Wenis Rubbers & Sexual Touching

by Rachel Gertz

Our flight back home was almost two weeks ago, but this is too annoyingly comical for me to forget. 

We had spent two weeks in Mexico (see misadventures here) and were winding down our week by watching the Canadian political debate. If you hadn’t heard, our country has been launched into it’s fourth federal election in seven years. Why, you ask? Because our country is run by assholes, no matter what party they represent. Never before could I boast that watching four old idiots yell at each other for two hours was better than marital sex. 

Yeah, I’m getting old. Screw your snarky face and go eat mustard. So, you think your government leader is corrupt? Ours is a robot. Check out Shit Harper Did if you don’t believe me. Prime Minister Stephen Harper was found in contempt of parliament and only pets kittens because he needs the positive press. Also, his hair doesn’t move.

Anyway, the point of the above is that we were up till about one am incredulously watching the smeary government debate and a five am wake up comes disgustingly quick. I’m skipping a bit, but that’s not really important. 

No sooner did we hop into our ticket line up, we were stopped by a Continental airline crew member. “What time is your connecting flight from Houston to Calgary?” she asked. We were supposed to fly out at eleven to be home by four pm. “That flight only runs twice a day. It’s impossible for you to fly out at eleven. You’ll have to wait in Houston until 5:45pm. That’s when the next flight leaves.” Well thank you for nothing, Continental. Not even an ‘what’s up’ email.

Only six hours in the god forsaken Houston airport. Shit.

Now, I’m pretty sure I shared the extent to which I loathe Houston. But if not, let me remind you: I hate Houston in a way that satan hates small, awkwardly flailing babies. It is inconceivable that Houston has a soul and if you think it does, I am afraid that my horrible bias will trickle over you as well. Houston is Tallahassee’s cancer polluted whore. It bleeds from a hernia called mediocrity.

Umm, where was I? Yes. So we spent a good six hours in the Houston Airport. But not before our first simultaneous pat down. It was as horrible as we imagined. Houston is set up as a giant organ with armed guards at every throbbing sphincter. You will pass discreetly through the guts of this machine but not before being poked, pinched, frisked and downright fucked. The nice lady who led me to my sexual assault area thoroughly explained where she would touch me and how. There were places she touched where no one else had ever touched me. I actually started questioning my sexuality for 2.3 seconds after the second swipe of the groin —to the point of resistance. 

And, while we’re on the topic: telling your assault victim what you’re going to do to her does not makes it less traumatizing. I think they call that premeditated rape when it occurs outside the confines of an airport. The agents do change their gloves, though. Then they swab them with a paper-like disc and scan them with a light that either beeps green or red. If it beeps red, you’re in trouble. You probably have ebola. Or you’re a meth head and you have to go in for round two.

We only flickered red and then went green again. Cleared by Homeland Security once more. 

It’s ok, though, we got loaded on airport beer. After two weeks of Sols, Coronas, and Pacificos, American beer whetted our lips like a battle axe of  barley strength. We wobbled across the moving sidewalks. Not that you should judge me for this, but it’s the only time I ever walk faster than anyone else.

Of course, this story wouldn’t be complete without a little flying frenzy. Little did we know that our flight to Calgary was packed to the gills like a brothel of rotting sardines. We were lucky to get on at all, and sat in separate rows without complaint. 

Now here’s the fun part. I got wedged in the middle. I hate the middle. It’s totally the bitch position. The window seats get the view and the great head resting space. The aisle seats get the easy bathroom access and a dramatic reduction of claustrophobiacs. The middle seat doesn’t even have an effing name. It’s just the middle seat. Lolling your head to the right or left results in a putrid whiff of your seat mate’s oily, dandruff encrusted scalp.

I’m not sure Trav’s stick was as short as mine. He whined that he got stuck between two large-and-in-charges. Large-and-in-charges suck because they tend to spill over your chair, but mostly they’re quiet and unobtrusive. They read SkyMall and nap lightly with their mouths open. My situation was way worse: I got wedged between two frat boys. Well, not real frat boys because we don’t really have that Alpha Omega equivalent in Canada. Their names were Byron and Adam. They were suit and tied and they were 1st year geology engineer graduate students from Calgary. First year drillers. In fact, they had just won a drilling competition for oil and gas in Houston and they glowed with glistening pride. 

I once won a drilling competition but for a different kind of drilling.

I must tell you the whole frickin’ four hour flight had me roasting on a spit between these two drillers’ wenises. Those douche vesicles (and I mean that nicely) jabbed their elbows into my side and had the audacity to nap peacefully for three hours straight while I locked myself into a tetanus inspired catatonia to take up as little space as possible. Point Adam to Byron was laced with abysmal discomfort in the same way a rat succumbs to its last line of arsenic. It was slow and painful.

I leaned forward and tried to read, only to have the dumbbell in front of me clang me on the forehead when she lowered her seat. There’s an invisible boundary known as ‘economy class’ that you just don’t fucking cross. And she crossed it.

I sat politely for the remainder of the trip cursing all of those c-words and their syphilitic mothers. 

PS: Byron and Adam, if you ever read this, which I doubt you will because you obviously have the combined intelligence of a moth ball: I have nothing against you personally. However, you need to know that your drilling profession is seriously a dick hole.

The final straw might just have been when the asshole lady in front of me asked the flight attendant for a blanket. He responded rather curtly, “we don’t have blankets.” And then softening, “ever since H1N1, we’ve had to get rid of all our blankets. It was just too risky.”

Right, because the greasy seat backs and unsanitary recycled air in the plane wouldn’t have anything to do with the spread of a disease that came from an animal who has never flown a goddam plane in its life.

Done with flying.

At least till I get a hankering for another soaring sexploitation. 

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