You get all kinds of passengers in my line of work. I was wondering what type of
fellow this one was going to be.

I'd made the flight from Sacremento to Jenson's Ferry many times before, but usually had few charters once winter approached.

This day the weather was marginal, leaving me to wonder if I shouldn't tell my
passenger that we would have to wait till morning till the front passes. Besides,
he was late, and I was tired, hot, and now annoyed as well.

He finally showed up, occupying the passenger seat of a tiny red sports
convertible. For several minutes he just sat there, as he and his young driver
had what I took to be their goodbyes; but when the door opened, I could see his
companion slipping his hand from my passenger's left thigh. He stepped out,
looked over to me as I waited by the wing of the airplane, and waved. Almost at
once - as a habitual gawker of the male body - I could feel the stirrings that
clearly must be linked to my visualizing what his thigh must have felt like.

As he walked over to the plane - actually, he sauntered in that mesmerizing
swagger that puts the very best spin on the male torso - my attentions to his
thigh now slipped a bit northwards to the full, round prominence behind the fly
of his Levi's, leaving little doubt as to the maleness of my charter customer.
The stirring in my own Levi's was now undeniable, as my musings were interrupted by...

"Hi, I'm Steve. I guess you're waiting for me. Sorry to be late, but I was ...
detained a bit," glancing back at his ride who apparently was going to wait to
see his friend take off.

"Hey, no prob," I responded weakly. "The prob may be this weather, though.
It'll get worse before it gets better. I'd even given some thought that we might
want to wait till morning before attempting Jenson's Ferry."

"Well, it's your call," he said, "but it means a lot for me to get there before
noon tomorrow. And besides, after today I have no place to stay hereabouts. I
thought if I flew out today I'd be sure of making it. But you do what's safe -
it's your call."

A part of me (the professional charter pilot) wanted to wait. Another part wanted
to stay with this hot looking young guy, and not send him back with his
"companion."

"Perhaps we could take off, and judge things from the air. If weather holds, we
get through; if not, we land and put up for the night at an airport on route."

"Sounds good to me," he said. "Lets go."

Steve was obviously in his twenties, obviously rich enough to be able to hire a
pilot and a plane that could seat eight, obviously male, and obviously -
intentionally or otherwise - sending messages directly to my groin.

I confess to having spent my recent years as a firm [|-)] observer of the younger
male members of my personal society. For me there has always been a real turn-on to watch a nice, round, tight butt filling out a faded pair of Levi's, particularly when their occupant projected that certain matured