So, on one of my many book tour flights I was sat next to a guy who really, seriously, was probably the most nondescript person I have ever seen. I mean, I could not pick this guy out of a line-up of Tiger Woods, Bill Clinton and Chaka Khan.
Eyes: No idea.
Hair Color: No idea.
Shirt: Nope, not a clue.
He was just kind of a mass of beige. Or light blue… not sure.
Ok, so I have a travel outfit which consists of a respectable blazer, a less respectable skirt and even less respectable boots.
It is a comforting outfit on the plane, and the perfect outfit to be found dead in the rubble of a plane crash.
So, now, as I seem to recall, this was a red-eye flight, meaning that it allows you to pretend you’re sleeping for six hours, unless you happen to have xanax, in which case you actually will fall asleep with your face on top of the tray table.
I prefer to fall asleep with my face on top of the tray table.
Especially if I have to do a reading or something of intellectual substance the next day.
Now, let’s be honest here. Despite my GIGANTIC ego…I am not a large person. No, no, in fact, I am a very petite little demure thing that my best friend just described as a canape. (She said she was trying to say “scrumptious dessert”, but all she could think of was canape. So, there you have it… I am a canape.)
So, airplane travel is easy for me, I just make myself into a little sphere, put on my sleeping mask and off to dreamworld.
BUT… you see, in the middle of the night I awoke to find that the nondescript man had his hand on my knee.
I didn’t know what to do. I was puzzled. He LOOKED like he was sleeping.
But was he…?
I gave him the benefit of the doubt and shuffled his hand off in a sleepytime, oh-I’m-just-in-my-own-little-slumber manner.
Back to sleep.
Ok, one hour later I wake up and his hand is DEFINITELY on my knee… in fact, it’s on my thigh. My inner thigh.
But, wait, look at his face… he looks like he’s sleeping. Maybe he’s just asleep. Maybe the nondescript man is just groping me in his sleep.
So, again, I move his hand away in slightly more purposeful yet still sleepy manner.
Now, half an hour later they turn on the lights and tell everyone to wake up and smell the coffee. Literally! So, we all wake up, try to compose ourselves and begin eating something vaguely resembling breakfast.
It is at this point that the nondescript man asks me on a brunch date.
He assures me that “this isn’t food, really” and there’s quite a nice place nearby, maybe we could get a real breakfast, “talk.”
Ok, so now I am beginning to think he was pretending to sleep while he groped me all night. But I still wasn’t quite sure.
So, I told him that was “awfully sweet, really kind” but that something something something.
(It’s possible I might have told him I had to water my plants.)
So, he nods.
Then, he asks again.
I tell him, “Oh, no, really, thank you but… well… you know…those plants aren’t going to water themselves.”
Then he asks AGAIN.
Ok, so now I realize that:
1) I like to make lists
2) He was totally groping me.
3) He’s probably going to invite me back to his place and lop my head off.
So, I kindly refuse again, in a bit less placating tone and begin to look fascinated by the Skymall magazine. What’ll they think of next!?
So, we deplane and I rush to the restroom to give him what they call in the business, “the slip”. What business I’m referring to, I have no idea… but let’s just say I’ve heard it out in “the field”.
(Whatever that is.)
When I emerge, the nondescript man is gone. Not that I would recognize him. But there’s no one around me incessantly asking me to brunch, so I assume he’s gone.
Now, I know what you are thinking. You are probably thinking I should’ve contacted the nearest authorities, had a hissy-fit and warbled on about the injustices of the world!
But, the strange and simple fact is…I can’t stop thinking about it.
It is here that I find myself coming to the inevitable sad realization that, in fact,
I love perverts.