West Coast Booty Call, It Doesn’t Get Any Better

I met this guy once. Purely by accident. My friend’s son played high school football and our tradition was to gather and have dinner before the game. I liked dinner much more than I liked football. My friend’s older brother was a pilot for Delta Airlines. Freddy, the family called him. Fred to his friends. On this Friday night (high school football is always on Friday nights, just like the television show), Freddy was in town and had brought a fellow pilot home with him who joined our little crew at dinner.

By a wonderful twist of fate, Freddy’s pilot friend sat next to me. Never being too excited about Friday Night Lights, I had worn my favorite uniform. A sweatshirt with huge DKNY letters on the front, leggings, flip flops and makeup straining to remain from a day of work. Damn.

But never mind the outfit–it was still one of those steaming hot connections–everything you say is so funny, and oh, you laugh at all my jokes. Would you like to ditch the game and come over to my house?

We managed to find bleacher seats together at the game and continue the lust fest. I occasionally regretted the soccer mom outfit, but he never seemed to notice. Have I mentioned he was drop dead gorgeous? The kind where they don’t even know it? Simmer simmer. I’m sure there were some touchdowns in there somewhere. My friend’s son was a quarterback being recruited by USC and so much attention was paid to his game play that no one noticed we were acting like love-starved teenagers.

After the game, we all returned to my friend’s house. My friend, her husband, the younger son, the football star, a sister or two, Freddy, and The Pilot. After discussing a play by play of the entire game (oh, snooze), The Pilot announces it is time for him to leave, and oh yes, he needs a ride to his hotel. The gods have reigned fiery goodness down on me.

Freddy insists he will drive him. I insist louder. By this time anyone over the age of 18 is feeling the lust. Of course, I win. No, no, Freddy Fred. This one’s mine. My car is just down the street, pretty boy.

We did not leave his hotel room until he had to fly again on Sunday. I laughed so hard, had such a great time, and everything was delightfully unexpected. We spent hours in the bathtub talking about anything and everything. I really don’t remember sleeping but we must have because pilots have rules about these things. When I brought him back to Freddy at my friend’s house so he could ride to the airport with him, the entire cast of characters just stared at us. What does one say in these situations? Why, yes, it does look like the same DKNY sweatshirt.

Over the next year, I met him in various airports in the Orange County, Ontario, and LA areas and we would explore towns, eat Mexican food, get massages, ride bikes, and spend many hours in his Delta Airlines hotel rooms. I sincerely thank you, Delta, for hosting us.

Sometimes we’d exchange a card or note, but rarely. It was usually a two hour prior, “Are you busy?” phone call. My brother Danny began to call me the West Coast Booty Call.

I have to admit, it was one of the best years I spent in Orange County, and some of the most fun times I’d had. Sometimes I’d drive from work wearing a business suit and meet him at the gate as he got off his flight. He never failed to take my breath away.

He called my suits Neiman Marcus Lady costumes, and they became some interesting fantasy play.

But life changes. We were and then we were not. He lived in Texas and moved on with his life. I was in Laguna Beach with a new, demanding job. Even still, every time I think of our chance meeting, shocking my friend’s family with our brazen getaway, and the fun we had exploring all over Orange and LA counties … I smile.

Because it just doesn’t get any better.