"bfbfpffffft"

I glance over at the attractive young blond sitting next to me. She definitely heard my fart. It wasn't quiet. She tries to move farther away from me, but she's already jammed up against the side of the plane.

The jet ventilation system will quickly suck it up.

Then recirculate it. Ha!

She looks like a model. Or a young businesswoman. I say, "I have two tickets to the Taylor Swift concert tomorrow night in Madison Square Garden."

She looks at me with something other than disgust and scorn. "Yeah?"

I take the tickets out of my pocket. I pass them over to her. She studies them. They're real.

She looks a little puzzled. "Okay. Well . . . nice tickets. Congratulations."

"I want to trade them to you."

She looks me over. I'm back to getting the disgusted look. I'm 52 and fat. My suit is wrinkled. bfbfpffffft. I fart again. Really bad timing, that. "No thanks," she says quite firmly.

"She's famous."

She rolls her eyes. "I know."

"I didn't know. I had to look her up on Google."

"Then what are you doing with tickets?"

"I consulted on her jet."

She looks interested. "You were in her jet?"

"No. It was a long distance consult."

She loses interest. "So they gave you tickets."

"Yes." Isn't that obvious? "If I'm walking by Madison Square Garden the night of the concert, and I have to go to the bathroom, I can use these tickets to get in and go to the bathroom there."

"You could give them to me. My sister would love one of those tickets." Now I get a 200-Watt smile. But the timing is suspicious.

"I said a trade. You have to let me shave your pussy."

She looks at me, open mouthed. I think she's shocked. It takes her a while to process that. Finally she asks, "Are you crazy?"

"I have Asperger's. I don't know what's normal and what's not." I add, "Does that answer your question? I'm not crazy."

"That's not even remotely close to normal."

"But I don't understand why. I have tickets. You want them. You're just sitting here in this plane to New York with nothing to do."

"You would do it here?"

"Of course not." I deliberately roll my eyes at her – I can play that game too. "We would go into one of the restrooms."

She looks even more annoyed at me. Apparently she knew I wouldn't do it in the seats. "That is totally disgusting."

"Okay." I have Asperger's. I'm used to people telling me that.

"And perverted."

"I knew that. I'm not stupid."

"Just leave me alone. Keep your thoughts and your tickets to yourself."

"Okay." It was just an offer. All she had to do was say no.

We ride. She reads. She's intent on her reading. Then she says, without her head even looking up. "How long would it take?"

I think she's talking to me. I like that we don't have any eye contact. "How long does it take you?"

"I don't know. Five minutes."

"So estimate about five minutes for me. I don't have experience, but I'll be able to see better." Oh boy!

"No longer."

"Scout's honor." She would leave her pussy incompletely shaved? That seems so irreverent.

"How do I know you'll give me the tickets?"

"Why would I not give you the tickets after I agreed to give them to you?" I really don't understand.

"Because you want to keep them?"

"I don't want them. I already said that." Maybe I was too subtle. I can never get these things right.

She keeps reading. Then she says, still looking at her magazine, "Fuck. Fine."

I'm the only person she could be talking to. "Fine what?"

"I'll do it.” She points her finger at me. “No farting." I assume she decided to trade. Women do not have a reputation for being logical, but the trade seemed like a good deal for her.

"How am I supposed to avoid farting?"

"Find a way. Give me a small head start."

"How long?" I feel a fart coming.

She throws her hand up in the air like she's frustrated. "Two minutes."

I watch her navigate towards the restroom. bfbfpffffft.

Then the restroom is occupied and she's standing outside it. I've observed that beautiful women aren't very good at being patient. Did she mean two minutes afer she left or two minutes after she got in the restroom? I should have clarified that ambiguity, but I was afraid to make her more angry at me.

I have a razor in my travel bag, so I get that out. With my shaving cream. I don't think she wants to smell like Gillette Irish Spring, but she can't want to be shaved without any cream.

I get up after 2 minutes. She's gone. It's an airplane, so she has to be in the bathroom. I walk back and knock.

She opens the door and stands back. I don't know what to do. She reaches out, grabs my arm, and pulls me in.

It's small and uncomfortable. I didn't think this part through.

She doesn't look at me. I would guess her face looks embarrassed. She takes off her skirt, then pulls down her panties and pantyhose. She sits on the counter and leans back.

And there's her pussy. Up close. I've seen pictures of pussies before. Of course. This one just looks so real. She's got a landing strip.

And it really does need a shave. She'll look a lot better. A vagina should be treated with respect.

I spray shaving cream on my hand, then rub it on her pussy. I can feel her hairs.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

She doesn't answer.

"Husband? You should shave more often."

"Boyfriend. None of your business, by the way."

"He'll appreciate this."

"I'll have him send you a nice thank you card."

"I don't need that. But thanks."

She rolls her eyes again, reasons unknown, but not my problem. I take my razor, then starting shaving her pussy. I've never done this before, of course. I'm in heaven.

I realize, suddenly, this is more than just me getting to worship a pussy up close – there are physical considerations. Her skin could be a lot more sensitive than my face. She's going to be really angry if I nick her.

I hadn't thought through the mechanics.

Now I'm nervous too. I'm as careful as I can be, though she did insist on a five-minute deadline. That wasn't a good strategy; she was being emotional again.

I start with the landing strip. I shave very carefully around it, trying to get as sharp of line as I can. I make a joke that we're in a plane and she has a landing strip, but she doesn't get it. So I try to forget about the rest of her and just concentrate on her pussy.

Her hair is mostly a stubble. It's softer hair than on my face, and feels more feminine. When I'm done there, I rub my hand up and down that area, looking for remaining hairs. I find a few rough spots and shave them.

As I wipe off the shaving cream, to reveal a perfect landing strip, I realize I've gotten hard. I try to avoid bumping it against her, but the room is really small.

"Can you hurry up?"

"You want me to hurry? I guessed you wanted me to be careful."

"Be careful too. You knew what I meant."

"I said I had Asperger's. Why can't you just say what you mean?"

"Forget it."

"Forget what?" I'm getting annoyed.

"Forget – just never mind."

"Can I take a selfie of me and your pussy?"

"Can you – can you what? A selfie? Of course not."

"Okay, I was just asking. You don't have to get so emotional."

Her labia is harder. I put on new shaving cream. I have to stretch the skin so it's easier to shave. There are some longer hairs she missed the last time, so I can see this is harder for her to shave.

Plus it's hard to get to all of it. "Can you turn over?"

She sighs, and turns over. Now I'm looking at her ass. I've seen pictures of asses before, but I never saw a naked woman's ass for real.

Ass-up is the second most popular position for having intercourse, but of course she's just being practical and giving me the best angle. She's easier to interact with when she's being logical.

Finally I'm done. I have done a wonderful job. She stands, which pretty much uses all the free space in the bathroom, especially as she's standing as far away from me as possible. She doesn't even look at her pussy, she just starts to dress. When her arm bumps against my stomach, she tells me to get out.

She holds out her hand. "Tickets."

I reach in my pocket and give her the two tickets.

"This was the most humiliating moment of my life."

"Sorry about the Irish Spring Smell. It's an odd smell for a woman. But it should wear off." In a few hours.

She grimaces. "I really don't think that was the problem."

"Oh." I think it is. "It annoys me that my job wasn't perfect."

"If these aren't real tickets, I'm going to find you and kill you."

"Do you need my business card?" I don't know how she thinks she could find me.

"What? No. I never want anything to do with you, ever again."

"Okay." My work is done here.

“It's been nice knowing you. Not.”

“I'll see you back at our seats.”

“I'm not going back to my seat. I'n not sitting with you.”

“Why?”

She looks at me. “I think that's obvious.”

It's not obvious to me. “I'll try not to fart.”

“It isn't that. Well, it's that too. It's everything.”

Everything? Usually I'm the problem. If it's everything, how does it help her to stay back here? She has a comfortable seat in the plane.

"Just GO." She pushes me out the door.