“The human being is never who he is … but the self he seeks.”
CHAPTER 1. Stalk at first sight.
When I was younger I had a fetish for sissy maids, but when I realised that they didn’t actually exist I developed a fetish for a more realistic feminine role: air hostess. The day I followed a beautiful flight attendant out of Heathrow Airport, however, was the point where I crossed the line from fetish to obsession. I couldn’t help myself – she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen and was wearing the prettiest uniform, too, and I couldn’t do what you’re supposed to do when you see a beautiful girl: appreciate and forget.
I appreciated…and followed.
Of course, when you think of guys following girls you think of sexual predators, but I didn’t want to sleep with this beautiful airhostess…I wanted to be her. I’ll admit that probably sounds creepier than wanting to sleep with her, but girls look at other girls all the time and wanna be like them. It’s just…I’m a boy. Well, my birth certificate says I’m a boy…I think I’m some kind of a boy/girl (apart from when I start perving over uniforms and then I think I’m just a perv!)
Anyway, I first saw the airhostess as she walked through Terminal 1. She breezed through the crowd like a magnetic wave – every male head spinning on its axis towards her. She was speaking by phone and although she had an English accent, there were clearly some exotic ancestors swimming around the gene pool. She was olive skinned – her complexion a delicate coffee colour that contrasted with the starched white blouse of her uniform and the yellow scarf around her neck.
“Make sure you feed the dog,” she said, switching phone ears. I was sitting on a bench as she came to a halt outside a pharmacy called Boots – ten meters away. “And make sure you pick up my uniform from the dry cleaners…I have an Atlanta flight on Tuesday. Wait there.” She stopped and pressed a button to switch calls. “Where are you?” she asked, turning her head around and scouring the terminal. I, meanwhile, scoured her.
She looked like a doll, but rather than Mattel blonde hair and blue eyes, everything about her was dark. She was more of a Latina or Pocahontas Barbie. If you really pushed me to be more accurate with the doll analogy, however, the best description would probably be a… ‘fuck doll’…a classy one made by Chanel.
As a feminist, I apologise for my turn of phrase but I can find no other way of capturing the raw sexuality she exuded. You see, she wasn’t beautiful in that angular, super model way, she was ultra-feminine with the big eyes and button nose of a little girl, but the full, red lips of a pornstar. Her enormous breasts also contrasted sharply with her Lolita face, sticking out of the uniform with the pertness of a Made in Silicon Valley sticker. But of course it was precisely this play between daddy’s little girl and daddy’s slut that made her so sexually attractive.
Not spotting the person she was looking for, she said she was ‘outside Boots,’ and then switched conversations. “And the shopping list is on the fridge. Please don’t buy the low fat Philadelphia…it’s full of chemicals.”
My impression of a silicone girl was also heightened by her grooming practices: she was wearing so much makeup she shone like a doll. However, as I looked closer, I noticed a number of things about her that were profoundly unbimboish. Firstly, she held herself like an athlete and had a chic bob instead of a long mane of flowing locks. Secondly, on the wrist of her right hand was a man’s watch – not a dainty one, and finally, in her left hand, caught in a difficult compromise between the flight case stroller and the book, she was holding a John Updike novel. Personally, I’ve never read a John Updike book, but I knew he was a literary writer.
“Is that Charles in the background? Put him on, will you.”
There was a pause and she scanned the terminal once more.
“Oh my baby. Yes, Charles…Mummy’ll be home tonight. Yes Charlesy-warlsley. Gotta go. Okay, bye Maria… I’ll pay you next week.”
A second airhostess from Ingosio Airlines arrived, also dragging a flight bag behind her. She was the polar opposite of her colleague – blonde, blue eyed, white skinned. “Jesus, Anna, I could tell from twenty metres away you were talking to Charlesywarlsey. Only a freak would name their Chihuahua after an ex-boyfriend.”
“I’m sorry but Charles was hung like a Chihuahua…and as soon as I saw my new dog’s willy I just had to name him Charles.”
The newly arrived airhostess froze, her mouth wide open, revealing a perfect set of Antarctic teeth. After maintaining the shocked face, she switched tack. “You know we’re flying to Oslo next month.”
“You can pick up your Nobel bitch award in person. Anna Kalifarasi…hands down 2016 winner.”
Anna Kalifarasi and her colleague laughed and turned towards the exit. I watched their beautiful bottoms sway in their tight grey pencil skirts. From behind, it seemed the Ingosio blouse had been perfectly designed to accentuate their feminine curves. Appreciate then forget…just wasn’t going to happen. Anna Kalifarasi was like crack: one hit addictive, and I hastily picked up my laptop, stood up, and started following the girls at a distance.
To justify this, I remembered that I’d always liked ‘people watching’, but was simultaneously wondering how many other stalking careers had begun this way. If it was the beginning of my career as a spy, though, it was a straightforward mission because out of all the tourists and airport personnel we passed, the girls were by far the loudest people in Terminal 1. They were easy to follow. They seemed to laugh all the way from Boots to the main door. When the blonde briefly looked back in my direction I made some pathetic attempt at a disguise, taking my long hair out of its pony tail and allowing it to flow over my face. Cunning…it was not. And anyway, my delightful journey into their world suddenly ended.
Once we passed through the main doors they took a sharp right and approached a huge Mercedes with tinted windows and engine running. A man who seemed as wide as the Mercedes got out of the driver side, took their bags to the boot, and opened the passenger door. He had that unmistakeable air of a driver/security man. As the girls entered the vehicle I tried to see if there was anyone else in the car, but it all happened too quickly. The black Mercedes drove off.
Having lost Anna’s physical self, I immediately made my way to the Underground, and looked for her online self. With such a distinctive name it would be easy to find her.
Not a thing!
I looked at my phone like it wasn’t working properly. And then started adding the name of the company and going through different spellings, but Google insisted on taking me to a similarly named 52-year-old primary school teacher in Thessaloniki. By the end of my forty-minute journey to the center of London I wanted to personally put a bullet in Anna Kalisfari’s 52-year-old head as I was forced to constantly return to her Facebook, LinkedIn and Google plus. I was now the world’s leading expert on the grey haired troglodyte but completely unable to find anything on the amazing air-hostess I had just seen in the airport.
Twenty minutes later, I was sipping a Starbucks latte in Piccadilly Circus and remembered Anna saying she had an Atlanta flight next week. I’d always been interested in Atlanta. Maybe I could visit.
My name is Jake, by the way, and it seemed like a good moment to start talking to myself in my brain. “No, Jake…don’t be absurd…you’re not interested in Atlanta!”
However, Atlanta is where most of The Walking Dead is set. I know it’s not so girlie but it’s one of my favourite shows. And Atlanta was one of the most important American cities in the civil rights movement, and even more important was…
“No, Jake! Stop!”
I stopped, and – unable to find anything about Anna online – started looking at the company website. I discovered that I wouldn’t have been able to go to Atlanta anyway; as well as being too poor to buy a ticket, Ingosio wasn’t strictly speaking an airline but provided flight attendants, pilots and other mile high services for VIP clients. Therefore, if Leonardo di Caprio wanted to fly to Barcelona in his friend’s private jet (they specifically mentioned him in a related Google article) Ingosio provided the necessary personnel.
I then read a fascinating story about the company’s founder, Peter Karzov – a self-made man, born in Kazakhstan, who had a range of businesses across the VIP spectrum including clubs, limos, security and aircrew. A master of marketing, Karzov was the source of a rumour that it was mandatory for all female cabin crew to wear stockings and garter belt, as opposed to tights.
This nugget of information caused a little rush of hormones between my legs – that peculiar rush of a male body that’s been soaked in oestrogen for many months. It was a sexual rush. The idea of wearing the Ingosio uniform with a garter belt and stockings underneath, was definitely frothing my latte.
This was a concept I continued exploring as I lay on my bed, that night. I’d found a magazine in W.H.Smith with an article about Ingosio, cut out the picture of the airhostess in her spanking white blouse and pencil skirt, and held it in my hand. I started wondering what it was about Anna that got under my skin. I sat up and went to the mirror. I was wearing a white dressing gown and my long, dark hair flowed down in luxurious locks. The robe was open, and my miniscule titties poked out.
As I stared at my own olive skin and dark eyes – the legacy of a Lebanese grandmother, I understood why. Whatever you want to call us – transgender, crossdreamers, sissy perverts – we all have an ideal woman who we would love to be. Often we choose someone who, even if it’s only remotely, we resemble. Anna was my ideal me. And so, picking up the scissors from the bed I gathered my hair into a pony tail and did the logical thing…
…I cut it into a chic, shoulder length bob.