Friday evening. Layover in this godforsaken airport city. Dragged my suitcase through the sterile lobby. Keycard buzzed open my room door. View straight onto the runways. Planes taxiing like drunk giants. Collapsed on the bed. Exhausted. Morose. Radio in the bathroom crackled football news. Overpaid jocks rolling on grass, faking agony every three minutes. Hugging jerseys when the ball hit net. Kissed their tight shirts. Fixed hair. Chased that damn ball again. My mood tanked.
Room service plates piled up. Did the dishes in the tiny sink. Soap suds dripping. That’s when I noticed them. Birds. Dozens lined up perfect on the wire outside my window. Motionless. Silent. Staring right in. Not random. Spying on me. Laugh if you want. These poet-loved feathers? Pure evil. Winter night, huddled tight, peering into my room. If I stripped tits out or bare-assed around, maybe. But no. They violate privacy for kicks. Nosy bitches, gossiping unseen.
The Stopover
Everyone gets peeped. Check your blinds. City or country. Spot one beady eye? Write me. Round black eyes, sneaky side-glances. Not like a dog’s honest stare. Shifty. Hiding shit. Hypocrites.
Elevator dinged earlier. Him. Transit guy like me. Rugged, smirking. ‘Long layover?’ Bar banter flowed. Beers. His hand brushed mine. Tomorrow’s flight? Everything permitted. Up to my floor. Corridor echoes. Doors slamming. Keycard beep. Inside. Anonymity buzzed electric.
He pushed me against the window. Birds watched. Their beady eyes fueled it. ‘Fuck the football,’ I growled. Peeled off shirts. His mouth on my neck. Hands rough on tits. I hated cats too. Zoé back home, queen bitch staring down. But him? Urgent hunger. Unzipped him. Cock hard, throbbing. Tasted salt. He groaned.
The Transit
Bent over sink. Dishes forgotten. Skirt hiked. Panties yanked. Thrust in deep. Raw. No rubber—fuck it, one night. Grunts echoed. Window fogged. Birds unblinking. Hitchcock knew. That fat Brit scared us shitless with them. Not ghosts or vamps. Birds. Tiny, colorful, vicious. Plucked fluff hides rage. Corbeau black as sin. Devil birds. Diving bombers.
He pounded harder. Legs shook. ‘Spying little shits,’ I moaned. Turned me. Pinned to bed. Rode him savage. Sweat slick. Nails dug back. Climax ripped. Him too, hot spill inside. Langorous afterglow. Stroked feathers? No. Laughed at spies outside.
Smart fuckers. Study us caged humans. Luxury pens. Deliveries. They’d skip flying if they could. Lazy pricks. Dino heirs plotting takeover. Hundred kamikaze on your skull? Game over. They wait. Hope we nuke ourselves. Fair point.
Morning light. Runways roared. Keycard dropped at desk. Suitcase zipped. His number? Nah. Memory burned. Birds scattered. My naughty secret. Back to skies.