So, I Discover a Man Phone Sexing his Colleagues

The Traveler: 


I got up at Four AM this morning to catch a 6am from Boston to SFO, through ORD. Last night when I made a change to my return, it took away my upgraded seats and dropped me back into coach, and I had to spend a precious system wide VIP upgrade to correct the problem. 


All of this serves to explain what I am not in what laypeople call a “good mood”.  And that should explain what happened next.


The bathroom at the ORD H terminal admirals club is basically shit. It’s your standard airport / bus station bathroom with half height pooper stalls—urinals divided by cellophane, and all that. In otherwords lacking the privacy and refinement a club bathroom should have – and what is common even a train terminal public Loo in the UK. Read: Shithole, but with the expectation of better / cleaner clientele. 


Except that’s a false expectation. What you can expect is cleaner narcissistic corporate assholes with a sense of entitlement and self-importance. 


One such asshole parades into the bathroom trailing an aura of grandiosity and cloud of Drakkar Noir – and oh my gawd talking in a booming voice on his phone. He saunters up to the urinal, whips it out and keeps talking about this or that contract or the Monroe deal or some such nonsense.


Going to the toilette is the one place where even the baddest-ass apex predator can be vulnerable – literally caught with his pants down, as such, among men, talking, looking or basically anything other than doing your business is strictly out of bounds. 


Yet this asshole was disturbing the peace and harmony of pee-pee time… it was so over the top that the guy next to me and I broke rule number 1 and exchanged a glance – like “what is this asshole kidding?”


And that was that.


“JESUS DUDE… DO THE PEOPLE YOU’RE TALKING TO KNOW YOU’RE JACKING OFF?” I say to the guy. Pretty god damned loud. 


He doesn’t realize I’m talking to him, he’s so obsessed with his conversation. So I try again. 


“MASTURBATING” I shout now locking eyes with the drakkar douche. “THIS GUY IS TOTALLY JACKING OFF!” 


He stops. “Hold on Janie…” He can’t cover the handset because he’s talking on one of those corded headset things, which is probably picking me up pretty easily. “What’s the problem here?”


“NO PROBLEM” I shout right in the direction of the microphone. “I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF JANIE KNOWS YOU’RE JACKING OFF WHILE TALKING TO HER.”


“I am not… Janie.. I'm no—“


“YOUR DICK IS IN YOUR HANDS IS IT NOT? AND ANYTHING MORE THAN TWO SHAKES CONSITUTUES AN ACT OF PLEASURE.  IT’S OKAY DUDE, I UNDERSTAND HABITUAL MASTURBATION IS A SICKNESS – I GET IT… “


“Janie let me call you back.” 


“AFTER HE’S DONE JACKING OFF!” I say. 


He hangs up the phone, I turn to leave, but amazingly, he still wants to play.  “What the fuck is your problem?” he demands. Apparently drakkar douche is more accustomed to having his ass kissed than his balls busted. 


This is a careful situation. A person in my situation can’t show any outward signs of aggression. This could get way out of hand easily.  So I stand my grand, but say in a non-threatening voice.


“Rude assholes who act like their whims are the only thing that matters.  Like for example, talking too loud on a phone in the bathroom.”


He takes a step towards me, which is difficult in his situation. I step back. Let the record show I yielded ground. 


“What the fuck gives you the ---“ he takes a labored second step.


I hold up a hand. “Dude. Think about where you are and what you’re doing. With your pants around your ankles and your little wee-wee poking out of your boxers, one more step and you’re pretty much gonna get charged with sexual assault.” 

And Thus, I Palm a Drunk Dude's Head (and he doesn't mind)

The Brunettutan:

Trade show evenings are unfailing fraught with alcohol-soaked pseudo-professionals gone wild, and for someone who takes great joy in fucking with people, they provide an indulgence of opportunity for one to do so. 

One such evening, I was enjoying friendly banter with some colleagues in the courtyard of a lively bar on Bourbon Street. The evening had shifted from late night to early morning, and the nocturnal hunters were becoming desperate for prey.  

Since my late nights are primarily motivated by social interaction as opposed to inducing alcohol poisoning, I was substantially more lucid that the majority of my bar-mates. 

There was a break in conversation within our group, and we all casually shifted focus. Just as I was turning to walk across the courtyard to chat up a friend of mine I had just spotted, I was very abruptly stopped by a tall, company-logo-polo-shirt clad dude. I guess he thought I would be more weak and vulnerable, having been separated from my main group. 

News for you, big boy … you watch WAY too much Nat Geo Wild. 

 He heavily staggers into my path, and the first slur out of his mouth is, “Heyyyy, you here for the trade show?”

Of course, genius, 90% of the people in this bar are all attending the same trade show. The other 10% look like spring breakers or extras from deliverance. 

“Yep.”

“Coooool, yeeeeeah …. Me too.”

“Really? Because the khaki pants and logo on your shirt weren’t nearly obvious enough.”

“Ohhhh, heh, yeah … right.”

I move to step around this goofy dude, and he puts his face about three inches from mine and asks me where I’m from. I instinctively step back, and look at him like he’s slapped my grandmother. I really don’t like close-talkers. 

I sigh, and answer the dude. And it turns out, OMG!, he’s from the same state! He’s so excited by this, he again puts his damned face three inches from mine to express his surprise. 

This time, instead of stepping back, I simply palm his entire face, and push it back about a foot and half, and inform him that he is, indeed, talking way too close to me.

I expect his ego to be bruised enough by this, that he calls me a bitch and decides to pursue an easier meal for the evening. But no … it didn’t even phase him! In fact, he even kept talking while my hand was on his face. 

And this, people, is why drunk dudes can be gratifyingly fun to fuck with … they have very little to lose at this point in the evening. They will tolerate almost anything as long as it keeps the conversation going. 

So, the conversation continues in a sort of predictable cadence:

Dude makes it about 45 seconds before leaning close enough to me that I must alert him that he’s talking too close. I give him about 5 seconds to redirect his lean, before I redirect him myself … using his face. He’s almost like one of those blow-up clown punching bags with sand in the bottom. No matter how many times I push him back, he bounces right back up again. 

This occurs no less than 10 times in the course of our relatively short conversation. it is so absurd to me that he’s put up with it for this long, while I’ve made it very clear he has absolutely no chance for anything beyond this little chat with me … I have to laugh at the guy. He’s been good-natured enough I end our conversation on a friendly note, and turn and walk away. 

I look down at my open palm … I would pay $50 for some hand sanitizer right now

So, this trip is starting off great

The Traveler: 

Driver calls my house like 3 times trying to find out where it is...


"you on Johnson? There ain't no 123 Johnson street in my gps!"


"Johnson trace" I say, "it's a cul de sac off of Johnson"


"Johnson --- right but there ain't no 123 Johnson in the gps"


"no trace not street --- Johnson trace"


This goes on--- he either can't or won't listen.


He calls back twice. Finally I say: take a right on park and a left on Johnson then a right on Johnson trace...


That musta done it because he managed to get here---


On leaving my house we set off --- we haven't gone 2 blocks before I have to interrupt him: " the airport is the other way" ...


Seriously --- this is a local towncar company in my suburb of 30000 people --- and the driver knows neither where I live nor were the airport is...


I'm convinced of it--- the ruination of humanly will be due to the fact that theyre just too fucking annoying to live

And Thus, Two Chatty Dudes are School'd on Seat Back Etiquette

The Brunettutan:

If there is anything worse than traveling with amateurs it's traveling with amateurs who think they're pros... 

“Just a one hour flight, that’s it … awesome” I think to myself as I board the plane to New Orleans.

Things are going well – half of the people boarding are Executive Platinum – a plane full of professional travelers. A wave of relief passes over me. How bad can this be? Everybody keeps to themselves, we faithfully ignore the fact that we’re ALL within each other’s personal space. -- 60 minutes and we're done painless as can be. 

A nice quiet woman sits next to me … nothing alarming. Two (rather chatty) dudes occupy the seats in front of us.

I settle in with my book to ignore the whole flight attendant spiel.

We take off, its bumpy … but, whatever.

Right when we get to cruising altitude, and the flight attendants release us from our shackles, ChattyDude #2 decides to recline his seat into the lap of the woman next to me. 

We exchange looks – mine is one of pity. Hers, annoyance. 

I try to catch the eye of this egregiously rude man, so I can convey our collective annoyance at his disregard for other people. But, before I can get his attention, brassy-haired Chatty Dude #1 reclines his chair – hitting the top of my book in the process – effectively putting his seat in my lap.

Ohhhhh no you di’int.

I am so appalled, that all I do is stare straight ahead – alternating between my book and his ratty, brassy hair, 3 inches from my face.  

All kinds of evil ideas go through my head. I’m so engrossed in what I could do or say, I stay on the same page of my book for 10 minutes. 

I try subtle clues, like erratically pressing my knees into the back of his seat, just hoping he gets the idea.

You know, I probably could have just let it go. Chalked it up to ignorance. Some people are 
douches on the golf course, too. Their mama obviously didn’t teach them manners … is that really their fault?

But, no, the dudes are seriously chattering like fucking rhesus monkeys and Chatty Dude #1 keeps shifting in his seat like he’s a humpback whale in breach. I am inches away from grabbing the hair on the top of his head (that I’m staring DOWN at), and telling him to settle the fuck down before I throat punch him.

As I’m delighting myself with this fantasy, CD1 looks back at me and smiles. Possibly interpreting my intense staring as interest of some sort. 

Men. 

I cannot let the opportunity pass.

“Are you smiling at me because you’ve had your head in my lap for the majority of the flight?” I ask this in my sweetest voice with a look of [not-so] genuine curiosity.

Chatty Dude #1 looks shocked … so I quickly continue: “I hope it was enjoyable for you, because I’ve been incredibly uncomfortable this whole time. Thank you SO much.” I think he gets my sarcasm, now.

Both chatty dudes, are no longer chatty.

“Do you travel much?”

CD1 nods … mouth a bit agape.

“I don't think so.  --here’s the deal, there is etiquette on an airplane – much like on the golf course or at church. Part of this airplane etiquette dictates that if you recline your seat on anything less than, say, a three hour flight, you are broadcasting to everybody that you are an amateur and a colossal ASS-HOLE. And there is a special place in Hell for people that recline their seat on a ONE hour flight … and just end up talking the whole time. ”

[there is various snickering around us, since I’m not exactly being quiet]

CD1: “I, uh, didn’t … er … I’m sorry.” He oh-so-thoughtfully puts his seat back up. CD2 obediently follows suit. 

That’s a good monkey.

“Well, now you know … so you can avoid looking like a (and I repeat) colossal ASS-HOLE on your next flight.”

We all settle in for a much more comfortable, and quiet, flight. Well, at least for me.

See,  peer pressure still works on adults.