Saxon Boucher has an accident while on a flight.
I was on a photo/video trip for Taylor Steele’s movie Hit And Run with Jay Larson, Dan Malloy, Mike Todd, Dave Emge, and photographer Chris Van Lennep. We had kinda gotten skunked on the east coast of Australia, trying to score shots and footage at spots like Forester and up and down the coast. So we were all really amped to go over to the west coast to Margaret River for the contest and to score some good surf. We loaded up our stuff and headed for the airport in Sydney.
I was all checked in and ready to leave Sydney to go to West Australia. The only abnormal thing was that the group of friends I was traveling with were all over the plane instead of sitting together. Oh well, I was tired from a good night out in Newcastle (one of the greatest towns to party in ever). We had gone out the night before to the WQS contests wrap party sponsored by Black Flys-enough said … radical night to say the least!
Once on the plane, I got a window seat, so I was content. Despite not knowing the two large (average for the Aussie outback type) guys next to me, I got comfortable. It was a midday flight and takes about five hours, so I knew I was in for some overdue shut-eye. The last thing I remember thinking was how nice the warm sunshine felt on my lap from the sun beaming in from the window. Literally from that thought to the next was … what do they call it, REM sleep? The really good kind. I guess it was too good in this case, I woke up in the middle of a dream that was too graphic even for this publication, but let’s just say it was too weird to really detail what was going on, but natural just the same, and I was finishing what normally takes a pretty good effort from a female human’s physical presence (just being honest), but the mind and body work in mysterious ways, and the stars were in line so to speak! In short, I had just had a wet dream on an airplane in the middle of the day. The big guy next to me who had earlier, before I feel asleep, made himself the alpha-male of the row and taken up my armrest and the one next to him, was all narrowed up, arms crossed, eyes forward, suddenly way smaller than before. I realized that I had definitely picked the wrong day to wear khaki shorts without underwear. I don’t even need to describe how obvious it was-like I spilled a half glass of water in my lap right next to the sausage I had been saving in my shorts pocket. So there I sat with a baseball-sized blotch on the front of my pants. Needless to say I was embarrassed. Not so much because of the very visually obvious result I left in my lap, but because I woke up right at climax unknowing of how or who or where I was.
I still have some questions for the mystery man next to me. If you’re out there, was I gyrating and moaning in my seat? Was it just something that happened as naturally as it should? Was I screaming? All I know is that the next two-and-a-half hours of that flight were the strangest, most spacious unmolested times I have ever spent on an airplane, granted I had to pretend to read the in-flight magazine over my “spill” until the sun’s warm rays dried the evidence.
I am hopeful the guy who was sitting next to me on that flight reads this story and writes in so I can finally put to rest all the thoughts and questions that have plagued me since that fateful day. I need to know if I was acting out the sex dream in detail, sound effects and all, gyrating hips, whatever! Because the really embarrassing part is the unknown to be honest, ’cause we’ve all had wet dreams on midday five-hour flights next to total strangers, right?
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