Thangaiku Theriyaamal Amma Magalai Oothen
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In Places On The Run Ch. 01 free porn video
Part I
It’s hard to fathom how much we change as we amble onwards through life, but I reckon that’s why we have memories. Who knows where we’d be without memories to keep us company as we cruise along the home stretch? It’s a thought worth pursuing, but I’m unusually grateful for my mine but have you ever notices how easy it is to hold onto good memories? But then again, it’s usually pretty hard to get rid of some of the really bad ones, too.
Anyway, I was lost in such puzzles while jump-seating across the Atlantic one July evening not too many years ago, lost in the effort of trying to figure out where I’d been headed in life the past few years. I’d just concluded I had no idea, really, just what the hell I’d been doing. Sitting on high, looking down at the clouds made trying to figure out where life might take me over the next few years really quite problematic. Troublingly so, I think, given the circumstances.
And excuse me, but I really shouldn’t have said jump-seating, either. Not really accurate anymore. I’d been flying L-1011s for almost twenty years, first as an FO, with the last twelve in the left seat for TWA, but only a few months previous it had become apparent we were going to be absorbed by American. No big deal, I guess, but older Tri-Star crews were going to be retired, as it looked likely the L-tens were finally going to be phased out of service.
Retired? Don’t you just love that word. I was included in that number, by the by, which officially (and clearly) made me an ‘old fart’ — despite my holding onto the absurd notion that I was still somehow just twenty one. I have to say now, looking back on that none too subtle matriculation that the whole ‘getting old’ thing was beginning to make me vaguely uncomfortable. Too old to be retrained on a new type, but still too young to retire, at least that’s what they told me. Disposable is a better descriptive when you find yourself in these straits, even though that word hurts a little more — when you get right down to it.
So, yes, I was firmly in the ‘approaching 60’ bracket when I’d booked this flight, and with more than a little spare time on my hands (re: no wife, no kids), I began to look at my options. Royal Jordanian and Gulf Air, two Middle Eastern carriers, had both offered me jobs — and I have to say that while the pay looked good, the idea of living ‘over there’ really put me off my French fries. The more I asked around, too, the worse it seemed. Scary may be too much a word, but ‘why risk it’ always came to mind when I thought of living there. ATA, the US charter carrier, was still flying L-tens and so was a ‘maybe’, but their finances always seemed more than a little shaky to me. Still, the balance of my career would only last three more years, so maybe that carrier would be worth the gamble.
Still, I’ve never been much for betting. Especially with my career on the line.
Yet even with all these thoughts ranging around up there, there was one other thing bugging me.
My gut.
For months I’d had a bothersome pain in the lower part of my belly, and to put it delicately I’d had a change in pattern down there, and more than one FO had griped about flatulence issues in the cockpit. Small, enclosed spaces are, generally speaking, not the greatest place to float dank air muffins, and flying west across the Atlantic in daytime will earn you a place in the doghouse, no matter your seniority, when you’re ‘cutting cheese’ every ten minutes. Air conditioning systems struggle to cool a cockpit when flying into the sun, and nice, ripping farts tend to linger in the system. Anyway, when you fart and your FO starts to gag — then the Flight Engineer reaches for a barf bag, you know you’ve made the World Series. When you fart and your own eyes start watering — well, it’s time to get help.
So, one of my last acts while still on the corporate payroll was to see the Flight Surgeon, and she palpated the region and promptly scheduled a colonoscopy.
So, you say you’ve never had a colonoscopy? Well, at age 50 you’re supposed to get one. I say ‘supposed to’, because from what I understand perhaps ten percent of us actually do, and I think that number is so low because having a colonoscopy is supposed to be, supposed to be, mind you, about as fun as having anal sex with a porcupine. You go to a gastroenterologist to have this done, by the way, and you go to his (or her) office for a pre-exam screening to see if the full procedure is warranted. So you fill out the paperwork then go to an exam room and wait. And it’s a fun wait, because you know this whole thing (sorry) is going to be so much fun, and as a result your anxiety level is, well, elevated. But a fun kind of elevated, because odds are you have no idea who this new doc is. And so now there’s the usual anxiety that goes along with having some strange dude taking a long, leisurely look-see up your asshole.
Let’s take a pause here for some pertinent observations, and this is intended for the uninitiated – so hang in there.
First things first: hands make a difference where assholes are concerned. If your doc’s hands are nice and small, score that a ten out of ten. Women docs rule here, but finding a female GI is about as easy as scoring a date Gwyneth Paltrow. Medium sized hands are tolerable, but only just so. Large hands ought to cause you to break out in hives, while if you have any sense at all, hands the size of an NBA forward’s should send you running from the room in outright despair.
Why, you might ask, should you be concerned with hand size if all the guy is going to do is ram a Roto-rooter up your ass?
Well, you’ll soon find out during this initial ‘pre-procedure screening exam’.
Another issue to ponder while you wait: if you want to remain on good terms with your GI, make sure you take a nice big dump before you go in to this first exam. And do not under any circumstances eat Mexican food right before your appointment. Really, that’s just wrong.
Because after your nice, polite GI asks you all his endearing questions, he’s going to go over to that little cabinet across the room and put on a pair of those nice purple gloves.
And you have a pretty good idea what’s coming next, don’t you?
Women at their Ob-Gyn have it nice, I guess, in comparison. There they are up in the saddle, legs in stirrups, having a polite face to face chat with their doc while having a large hard ‘thing’ shoved up their vaginas, maybe a pinch here and there as biopsies are sampled, and then it’s all over but the waiting.
Not so during this first GI exam, because it’ll go something like this.
Stand up and drop your drawers, begin contemplating life’s various indignities. Turn around and lean over the exam table, try to ignore all thoughts of that last anal sex video you watched. Hold your breath, close you eyes. Shriek in terror when that cold glob of K-Y hits your clinched chute.
And try not to crack that nice joke, you know, the one where your doc’s getting your cherry and you haven’t even kissed. Listen closely as ignores you, try not to worry that he’s already heard that one four times today, and hope he has a good sense of humor.
As the cold K-Y runs down your legs the guy is actually going to have the temerity to tell you to relax. Right. Like that’s really going to happen. At this point your replaying every XXX anal fisting video you’ve ever seen, and just now breaking out in a cold sweat. You say you haven’t seen one of those videos? Well hell, Paco, you just got no clue what’s coming your way, do you? Hang on tight, and…
Enjoy. Those. Last. Few. Moments. Before…
…the first finger goes in, because unless you’ve been living with a dominatrix for the past fifteen years (sorry, not in my job description) you’re in for a fun surprise. Hopefully you’ll not have to endure much more than the one finger, unless your doc has very short fingers. If he does, then hang on, ’cause it’s Star Trek time
, meaning your doc is about to boldly go where no one has gone before.
So, why all the anal action this first time on the table? Well, he’ll palpate this region to feel for tumors inside the rectum, an area where the colonoscopy camera can be unreliable, and believe you me, when a fat fingered dude starts massaging the inside walls in that neck of the woods, well, you’re going to know it. You’re also going to want to kill your physician, but the mood will pass. Sort of.
Another thing you’ll learn that day: back in the 90s colonoscopy cameras were huge — like elephant butt-plug huge, these days they’re still uncomfortably large, hence the first bit of news you’ll receive is this: anesthesia is good. That’s right, you’ll be asleep. Not the same kind of ‘asleep’ you’d be if you were having ‘real’ surgery, but asleep nonetheless. Blissful ignorance may be a better description, but ideally you won’t remember anything.
So then, what’s all the fuss about having a colonoscopy, you ask?
Indeed.
Well, let’s add a new word to your vocab. ‘Prep.’ As in preparation for this little adventure, because this is where the real fun begins.
When your doc finishes his preliminary exam, and you’ll know this when you hear those purple gloves (now covered with that dump you failed to take) hit the biohazard disposal bin, he’ll give you some papers to take home with you filled with all the exciting the ‘dos and don’ts’ that apply starting about a week before your procedure. Common sense stuff like don’t drink red colored fluids the day before, and no chunky jalapeños up to a week before, because all these things will interfere with getting a valid result. Not to mention keeping those in the procedure room from passing out in horror.
Anyway. He’ll also give you a list of things to buy that you’ll get to drink the night before your colonoscopy. My list included something called Go Lightly, and I sincerely hope whoever was responsible for naming this product roasts in Hell. Go Lightly? There’s nothing lightly about the way you’ll be going after you drink that shit, unless you want to consider this in terms of your movements between bed and toilet. You’ll definitely want to go lightly then — but really quickly, too — beginning about a half hour after you drink your first container of that crud.
And now, here’s some more really good news.
You’re going to get to drink gallons of this stuff, and at timed intervals over a few hours. The stuff tastes like licorice flavored windshield wiper fluid too, in case you’re wondering, which only adds to your general appreciation of the proceedings. Your first 32 ounce jug goes down with all the grace of a seizing epileptic whore, if your reaction is anything like mine you’ll see Linda Blair when you look in the mirror. You remember Linda. The Exorcist’s sweet little Linda ‘Your mother sews socks that smell’ Blair? Rivers of split pea soup spewing from her rotating head? That Linda Blair?
Well, 30-45 minutes after you quaff that first jug you’ll be directed to drink another, and I promise you’ll look at that second jug long and hard before you do, because at about the half hour mark your stomach starts to rumble. Not those pleasant rumbles that come when you’re a little bit hungry, no, this will feel and sound like you’ve just eaten out a Bolivian whore’s ass. Your gut will be in full-fledged mutiny as you drink that second jug, and your very next fart will be somewhere north of earth shattering…but don’t worry…because that fart will be your very last fart, and for quite a while, too.
So, do you know what a ‘shart’ is?
This is an important question as your second fart will, more likely than not, run down between your cheeks straight for the floor. This is a ‘shart’. And I guess by this point you’ll know why that disgusting prick named his sludge Go Lightly. Oh, if you’re smart, you’ll have checked into a hotel, and you’ll have packed several boxes of pre-moistened ass-wipes — along with twenty pairs of underwear. Yes, underwear. You’ll need them to keep the goop ‘up there’ while sprinting from the bed to the toilet. It’s disheartening when it runs down your legs. Take my word for it.
Jug three goes down a half hour later, but you’ll probably drink this one while still seated on the throne. Your alimentary canal by this point is a one-way, non-stop chute, only when you poop now it will look and feel like an ICBM launch. Pure flaming water. Pure flaming high velocity water, about the color of fire, which is, you’ll be thinking at this point, most fitting.
While jug three gets to work you’ll begin to understand what it must be like for Catholics attending Mass. Up-down-up-down ad infinitum. As you put on fresh undies and sit on the bed in a cold sweat, the rumbling will begin just moments after you relax, then you’ll debate the merits of ‘sharting’ one more time — but recent experience will tell you otherwise — but by then you’ll be wondering if you have time to make it back to the toilet. Up you go again, on your tippy toes as lightly as you can, and you’re already counting down to the next launch after this one.
After jug four, launches start coming as soon as you drag your sweating ass back to the bed. Oh, don’t forget to change underwear between ascents, and do not, repeat, do not bend over to put them on. That high velocity water is hard to get off the walls.
+++++
So, I was sitting in business class thinking about my colonoscopy, remembering how I’d always thought Preparation H was for old people only, and thanking God the stuff really does work. My results were inconclusive, by the by, which turns out to be a polite way of saying there were suspicious lesions ‘up there’ — and that another colonoscopy would be required in a few months.
Joy to the World. Can’t wait. And that hotel has me blacklisted now, too. I guess all that shit on the ceiling was just too much.
So, I decided to drop off the radar for a while, to mull things over, and in the end (sorry) called my roommate from college. Sam Weiner. Yeah, I know, great name. Anyway, we talked for a while, three or four hours, I think. He’d had a hair up his ass (again, so sorry) about motorcycles for years, so of course that’s all he wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about my asshole, but he seemed resolutely uninterested. Imagine that?
Sam’s wife had given up on him the year before, which was predictable, I think. Sam was a big man. Like 6’5′ and 250, with really big (ahem) feet. He was big, like football player big, I guess you’d say, because he had been. First at Cal, then for the LA Rams. He’d gotten a few roles in the movies after he ‘retired’ (blown knee, concussions), but he was really more a writer and eventually got into screenplays. Oddly enough, he was good at that, too. Real good, as a matter of fact, and he had a sweet little house in the Palisades looking down on the PCH — which he’d somehow managed to hang on to after ‘le divorce’.
And he’d just finished his long bout with ‘middle aged crazy’ (red Porsche 911, penis shaped motorboat, gold chains over hairy chest) and felt ready to try something seriously insane, like buy a motorcycle and take a really long trip.
What, I asked him, did he mean by ‘a really long trip’?
Turns out he had two versions of insanity in mind. North slope Alaska to Tierra del Fuego, or a simple circumnavigation. As in…pick up bikes in Munich and head for India, then Tibet and China, ferry the bikes to Alaska, then ride to New York and ferry them to France, then finish up in Munich.
‘Are you out of your fucking mind,’ I think I said. Terrorists and kidnappers aplenty waited for anyone idiotic enough to try either route, not to mention a few extra war zones to traverse along the latitudinal route.
With these preliminaries out of the way, I asked about how long these trips might take?
The Americas trip? Maybe five months, though six or even seven seemed more likely. And the equatorial option
, I asked cheerfully? Better count on a year, he said sheepishly, but hard to tell because the routing might turn out to be rather ‘fluid’.
Fluid, I asked? Just what did he mean by fluid?
Roads, he said. Wars too. Time off for hookers was mentioned more than once, and I mentioned something about taking time off for another colonoscopy — and the prick actually laughed.
So now here I was, ass firmly planted in seat 14 A, looking out the window as Iceland approached somewhere in the ink down below, a shitload of riding gear in two checked duffel bags down below, a carry on bag loaded with cameras, helmet, and way too much medication for one white boy to be taking. Munich was still five or so hours ahead, and I was already feeling pretty nervous about the whole idea.
Sam was aft in one of the heads, by the way. Fucking the nineteen year old girl he’d asked to come along.
+++++
I know all this sounds improbable. Hell, being almost sixty years old sounded terminally improbable to me as I sat up there in that ancient 747. Being virtually unemployed, using up the last of my paid vacation and now burning through my retirement fund only added to the thrill. Being the odd man out in Sam’s sudden triptych hadn’t bothered me at first, yet now the thought of him screwing a teenager back there was beginning to grate on my nerves a little.
Not a good sign, if you know what I mean.
I thought about that time when Sam was wooing me, that is trying to convince me to take this hair-brained trip, and how he’d kept up with variations on a single theme: ‘you only go around once’ seemed to be the gist of his mental gymnastics, followed immediately with that oh-so-guilt-laden challenge, the one which happened to follow the contours of my thinking. This was the ‘better do this while we’re still healthy enough’ scalpel-thrust, which not coincidentally is like waving a red cape in front of a bull for someone who has just ‘retired’.
And to think, it had been twenty years since I’d done any serious riding! This was a shining example of the mental acuity of any testosterone unhinged teenaged male taking charge. But at my age?
Which is, I think, where that inconclusive colonoscopy had begun fucking with my head.
Hell, maybe I really was running out of time. Maybe it really was time to do something completely unhinged. Hells bells, I thought, let’s go all out here. Maybe what I really needed was my very own nineteen year old girl to fuck back there in the lavs — and all the way around the world.
And just as I was starting to think about a nymphomaniacal red-headed cheerleader sitting on my face, right in the dawning moments of a really nice daydream, two teenaged cretins began fucking with one of the flight attendants.
+++++
Her face was kind of familiar to me, now that I think about that day.
Her name was Rhea Petersen, and she’d worked more than a few flights with me back in the mid-90s, back when I was flying the New York/JFK to LAX run. She was cute back then, I remembered, and she looked cuter than ever as I watched the drama unfold. She was maybe 30 now, her long sandy blond hair braided in a thick bun. She was wearing glasses now, and had gained a couple of pounds but, like I said, she still hit all my buttons. She had been working up in First, but I’d seen her come back to the main galley when it was time to feed the rest of the cattle.
Anyway, there were a couple of true assholes across the aisle from me and one row ahead, and as Rhea came down the aisle the kid in the aisle seat held out a camera and fired a burst right up her skirt. The flash went off, Rhea screamed while she jumped back, and the kid held up his Canon and fired off another long burst on motor-drive, the flash cycling fast enough to keep up. The cabin suddenly looked like a disco, then people dead asleep woke up just in time to hear these bozos spouting off some really nice commentary about what they were going to do when they got this roll developed. Rhea asked the cretin to put the camera away, and of course he refused, thinking all this uproariously funny as he fired off another three round burst at her legs. I was unbuckling my seatbelt by that point, and could feel Sam standing in the aisle behind me when Rhea reached for the kid’s camera.
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