"I'm sorry, sir, there have been severe thunderstorms in Chicago, and O'Hare airport is closed for the day. All flights in and out are canceled" The flight attendant was really tired of this. She'd been saying the same thing for an hour. It was hard to relate to the bad weather; here in Atlanta it was warm and sunny. Some people acted as if it were her fault, others were more sympathetic, but they all had the same questions. "City of the Broad Shoulders! Hah! Why do they let a little rain stop them?" "Can I get on a different plane, direct to [insert Denver, Minneapolis, Toronto, etc.]" "I expect the airline to reimburse my hotel bill!" And so on.
At least some of the passengers were cute. Like that boy she just talked to. Cute face, pretty good build, probably on the swim team, pleasant to talk to. Couple of inches taller, he might be really hot. He also looked broke, poor kid. He'd probably have to spend a miserable night here in the airport, then half the day tomorrow. At least he didn't have to change planes again. Chicago was his destination.
Like I said, he was cute, but not so cute that she wanted to grab him, hustle him off to the local digs for flight attendants, fuck him into a daze and then pass him around to any other stews who shared the same place. Even if it had occurred to her, she was due to fly out to Philadelphia in a couple of hours, where her husband would meet the plane. So, yes, this is a porno story, but it doesn't involve sexy flight attendants.
The boy, Carl Baldwin, really wasn't all that young; he'd turned eighteen just last week. And 5'8" really isn't all that short. Otherwise, he would have agreed with her appraisal. The way he thought about it, he was good-looking enough that a girl wouldn't kick him out of bed, but she wouldn't knock herself out to get him into bed in the first place. That was the story of his life, anyway. He was a virgin, though not for lack of trying. He'd get shy and tongue-tied. His buddies even set him up once with a known pushover, but he botched it. (She was nice, though. She never told the guys what hadn't happened.) The funny thing was, he had a solid, forceful personality in everything else he did, and even funnier, his schlong was a good inch or more longer than average, which looked huge hanging from his sort-of-short frame. He knew these things could be sexy assets, but he just couldn't close the sale on a date. You've known guys like him. You might even be one. Mostly, he needed some self-confidence.
He was also broke. It was his fault; two days ago, the night before his buddy's wedding, he'd gotten drunk and gambled his cash away in an Indian casino that wasn't too diligent about examining his fake ID. He had no credit card, which was probably just as well. His parents were camping in Canada. They'd deliberately left their cell phones behind, but what could they have done anyway?
His only alternative to spending the night in the airport was to call his aunt -- his mother's oldest sister, who lived somewhere in the Atlanta metro area. The problem was that she was a large, domineering, bitch, and a borderline alcoholic as well; a thoroughly unpleasant woman. Her husband was worse. They had a daughter a couple months older than Carl, but he hadn't seen her, or any of them, in years. He assumed his cousin was the defeated, crushed soul typical of such families.
Still, it was only for one night. He'd call. The worst that could happen was that they'd turn him down. Heart in throat, he used his AT&T card to call information. Luckily, their number was listed, and yes, he'd pay the extra fifty cents to be connected. His aunt Hildy -- Hildegarde -- answered on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Hello, Aunt Hildy? This is Carl Baldwin, your nephew. . . Yes, it has been a long time, how are you?. . . What do I want?" He explained his predicament. "I know it's a lot of trouble, Aunt Hildy, but I wouldn't have bothered you if I weren't desperate. . . No, my mom doesn't go around badmouthing you. . . She says she wishes you two got along better. . . I know she's the only family you've got, but . . . Well, thanks; I appreciate it a lot. . . Lower level, USAir? Black BMW, ten years old? Forty minutes? . . . I'll find it. And thanks an awful lot." She'd hung up. 'And goodbye to you, too,' he thought.
He hoped she wasn't drunk, not yet. Twenty minutes later, he'd found the rendezvous, but she was there first, standing by a car answering her description. It was lucky she'd done so, because he'd have never recognized her. He remembered her as huge -- six foot one, his mother once told him, and about that much in diameter. Standing there, she seemed way over six foot one, and statuesque, or Amazonian, not obese. She was no supermodel, but she'd done some serious work on her physique; slim, for a 50-year old woman, and strong. She reminded him of an extreme version of those before and after pictures in the windows of Jenny Craig stores. Maybe even a boob job; those orbs jutted straight out from her chest. If she were standing in the noonday sun, they'd give shade to her entire belly. Her outthrust gazongas also reinforced her whole aura of sexiness, written large. Long ponytail, past her shoulders, red with henna. Her face -- well, it was easy to see that she must have been a beautiful girl, but all those years of hard drinking and hard partying had left it weathered and lined. Overall, though, a very handsome, if scary, woman.
"Aunt Hildy?" he asked, still not sure it was her.
"Yes, Carl, I'm your Aunt Hildy, and I wish you'd been here when I arrived."
"Sorry, Aunt Hildy, but didn't you say. . . " He let it go. "I'm sorry; I should have hurried. Should I put my stuff in your trunk?" He had one suitcase, because his tux for the wedding couldn't go in an overhead-compartment sized bag. That and a thick book, the second of Shelby Foote's three-volume history of the Civil War. Maybe not the best book to be carrying around Atlanta, come to think of it. He stuffed it into the bag.
She opened the trunk. "In here." He guessed she meant the suitcase, not him, and hoped he'd guessed right. As she went around to the driver's seat, he sat in front; she didn't object. She started to drive. He didn't think she was drunk.
"What are you doing in Atlanta, anyway?" she snapped.
"I went to a friend's wedding in Jacksonville. I was supposed to change planes here." He'd explained all this on the telephone.
"Well, you're lucky I was home. Otherwise you'd have gotten Rachel" -- his cousin -- "and she'd have gotten lost three times on her way here."
"How is she?" Carl asked. "And Uncle Bill?"
"Fine, fine. Bill's away, though. Some remodeling contractors' convention in Nassau. Probably just drinking rum and chasing girls," she chuckled without mirth. "And the girls are probably running."
Carl gulped. "You look great, Aunt Hildy. Have you been. . ."
She gave him a sidelong, hey-kid-what's-your-angle look. "Quit drinking, and smoking. Doctor's orders," she interrupted. "Four, four-and-a-half years ago. Couldn't stand A.A., and I had to do something, so I joined a health club." She smiled her first happy smile for him. "Gyms are just as addictive as booze. Don't say I didn't warn you."
