My dream –
In my 1953 Cessna 180, a four-seat, high-wing, high-power, taildragger, light aircraft, which I kept at Boeing Field, I had flown a couple of clients from Seattle to Las Vegas, and would be there for the duration of a tech electronics trade show, three full days. I was not staying on the Strip, but off-strip, in the real Las Vegas, where the locals lived. I had a favourite hotel there, with clean rooms, and a policy of non-intrusion practiced wholeheartedly by the management. They were former yet never-die hippies like me. I had rented a car, though I had not planned on using it except for essentials. Eighteen years sober, those didn’t include booze of any kind.
One of those indispensables, at least occasionally, was the better food on the Strip. That day, Friday, my first full day there that trip, I felt like noodles, Chinese noodles, specifically 炸酱面, available at its best in Las Vegas at Beijing Noodle No. 9, on Appian Way, in Caesar’s Palace, very close to the life-size replica of Michelangelo’s David.
Mid-morning, I was seated without a wait, in the corner, looking out to the entrance; so that I could watch the passing traffic, and enjoy the fullness of the space. The menu is huge – thirteen pages – but I ordered what I came all the way to the Strip that day to order – 炸酱面. Most of the other customers were Chinese, speaking Mandarin. I spoke Mandarin to the server.
Just as my tea arrived, a very attractive Chinese woman entered alone. She wore a simple white cotton sleeveless blouse and hip-hugging black linen mid-calf length pants. Her heeled sandals were of white leather; her large bag, too, of white leather. When she entered, she wore large dark brown-tinted sunglasses. She was escorted to a table against the wall, right next to mine. I nodded in polite greeting. She, more cautiously, it seemed, returned the gesture.
She was you. We had never met.
When my noodles arrived, in Chinese, I asked for some vinegar. You, settled now, apparently surprised, said to me, ‘You speak Chinese.’ ‘I do,’ I replied. From then on, we spoke for the most part in Chinese. You remarked as well that I was having 炸酱面, and you were going to order that, too. A conversation began that never ended. I learned that you were from Beijing, in Las Vegas with your husband, who was attending the tech show. He was busy; so you were on your own. I told you that I was a writer, a poet, but also a pilot, and that I had flown a couple of techies down for the show. I was on my own, too, ’til Sunday evening, when we would return to Seattle. There was no intent to flirt, but simply to maintain a balance in voluntary disclosure.
At your demand, I began without you, but your noodles came soon. We continued to talk while we ate. You asked how I knew Chinese? I asked if you had ever been to the States, to Vegas. As we talked, I revelled in the feast you were to my eyes. You smelled good, too; not of product, but of yet undiscovered marvel.
When we were done, I asked you if you had seen David. You had not. I offered to accompany you there, and then to continue with you on along Appian Way, perhaps to window-shop, or shop, and certainly to carry on with our conversation. Outside Beijing Noodle No. 9, with your phone, I took your photo. We then went to David, where I took two more photos of you with your phone.
We carried on, walking leisurely, continuing to chat. We laughed. We grew more familiar with one another. Still somewhat restrained, I was sure, you became more and more relaxed. You took my hand while climbing stairs, your eyes invited rather than withheld, your body surrendered to its natural demeanour.
We went into a couple of shops to look at summer tops and dresses for you. While you tried them on, I waited. With each garment, you came out of the dressing room to show it to me, to get my opinion, it appeared. I was flattered. You were so very beautiful. I liked everything you tried on. At one shop, you bought a cotton blouse of the lightest powder pink; and another cotton blouse of charming, delicate blue forget-me-nots on white. At another shop, you bought two short sleeveless summer dresses, one in aubergine cotton voile, and one in orchid silk organza.
Our stroll down Appian Way concluded, boldly, I asked you if you would like to go for a ride with me, to see how the real people of Las Vegas lived. You were hesitant. We had just met. Instead of saying, ‘No’, though, you asked, ‘Can I trust you?’ I responded, ‘I could ask you the same question.’ Then I explained. Trust is a two-way street. We had to trust one another equally, or not at all. You could have us followed, and off the Strip, pulled over. People could be left dying on the pavement. Or, as I trusted that you were real, you could trust that I was real. My logic brought a smile to your face. Texting your husband, you agreed.
Our drive was fun. While looking out of your window, observing everything that was new and different, again, the conversation never lapsed. I drove by the hotel where I was staying, and asked if you needed a break, some water, a pee. You said, ‘Yes, all three.’
My room was simple – a bed, a table, a desk, a couple of chairs. You put your bags down, and rushed to pee. I had cold water ready for you when you came out. Sitting down, you saw my flight bag, with two headsets, David Clarks. You asked, ‘Why two?’
‘Without two, I couldn’t talk to the passenger sitting beside me.’
You were tired. You had not recovered from your trans-Pacific flight. I suggested you lie down on the bed, and take a nap. You did not resist. You fell asleep immediately. While you slept, protectively, I watched you sleep; tenderly, I surveyed all of your vulnerability, then so innocently exposed. At the desk, I wrote a poem – a poem for us, then, there, or anywhere else we might have found ourselves together. That poem, still unbeknownst to you, made me feel closer to you. It expressed the fondest for you that was burgeoning in me.
You slept for three hours. When you awoke, it took you a few minutes to realise where you were, and with whom. You thanked me for letting you sleep. As you had survived that period of susceptibility unharmed, you, at last, laid down your defences. I suggested we go to the café next door for something to eat. You were hungry.
Over chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, and sweet tea, we began to flirt. We were in a different place than where we had begun. We had persevered through the hard parts, confirming the destiny of our encounter. It was now time for our reward. Across the table, we touched fingers, then hands. Under the table, our feet, then legs, touched, then entwined. As we progressed through dinner, our passion rose. When finished, you took out your phone. You told me, openly, I am texting my husband. I am telling him not to worry, that I am with friends. As we left the café, I put my arm around your shoulder. You leaned into my chest. We held hands as we walked back to my room, our hands pulsing with anticipation.
I could not open the door fast enough. Inside, door closed and locked, we kissed fiercely as we tore off our clothes. There was not the slightest hesitation, not the faintest doubt. We had not come that far only to come that far. It was time to fuck.
As we fell on the bed, I immediately went down between your legs. I lifted up your legs, and buried my face in your wetness. You tasted of heaven. I literally dug my nose and mouth between your juicy lips. I licked and tongued and gently pulled and nibbled. Lifting your legs higher, and bending your knees, I sunk my tongue into your other hole. In and out, in and out, in and out, licking in-between. Sublime. Delicious.
Your began to squirm with urgency. I raised up, positioned myself above you, and in one steady thrust pushed all the way up inside of you. Lowering my upper body down on top of you, as I fucked you, we kissed. With every push, I gave you everything, yet with every push I gave you more. Enfrenzied, as you threshed in orgasm, I began to pump you full.
That evening and night, we made love three more times before we fell asleep in one another’s arms. Between rounds, you texted your husband again, informing him that you had had too much to drink, and that you were going to spend the night with your friends, not to worry, have a good time yourself.
You fell asleep before I did, and, holding you, I thought of something crazy. I would tell you in the morning.
In the morning, we fucked again, then showered together, then went for breakfast at the same café. You had pancakes; I had bacon, eggs, and toast. We both drank coffee. While we ate, I made my suggestion to you. I did not hold back. I acknowledged that it was insane. You smiled in anticipation.
‘Let’s get married this morning, and then I will fly us to the Grand Canyon to spend a one-night honeymoon.’
You reminded me that you were married. I assured you that Las Vegas marriages were not like marriages anywhere else. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. We would stand in front of an officiator, say our vows, exchange rings, kiss, be pronounced husband and wife, be given an unofficial testament of ceremony, then ushered towards the door, paying the clerk on the way out. Nothing would be held to be legal until we made it so, if we chose to make it so. In other words, it would be between you and me.
Your smile broadened. ‘But do you love me?’ ‘Yes, I love you. I love as much of you as I have been given to know.’ ‘I love you, too, same way. Okay, let’s get married.’
At the wedding chapel, I bought a simple silver band for you. I suggested that if it was alright I would place the ring on the index finger of your left hand, as your weeding ring was on your ring finger. Waiting our turn, I composed my vows in my head. There were only two couples in front of us.
Standing before the officiator, these were my vows to you –
‘I love you with a love that will loosen every fetter, disemburden you of every constraint; a love that will set you free, free to pursue your own majesty, your own destiny. My marriage to you is a promise to you alone, between our two hearts alone, with no other witness but the fate that brought our lives together. Whether, then, together, or apart, find strength and courage in my love, for it, like a memory most precious, will be with you forever.’
‘And with my marriage to you, you, too, my dear, are free. With all my heart, I, too, give myself to you.’
I placed the ring on your finger as we had agreed. We kissed. On parting, we stopped by the clerk, paid the fee of $200, got our testament of ceremony, and left, husband and wife. We rushed back to my hotel room to fuck, before checking out, returning the car, and leaving for the Grand Canyon. It was a 50 minute flight. I had flown it many times before. We were excited. We had done a very daring thing. Bound for the time being only to ourselves, we had gotten married. It was a marriage entirely of love.
You were in your dress of aubergine. With your David Clark’s engaged, sitting right beside me, close enough to touch, I got us in the air. As soon as we were at cruising altitude, you flashed your black panties at me, then took them off. Already, still, wet, you began to finger yourself. I had to fly, but I watched you as I could, stifling my arousal.
At the airport nearest the Canyon, we took a shuttle to the site. I had reserved one night in a private cabin close to the rim of the Canyon. Once inside, with the door locked behind us, we fucked again. You reached one orgasm while we were in flight, but I had to hold mine. A small plane is not like the bench seat of a pickup truck. It is not possible to fly by the seat of your pants while having your cock sucked.
After fucking and showering together, we rushed to the rim of the glorious Grand Canyon. I had been before; it was your first time. You were enthralled. The power of the Canyon is all-commanding. Holding hands, we walked and talked. We were so in-love, knowing full well that love was something different. We were astonished at our craziness, our recklessness. We had only one more night. I had not yet read you my poem. I wanted to do that. More than anything else, though, I wanted to hold you, to kiss you, to eat you, to fuck you, to love you.
We had a bad dinner, but we did not care. It was merely an interlude between Canyon gazing and fucking. When the sun set, we were in for the night. We talked about going forward – forward with our lives, with your other marriage, with our marriage, with our love. What was going to happen? Did it matter? No, it did not. This was all contextual. We knew that. Destiny would take care of us as it had already. None of what we had experienced in the two days we had spent together had been in vain. Holding each other, we kissed, then fucked again. Throughout the night, every time we were the least bit roused, we repeated that refrain.
In the morning, we had to be out by 11:00. We said goodbye to the Canyon, and made it to the airport. The flight back was just as fun. This time, it was in your orchid dress of silk organza that you fondled yourself again.
Back in Las Vegas, as soon as we landed, you got a text from your husband. He wondered if you would be able to join him and his colleagues and their wives for lunch. You read the message to me, then sighed. You didn’t want to, really; but you did, too, really. You were a married woman, not just make-believe. It was time to restore that certainty.
I understood, of course. Our time, this time, was nearing its end. In another rented car, I drove you to your hotel, the one you shared with your husband. You would have to freshen up for your lunch. I did not want to let you go, but I did, too. Fairytales only last so long.
Before we parted, you thanked me for everything. You thanked me for my insanity, for my bravery, for the freedom I demanded, and the freedom that I granted. You said that you would never forget the vows I spoke on ‘our’ wedding day. You said that you would never forget that we were ‘married’, even though no one but us would ever know.
As you got out of the car, I remembered the poem that I had written for you. With tears in your eyes, you blew me a kiss goodbye. With tears in my eyes, I spoke the words, ‘Be free.’ You hurried to resume your other life. I drove off to mine.
Here is the poem, with all love it inspired, despite, still, and always –
If one lets go, if but for the briefest of moments, falling feels like flying. At night, perception of depth denied, constraint eluded, all the blackness is but embrace. As pilot-in-command, when flying for real, my own discernment, experience-schooled. Daytime, with the sights below, or nighttime, the revelation of the lights now glinting, attentive always to my instruments, to heart and mind, I can make it to my destination, or make it to dawn – whichever comes first – most surely. No leap of faith ever surveyed its landing prior to the jump. Be the master of your own destiny. Afraid before a fall – fly!