The cab driver had slammed on the brakes looking as if he had seen a ghost. Well actually it wasn’t a ghost, but rather me accentuating the positives while bending as if I had dropped my keys or my purse. There was no way I was missing that flight.

“Need a ride?” he yelled.

“Yeah! Can you get me to the airport in twenty minutes?”

“Not alive.”

I leaned into the window, giving him a bird’s-eye view of my breasts, now propped up like freshly picked peaches. His eyes bugged and his mouth flung open wide enough to fit his entire cab inside.

“Mr. Cab Driver,” I said in my best Marilyn Monroe voice, “I really really need to be there in twenty minutes.”

“Jump in, lady. I can’t promise you twenty minutes, but twenty-one I can do!”

We sped off, dodging cars like Emmitt Smith dodging tacklers.

Sccrreeeeeeeech!

Handing him a twenty, and a tip of the same that made forty, I smiled and blew him a kiss. As an added bonus, I walked away switching, turning once to see his eyes enjoying a man’s favorite pastime. He had gotten me to the airport in seventeen and a half minutes, so I was more than willing to oblige.

I raced through the airport security, waving my I.D. like Colombo at a crime scene, and made my way to the front of the line. Evil stares melted my neck like hot butter on a grill, but I didn’t care. Lucky contestant number five was calling my name and I was all too eager to answer. Finally at the gate, flashed my I.D. again, boarded the plane, and headed quickly for the rear while managing to catch my breath.

“Hello, welcome aboard. Happy holidays, welcome aboard.” I reached my post. Standing next to the rear lavatory was the perfect place to wait undetected. The perfect spot for my bird’s-eye view of boarding passengers.

One by one they entered. One by one they boarded. And like clockwork, there he was, looking foine, leaping right off the pages of GQ magazine. It was my future husband to be, Quinton Jamison. Sporting an always fresh, closely cut, peppered gray haircut, Quinton was a product of the good old days when men were men. When they looked like men, smelled like men, and acted like men. Quinton was a trunk kind of man. A first class man. Actually, make that an upper first class man.