Much thanks to the unnamed flight attendant who sent us this romantic tale:
Bear with me...this is long but it's goooood! I'm a flight attendant, and many years ago (before 9/11, when we could come and go into the cockpit as we pleased) I had a really hot pilot captaining my flight. Now, hot pilots are hard to come by, so suffice it to say that I spent a good deal of the late-night flight up front. He was a fun guy and we had a lot in common, namely sailing as, it turns out, we both grew up on the beach. He asked if I ever made it out to the city where he was based. I told him I had a layover there the next week. We made plans to hook up then, where we would take his sailboat out to this island. GREAT!
The next week, I check in for my flight and there's an email from him, saying he'll call me at the layover hotel when I get in, which he does. I tell him I'm going out dancing with my crew and he says, well, we have to get up early to make it out to the island and back in time. I said it's no problem, just pick me up at 5:30AM. I get back to my hotel at 3AM, set the alarm for five, and I get up and get ready. Now, wait, I don't have his number. I have to wait until he calls ME, which isn't until about 11. Now, he says, it's too late to sail, but we can take his dad's powerboat. Okay, so we meet in the hotel lobby, and go out to get his car. But wait! Do I have my airline ID? Why? BECAUSE MR. $200,000 A YEAR CAPTAIN WANTED TO GET THE DISCOUNTED PARKING RATE. It was only like $7 without it! Anyway, the valet brings the Corvette, which I start walking over to, since he told me he had THREE Corvettes. But no, it wasn't his car, I see him walking over to a totally beat-up early 90's Honda. This car was dirty, dented and trashed. But whatever. Turns out, he "doesn't have a license for the powerboat," so we're just going to get something to eat. But first he wants to show me the "house he almost bought" in Malibu. Driving up PCH, we pass this anomaly of Malibu, a mobile-home park...where, he tells me, his hot stripper cousin THAT HE SLEPT WITH lives with her deadbeat husband. (okay, I slept with a FIFTH cousin years ago when I was young and horny, but now it just sounds creepy.) Now he can't find the Malibu Colony, even though he supposedly almost bought a house there. I had to tell him where it was, and I'm not even from there. Okay, so we go to this restaurant on the beach, where he drones on and on about his money, and, "can you believe I have three 'Vettes and never drive them?" Honestly, I don't know what I do and don't believe at this point. After lunch (for which I offered to pay my share-and he accepted), we head back to the hotel. I figure since this date went to pot at least I can get in a little tan time at the pool. He insists on going in with me and follows me to the market where I grab some margarita mixin's. Since it was a huge hotel with a lot of dark and deserted hallways, he insisted on walking me to my room, which I actually appreciated, since there had recently been a rape at the hotel. So he comes inside, we're talking, and he takes a mini-bottle of tequila and drinks it right down. Then he throws, I mean Hail Mary passes this bottle across the room into the window. Next, he punts the paper bag that had the margarita mix in it. Can you say, repressed anger? WTF? Next he starts undoing his belt and when I ask what he's doing, he goes, "I'm taking my dick out." "Why?!", I ask. "Cause we're going to do it." I'm like, dude, the only thing you are going to do is an ABOUT FACE and get the fuck out of my room before I scream bloody murder. Thankfully he left peacefully but not before asking if I could escort him downstairs to-yes, you got it- use my ID for cheaper parking. DECLINED. To which he replied, "OH, and on a scale of 1-10, you're about a four. Maybe a five." Oh my God.