Gaycation (part I)
Luis Javier Padilla Rodriguez, or Luisa as those in the know called him, felt his eyelashes grow a millimeter for every mile he got closer to the airport. The steering wheel worked his wrists like boiling water on spaghetti. His walk from the office to his car had been a brisk stride. From the long-term parking to the terminal was more of an elegant glide. These were the signs of a small-town Catholic homo going on a gaycation.
And that started at the Toluca airport.
He hopped through security, and popped into duty free to buy a carton of Capris. Not because he particularly liked their flavor, or even their notorious aesthetic: the long thin shaft may have seemed aristocratic to him as a more impressionable ‘mo-in-training, but now it just reminded him of the phallic nature of his habit and long-and-thin was not the kind of phallus he wanted to signal or attract. He bought them because he could. Because they were they faggiest fags around and it was fag time.
Legs crossed, spine straight shoulders back, elbows down, he sat face angled as though turning to some indoor sun or deity, which was in fact the no-smoking sign he was blowing smoke rings at, trying to get them to co-inside with the red circle. Maintaining an aloof gaze, as though slightly appalled at everything, Luisa looked around at the other passengers to see if he spotted any fellow gaycationers.
Boarding was the usual. His luggage was practical and businesslike, as he mostly used it for business; it fit neatly into the overhead bins, once he cleared and stacked the plastic duty-free shopping bags of the jackasses yokles who did not know how to pack carry-ons onto an airplane. If he couldn’t find room for it, they would make him check it, and he’d be damned if he was going to waste time at a luggage carousel once the plane hit JFK, just because some frijolero did not understand spacial relations.
None of the flight attendants were giving off any signals. (If there was any profession that attracted more gay men than dancing, it was air-waitressing.) This flight was only an hour and change anyway. The Houston to JFK leg of the trip was both longer and more promising in terms of staffing. The airlines had compromised with the U.S. Flight Attendant Union so that Mexico-United States flights were staffed with 50% Mexicans (cheaper labor for the airlines), and 50% Americans (more eye-candy for Luisa, though this might not have been a major strategic point for the union). The Houston-JFK flight would be 100% American staffed. And longer. Not that he had a tryst with any flight attendants in mind, it was just fun to get his flirt on. Some practice before touching ground.
