Airborne

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“It’s not as sexy as it sounds,” he told her.
It doesn’t sound sexy, she thought, it sounds scary and stupid and pointless, jumping out of an airplane.
But she dreamed of him jumping, looking at her, stepping into nothing; gone
then she was on the ground and he was falling falling falling
And suddenly it was sexy, she wanted him, tangled up in a parachute, with heavy boots on his feet.
Prepared, matter of fact
Into the air, landing on his feet. Just doin’ my job, ma’am
In Control.
He unbuckles the harness, the ‘chute falls away. She pulls him to her, down onto the rocky ground, pushes the helmet from his head, kissing his mouth; he is still breathless from the jump, his heart pounding, she can smell the rush on him.
She dreams of this, yet it frightens her. She doesn’t want him to be on that plane, or falling through the sky. She doesn’t want him to land hard, hit the ground running.
But the dream of him looking down at the earth, the thought of him, agressive, “fuck you airplane, who needs ya?”
It came unbidden, uninvited, unwanted, it brought guilt with it, and doubt.
The desire to make love to a man who would jump, fall, go go go out the door and down to the ground surprised her, dismayed her.
Was it him, or the jump? Were the two separate?
The landing? Going up again?
No, it was the ballsiness of it, the assumption that he will land, will know what to do on the ground. To actually plan to jump from a plane for no other reason than to land, because it is hard, it is dangerous and therefore must be mastered. Just because he knows he can do it.
And he can – he does.
“Not as sexy as it sounds.” No, it didn’t sound sexy. It sounded scary and stupid and pointless.
It sounded like nothing that she had ever given a moments’ thought, much less a man who would do such a thing. An adrenaline addicted cowboy, obviously. An asshole of epic proportions. A jackass, an egotistical bad boy out to prove he wasn’t even afraid of goddamn gravity.
A hard-on with a few yards of fabric strapped to his back.
She wanted no part of this, she was not a woman who loved ‘men in uniform.’ She found them tiring, uncompromising, difficult, that type of person, of men.
But in her dream, he wears camouflage fabric with his name stamped on the front that she pushes up to feel the skin underneath. There are buckles and belts and metal hooks for tools and weapons, he makes a jangling sound when he hits the ground, the parachute flying out behind him. She gathers all this, all of him, into her arms, pulling him down, on top of her.
But he commands this moment, it is his decision when she unbuckles his pants. He is completely in charge, although it is she who guides him inside of her, and while she moans, pleads, he merely plunges into her, intent, focused.
In Control.
On the ground in her dream, and in her bed when she wakes, she is coming, gasping, afraid of this, of the woman who would want this.
“Not as sexy as it sounds.” No, it didn’t sound sexy, it sounded scary and stupid and pointless.
But the man who would do it? Ah . . . him.

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