Turbulence by Chuck Willman
We met in a men’s room deep under the belly of Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport, a sacred sanctuary where horny men came to pray to Pan, or other gods, drawn like bees to honey in this beguiling bastion for desperate deviants. Wedding rings and identities slipped off with the simple closing of a stall’s stainless steel door. There was more toe tapping than a road company of 42nd Street on the shiny linoleum floor soiled with enough spilled DNA to keep a crime lab busy for days. Those of us lucky to find an open stall scurried in and locked ourselves in, then waited like concubines until our legs went numb. It was the early 1990’s and some of us were still playing Russian roulette. Our arrows were always c****d and aimed, but some were poisoned. I think a
