my window and saw maybe 10,000 feet below us a small plane flying in the opposite direction. It seemed so miraculous to me, to be so high. Then I realized that as miraculous as it was, it was still manmade. I am enjoying my sense of wonder and amazement for a moment before I remind myself to remember to be nervous and scared. But I feel like a child right now, curious, excited. But this flying thing contradicts every instinct I have. Flying over West Virginny now…   2:47 PM EST  Probably somewhere over New Mexico or Nevada right now – not sure , but I think I saw the Grand Canyon before – but it didn’t look so grand. Sky has been clear the whole way making for an excellent view.  Where the fuck is the guy who was sitting in my row? He had a kosher meal and slept most of the way, all of a sudden he hasn’t been in his seat for almost half an hour now! Strange.  Flew over some farmland an hour ago. I think it was farmland. There were these circles all over the place and for the life of me I can’t guess what they were.  This flight is ridiculously long – I’m writing just to kill time. I try to tell myself I’m afraid because I don’t have control and other such obvious analysis of the situation, but I’ve never been a control freak.  Whew! The guy who was sitting next to me just came back. Thank god, I thought he was in the cockpit slitting the captain’s throat.  “This is your captain speaking. We are now flying over Flagstaff, Arizona. To the right of us in the distance is the Grand Canyon.” OK, I was wrong before about the Grand Canyon. It must have been a different, less grand canyon because this mother I was looking at now was big.  Thank god, Arizona – That’s right next to freakin California!  I wish the baby across the isle would shut the fuck up.  The grand canyon is pretty big after all, even with it being so far away from me right now, it still looks huge, you can see how big and deep and empty inside it is.  Is that plane in the distance heading for us??  On the overhead TV they are showing the Brady Bunch. It’s the episode where they are lost in the Grand Canyon. Coincidence? Or psychic phenomenon? Or is it a sign? Hmmm…  Fucking turbulence is making me crazy!  I wish I could live in LA, or in Cali at least. I think I’d prefer San Diego, but I don’t know why. I think the area might make me more active, but I doubt it would be that simple. I don’t think I’m a lazy ass just because it snows sometimes in Jersey.  More circles on the ground. What the fuck, they are everywhere. We must be getting close to LA now, the air is getting yellow. There did not appear to be too many cities between here and the NY/DC area. Not much development at all. Lots of brown and tan and green. Many beautiful mountains with trees peppering their faces like five o’clock shadow. Flyover states, indeed.  9/13/2002 2:16 pm PST  Well, here I sit on Continental flight 1187 on my way back to Jersey. L.A. was great. Went to see The Queers and The Muffs (both were extremely loud and fast, the way pop-punk should be)  in Anaheim. Went to a Dodgers game. Beautiful weather every day. People were friendly. Lots of traffic, no subways. Never thought about that fact before. I wonder if it’s because of the earthquakes? Hello. Could there be more hot chicks in LA?  Luckily, working for pharmaceutical companies who have money coming out their assholes, I was put up at the St. Regis in Beverly Hills. I didn’t see much of the real LA, but the view from my suite was awesome, and the bathroom had a Jacuzzi. I feel like I swindled someone on these trips.  I guess I like to write while I’m flying, it distracts me.. I was very busy meditating because my nerves were getting the best of me. Focusing on breathing to distract myself from every bump in the air. “We’re not meant to be in the air” something always tells me. Then I compare my paranoia to the calm exteriors everyone else on the plane seems to have. I watch the flight attendants for signs of trouble. When I think we’re about to go down in a fiery spiral of death, I hear them in the back gossiping. It didn’t help that this particular conversation I was hearing had the women flight attendants complaining about the passengers and how tired they were of dealing with some of them “Yes, I know the food sucks”, “No, you can’t smoke” they were saying, mimicking the passengers.  But it was a distraction, and any distraction was worth its weight in gold to me, even if for a few seconds. I read all about how planes operate on this fear of flying website which seemed to help my logical right brain for a few seconds the other day. I can’t remember a word on that site now. Something about pockets of air….  As I sat and distracted my mind from the complete loss of control and utter helplessness that was eating away at my sanity, I realized I was really getting anxious. I wanted to scream literally. Not like when you say “Oh I’m so mad I could scream”, but I felt that I needed to physically scream at the top of my lungs and punch something. Unfortunately this will get you arrested on a plane these days, perhaps jumped by the other passengers as well.  I’ve taken four flights this year and I feel I have logged enough airtime to be able to say that I never get used to this. I said this to the ticket lady before boarding the plane. She responded with a quick “Is it the flying itself or the loss of control?” and I smiled politely and said “both”.  I could tell she’s recited this line a thousand times to passengers who say the same thing as I did. I did appreciate her attempt at help, though.  Now, on the flight back to New Jersey, I was a little better. I slept more. I always sit in the back row if I can, changing my seat at the e-ticket check in when there are whole rows available so I can stretch out. I think I feel more comfortable back there, listening to the flight attendants and not having so many people around me to see my fright and terror.  8:16 pm EST Maybe it’s the intense marathon of six hours in a freaking plane, but I feel a little more sensitive than usual. On most days my thought process doesn’t go much beyond what am I eating tonight, where am I getting it, and if there is Rangers game on tonight. (there isn’t, the season hasn’t started yet, but I like to be on my toes). But I was really pondering the heroes of that day for some reason. The captain announces that we are approaching Newark airport and I start to think about how I am, at this point, probably going to survive a terrorist attack on this particular flight.  That day made me realize, albeit a year later, that I think of groups of people in terms of my personal experiences with them, which undeservedly colors my opinions of them. I always thought firemen and policemen were pretty much tough-guy, knuckle-dragging, beer-guzzling, softball-on-Sunday laying mouth-breathers  I came to realize, besides the obvious fact that all generalizations are false ( get it?), that their jobs are, in fact, heroic, My fear that police are corrupt and firemen are dumb shows how affected I let myself get by my own prejudices and fears. After that day, on all the interviews, shows, specials, and documentaries of these people, I looked into their eyes and I saw…us. America. Well, maybe not me because I’ve never been someone who would actually die for a cause. I might, and I need to stress the word “might” here, jump in front of a bullet for my own mother. But it would depend on how old and sick she was, because if she’s on her way out soon anyway…  People willing to die for a cause. I can’t imagine any of these brave men and women took these jobs, trained and studied to pass certifications and exams without ever once thinking that part of their job might be to die someday. And after realizing that, still coming in the next day, accepting the fact, and going on with their lives.  I couldn’t do that. I don’t even like to walk the city streets late at night. I’m a chicken. But these people accepted this fact as a naturally as we all face our own deaths. We know it’s coming, but we try not to think about it. Sure there must be a percentage of the fireman and policemen who thrill on the danger, just like a mountain climber, skydiver, and other extreme sports participants. But not all of them could be thrill-seeking danger addicts, could they? I don’t have the numbers , but a large number of them must have families. Families that would hurt and grieve if they died. So why do they do all this without being insane? I'm guessing some for the prestige, some out of lack of options employment-wise, but most out of a desire to simply help. These are (I know, I know) heroes. Hopefully I won’t become desensitized to the bravery or underestimate the word hero ever again. How easily I judge and how pervasive and sneaky these stereotypes can be.   We are approaching Newark and I am actually enjoying the views out of my window. It is really amazing to be up that high. I love geography. I look out the window and try to figure out where we are in NJ when I know we are close. Otherwise during the flight I can only guess where we are. They should have a GPS on the little TV screens so you can see exactly where you are. It would be cool to look at the landmarks and know that what you are seeing is, say “South Bumblefuck, WV” or whatever. (2012 edit - they do, now) This part I do like, looking out at the ground when we’re about, I’m guessing ten or fifteen thousand feet up. Or closer, not really sure.  As we approach Newark EWR, (soon to be changed to Newark Liberty, a nice compromise I guess.) The plane arcs right and we turn south to approach the airport. Out my window to the left is…what is it? I still can’t tell even though I know we’re close. Is that the turnpike? No it’s route 280 . I could swear I saw the same hilltop apartments in Morristown I can see on my morning drive in on route 24. They look cool from up here.  Another couple of minutes and another arc turn later I can see the GWB. Cool! Then I see the island of Manhattan. It’s brilliant! It’s incredible and I wonder at how grand these structures are. Enormous structures built over the land to fit our needs. The New York City skyline always makes me marvel at the ability of man to make such a testament to creation.  Then it hits me. This is when I notice it. And it surprised me I haven’t noticed it before on previous flights. I gaze at lower Manhattan ( there are no “e”s in “Manhattan” I find myself saying in my head. I don’t know why, but it makes sense). The early evening setting sunlight makes the buildings look bright. All tan and earthy like one giant strip of sand castles.  My eyes trace the building outlines and focus on the spot where they were. Those buildings that were cut out of the sky, Lorena Bobbitt style.  “Fuck” I say to myself. This sight is so beautiful and yet, I simultaneously realize and then wish I hadn’t realized, it’s the same sight that they saw. When those people took over those planes and kamikazied them into those buildings on that day.  We’re close enough for me to imagine my plane suddenly veering left and flying fuck-all into the face of a skyscraper. How sad to have such a beautiful view be your last. I mean, if there is any justice, your last view is a tropical island somewhere while you’re having a dream when you’re ninety and then you kick the bucket in your sleep.  This just isn’t fair. I start imaging it for the first time. I don’t know why I never imagined this perspective before, but I didn’t. This is the exact view they had that day. The view from the plane right over Manhattan , looking down into the streets, maybe even into a window at some gaping office worker who might have been wondering just what in fuck’s name was a plane doing over lower Manhattan.  Then in an instant it’s over. And so are my thoughts. We land. I silently thank god for being on the ground. It’s funny how you find religion when you’re freaking the fuck out. And just like that I’m back. Familiar ground. Newark isn’t the nicest place to be, but I’m happy to be there. It’ comfortable in it’s familiarity.  Life takes over. “Bills, which ones first? Where’s the money coming from? Will work suck when I get back? I’d like to travel a lot more, if it wasn’t for the actual travelling. Will my neighbors be noisy this weekend as usual? Am I neglecting my girlfriend? My family? Myself?”  I learn no lesson from my experience an instead fall back into my familiar pattern of safe grumbling. But I am home. It’s good to be alive.

So, this girl moves in downstairs...

So this girl moves in downstairs, replacing the other girl who moved away. She's been living in New York for six years, is a social worker, and very friendly. I met her in passing the other day

"Hi" she says.
"Hi" says I, "You're Adrienne, right?"
"Andrea" she says as my embarrassment cuts the conversation short.
Then I was on my way. She said something about being away for the weekend. Whatever. She's really cute and I get that feeling in my stomach. That feeling you get when you meet someone that you just know has personality, that you could just bet you'll be able to talk with.

Cut to last Saturday afternoon, I'm learning how to play spades with my other downstairs neighbor and his gay friends. And she shows up.
Her trip was cancelled or something. I ask her if she wants to hang out tonight and she accepts. She is off right then to see her friends by where she grew up. I return to my game of spades.

Later that evening I sat smoking on my porch and she came strolling up with Jay. We all sit and smoke and talk for a few minutes. Jay is going somewhere or something so it's just me and her, off to dinner. We go to the Broadway Grille. She was there the other day with Matt. Oh well. We have dinner and some nice conversation. She tells me about her family and her life. I'm very interested in her. I worry, though, when a guy seems to interested does he come off as needy? I back off.
"Let's go to the movies," I say, hoping she wants to go as well.
"Yeah, she says, let's go," she replied seemingly excited about the idea.
So off to the movies we go. On the way to the theatre we pass the local Go-Go bar.
"There's the local go-go bar," I say, stating the obvious.
"You'll have to take me sometime."
"You'd go with me?" I ask incredulously, knowing that I haven't been to a go-go bar in years and years.
"Yeah," she says "maybe I could meet some cute girl"
My mind goes "Huh?"
"Huh?" I say.
"Yeah, I'm pretty open in that regard" is as close to a quote as I can remember because I'm starting to get that feeling again. And it's not the idea of her with a woman, although that fucking rocks, it's the idea of her as pretty goddamned cool, liberal, open-minded, and sensitive.
But I say none of these things, passing it off as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it is.
Cut to the theatre.
Waiting in the lobby for the movie to start Andrea and I get into a conversation about backrubs.
"And who doesn't like backrubs?" we concur. She offers that tickling is just as good, though. I love to tickle, to touch, to feel warm skin against mine. Always have. Love contact, life. She rubs her soft fingers against my inner forearm and I shudder. It's been way too long since anyone has even touched me, let a lone tickled me. She's good, I think to myself.
"You're good." I say. She smiles. Great fucking smile.
We go to see "Bridget Jones Diary" Renee Zellweigger (sp?) is looking very cute and the English accents turns me on.

We get back to my (our) house. As I pull in I remember I want to get some smokes at the store. But before that I ask her rather bluntly "Are you a lesbian? Or bi or something?"
remembering the comment at the go-go bar and amazed that I forgot about it in the first place.
She says something to the effect of "That's a tricky question...sort of...maybe...long story..." Well, whatever, I think to myself.
"I just remembered, I want to get some smokes at the store" I say to her. "Wanna come with?"
Figuring she's had enough of my weirdness, I assume she's just going to go to bed, wanting to spend the first night in her new place.
"Yes" she says. Cool. We go to the store. The one-toothed, cross-eyed clerk gives her some shit about walking in with an open bottle of water. We have a good laugh outside and curse the homely bastard.
We've had a lot of laughs tonight. I'm enjoying it.
Back home she says "let's go have a smoke on the porch"
We go to the porch.
"It's freezing, wanna go upstairs to my apartment?" I say, not even remotely thinking about hooking up with her.
Again, she surprises me with a simple "yes."
We have a smoke. Check out my cat. Have a few more laughs. She doesn't seem to need to drink every time she's hanging out and I think that's really great. I don't mention it much though. Who knows why.
"Would you rub my back, it's really stiff."
"Nah, I don't think so," she says in reply to what must have seemed the most over-used come on in the world.
"I know that seems like the most over-used come on in the world," I say, "but I'm not trying to come on to you, I just haven't had my back rubbed in a long, long time."
We haggle some more for a moment or two. She again surprises me with a "yes."
Ten minutes later after having said back rubbed, she asks me to do her. Her back.
I love to give massages, and even if I didn't, of course I said yes.
I rub her back. I tickle it. She moves her shirt up. "Don't get excited" I tell myself.
"Don't get excited," she says reading my mind.
"Come tuck me in" she says, or I said, or something....

Cut to her bed. We're cuddling in a very cozy comforter. We touch. Innocently. We touch some more. Not so innocently, but surely not leading anywhere. I can tell she doesn't want it to. I'm fine with it. I like to touch. I am thrilled with the closeness of our bodies, the heat, the touch.
We eventually kiss. She's a great kisser. We sleep awkwardly. We sleep late. It's Sunday, so fuck it.
Later that day she goes to dinner with her closest family, and I go to dinner with mine.
I'm thinking about her while I'm there. I'm annoyed, as usual, with my family and the massive project it always is having dinner with them.
I go back home.
She's there. I help her move her furniture around, organize a few of there things. Mostly I sit nervously and talk with her. We agree that we really like each other. Or maybe she was just agreeing with me. But I don't think so.
"But I don't want to lead you on. There's a chance I find women more exciting than men, with men it cuts off at a certain point, at least physically, for me," she tells me in here room while putting away her clothes.
I'm holding a cordless, phallic shaped drill in my hands that bend three-quarters of the to the top so you can get in corners or some such nonesense.
I hit a button on the drill and it bends over, going limp. Too easy, I say to myself, and let the limp dick comments pass by.
For some reason, I'm not surprised by what she said and digging the fact that she cared enough to warn me, or tell me, or share. We get into a conversation about sensuality.
For the first time in my life it hits me like a ton of bricks. Sensuality. That's the fucking ticket. She's not really explaining what sensuality is, more just having a conversation about it, but my head is swimming all of a sudden.
It's amazing what happens when you hang out with someone your own age for a change.
Anyway, we talk some more. She likes me and yet she's basically telling me it won't go anywhere. Disregarding the cliched man-type attitude of "I can make her want me, even if she wants a woman, because I'm the man!" I proceed to really, really enjoy talking with her.
I give her a hug and tell her I enjoyed sleeping with her and not having sex more than I would have if we did fuck. She responds with "Good, because I'm not sure if that will happen" It's harmless and honest and I'm not offended in the least by the comment. Another in a long line of fucking mind blowing feelings I'm having with her. I don't even care. I feel like we know each other very well even though we don't. I trust her for some reason when I don't trust anyone. Even before the previous conversation I was thinking less about sex and more about...well...just her.
It's not the challenge, it's not the thrill of the chase, and it's not wanting something you can't have. She's simply very agreeable to my constitution in a way I don't know if I've ever felt.
We go upstairs to my apartment for a sleep-over. She seems to be into that, or me, or the company, or whatever. I don't care. My bed's been empty for too long and I'm practically exploding with the desire to just...well....lay down with her and run my fingers across her back. Why? If only I fucking knew. The story of my life.
We cuddle and touch and talk and kiss and feel and it's a good thing. I could get used to this.
"I could get used to this." I say to her wondering if I'm coming off as clingy when I'm not. And I try to let her know a few times that I'm not trying to "win her over" or something like that. But I think my excitement about her in general is very much obvious.
We sleep in again. We fool around in the morning, my favorite. She tries to leave, but I don't think she really wanted to. I keep her there, trusting my assumption that I'm not pressuring her to stay. We fool around some more. We're getting into it and she's starting to feel guilty over getting me so excited. So she lends me a hand. And a mouth.
Like an asshole I'm worried about the fact that she's doing it to please me and not because she wants to, but because she's nice enough to care about me that way. Or whatever. And so as incredible as out little interlude was, I still was pretty nervous.
I want to make love to her. Badly.I thinks she wants to too. But she doesn't want to. I mean she wants to, but not now. Or ever. But not now. Or maybe never. But, I can tell physically she wants.
I've crossed the line I think. I feel bad and apologize. It's seems to be ok. We spend the rest of the morning talking and laughing and talking some more.
We go to lunch after searching all around town for someplace open. We enjoy each other again. We kid around about getting married and her having a woman on the side. Something completely foreign to me takes over and makes me feel like that would be just fine if we could, actually, start a family together. And it would be fine. Because I'm starting to think that I care about her. And in doing so, I naturally care that she does things that make her happy, even if it is sleeping with other women.
"Well, duh." I hear the devil on my shoulder say to me. "Of course you like that, you typical man." But it's more than that. It's her. She's incredibly easy to be with, smart, sexy, fun, open, adventurous, sensitive, caring. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
No, I'm not falling in love with her. I could, maybe, someday, if I really got to know her. It's just infatuation right now. Yet it's more than that. It's like I got the right side of my brain back after being lost at the cleaners for a few years.. My emotions have come back to me after a long stint on the disabled list.
I'm not falling in love with her, and I really hope she doesn't think that because it would completely scare her off.But damn, my instincts about these things have never failed me before.
Yet, I still wonder how she feels, although she gives me every indication of really caring about me and enjoying me.
It's kind of overwhelming, but I'm determined not to let it get serious and ruin a great thing.
When she left to take a shower before we had lunch, I kept her comforter in my room as a bargaining chip to spend yet another night together.
She sees right through it but leaves it there anyway. We kid about how the past few days seem like weeks. We make all kinds of plans like people do when they start dating someone and they're trying to convince that other person that, yes, we will be seeing a lot of each other so it's okay to make plans. Or maybe it's a joke.
But we're not dating. It's simultaneously more than that and less than that, it's unexplored territory. A new frontier. For me, anyway. I can't speak for her. But I know she really enjoys herself around me. Will it end? I really don't see why it has to. We could be best friends. But that fucking scumbag devil on my shoulder is slipping in questions like "Is she just nervous being in a new place without knowing many people?" I am, after all, I think very approachable and friendly enough.
But it seems to good to be true. And if it seems that way, experience tells me it usually is.
Will I fuck it up by wondering these things? Maybe she really is feeling like I do. Because normally, I wouldn't give a shit. It always takes me a few months to really get comfortable with someone. I can be friendly, yes, but I can be very difficult to get to know when it comes to intimacy. It's a survival thing, I tell myself.
One thing I know for sure is I hope this relationship, whatever level it evolves on, is a fun, caring, and stress free as it can be. I don't want her to get confused by me in even the smallest way. Again, I would normally just let the girl worry about her own feeling and me worry about mine, but I have this urge to see her happy. To see her smile. I have this feeling she deserves it. What the fuck has come over me? When did I wake up and become human?
This is the story of my life.
Is it too obvious that living in the same house will inevitably cause problems?