The day after I was awarded my Airline Transport Pilot (ATP) Certificate for Multi-Engine Airplanes that operate solely from land (as opposed to those amphibious and/or float-equipped types that takeoff and land only on water), my college roommate -- the gorgeous creature who asked me to move in with her, a Medical Doctor -- threw a hosted dinner in my honor at one of Seattle's finer restaurants, with a twist. All the men invited, most of them good friends of ours, knew that I was going to get another award that evening.
Their wives, as a condition for attending an evening of free liquor, wine and beer, didn't know what the award was.
Dr. D. got up at precisely 1930 hours, tapped her glass with a butter knife, and welcomed everyone to the dinner in my honor. [The ATP Certificate is the aviation equivalent of getting a PhD, though the learning is generally more practical in nature. Most airlines, since the deregulation act, now require First Officers of small turboprop aircraft (seating capacity of more than 30 passengers) to have their ATP just to get hired, which is ridiculous. It dilutes the experience levels overall and today, this requirement makes flying somewhat riskier. But I digress.]
This evening, I felt, was going to be one of those glowing memories. Dr. D. reminded me that I was limited to just two glasses of wine, as she had plans for me later. She almost always had plans for me later.
The restaurant was one of sheer elegance, there being thick, expensive carpet on the floor; beautiful, long tableclothes at our extra-wide, long table; initially, two bartenders mixed cocktails or served wine you generally never see on a wine list (unless you happen to be at one of two great steakhouses in Tampa, FL.) The hors d'oeuvres service was laid out in splendor, an ice eagle carved for the occasion presiding over the bartenders. The first hour of our evening, we mingled and had a chance to catch up with friends, some who we hadn't seen for some time. Most of us were pilots: D. had just earned her Commercial Pilot certificate with her Instrument rating concurrently earned, the latest of my students to do so.
At 2030, one of my closest friends and perhaps the most experienced pilot in the room, stood up and congratulated me on my success. He then launched into a recounting of some of the more inane stunts -- or glorious mistakes -- I'd ever made. D. left the table for a moment to consult with our head waiter, then stood behind my seat for a moment, crouched down, and with her hands under the tablecloth, unfastened my belt and pulled down my zipper. I was shocked, as custom dictated that I might have to stand to return a toast. She tugged at my pants, attempting to pull them down: I resisted her attempt, and as she began to sit down, I half-rose to pull out her chair. A hand belonging to L.E., one of our most attractive friends and another of my flight students, grasped my pants from my left and literally pulled them down to my knees as I started up from my seat. (For those of you unacquainted with my maneuver, it involves pulling a lady's seat from the table when she begins to sit down.). The two of them, in the most remarkable display of not letting anyone know what's going on below table level, began pulling down my underpants. As the Borg might say, resistance was futile. I looked over at L.E., who smiled gratuitously and gave me the most subtle of winks.
First scooting her seat next to mine, leaning against me slightly, D. (a Southpaw) began giving me a hand job under the table. Her skilled surgeon's hands were more than adequate to the task.
L.E. moved her seat closer to mine, and reaching under the tablecloth, her right hand began stroking my left leg.
I had to maintain my composure and listen carefully to what was being said, but I could do nothing about the onslaught under tphe tablecloth. Except smile. After all, I'd taught both D. and L.E. to "compartmentalize" stresses and distractions in the cockpit: how best to see if their instructor's walk matched his talk?
It was heaven, and hell. Some of those toasting my success, I noticed, were using double entendres to allude to something going on that didn't meet he eye. I'm not sure if their wives caught on or not. But by the time that the salads had been served, the more observant of our guests probably noticed that D. was picking at her salad with her right hand, and L.E. was eating with her left hand. I wasn't eating mine at all, a fact that concerned our head waiter no end. He discretely asked me if everything was satisfactory: what answer could I give him? I nodded. His was a world of noting details, and he was aware that something didn't meet the eye. i picked up my fork and made a feeble attempt to eat a bite, but I didn't want to choke on it.
Dinner was served at 2100 hours.
D. gave a remarkable performance, being a delightful host, properly chatty with people at the table, especially with me, all the while driving me quite mad. L.E. produced a charming smile. This went on throughout dinner, and I had rivulets of perspiration on first my forehead, then at my temple, then down my neck. D., the woman who would wake me after handcuffing me to the metal sculpture of our bed's headboard, delighted in doing things like this to me. And who was I to object?
After dinner, D. disappeared under the tablecloth and served me dessert. It was wonderful: I think that my butt cheeks pulled the leather of my seat out of its brads... I recall my eyes going into business independently for themselves. My face must have gotten red and contorted: for a brief moment, I was concerned that our waiter thought I was having a stroke.
I didn't get much to eat at the restaurant, that is, until we got into D.'s car. Just before leaving the table inside the restaurant, I opened the blade of my penknife and reaching over to her, severed the sides of her thong underpants, which I put in the coat pocket of my tux. Once outside, I opened the back door of her car, got in the back seat with her and ate several D. sandwiches in the pouring Seattle rain. After all, shouldn't a gentleman thank a lady for a wonderful evening?