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Hot Stuff, Baby
James Wysong · July 25, 2004

Our plane went mechanical in Mexico City on the way to Costa Rica. The local mechanics said they didn't have the parts on hand and it would be at least 38 hours before our aircraft was going anywhere. The airline decided to hedge its bets and set us free for a 30-hour layover at the Mexico City airport hotel.

That's when I almost lost my penis.

You read correct. In the hours that were to follow, I came precariously close to parting with Mr. Happy.

Now, when you think of an airport hotel, you usually think close by or in the general vicinity of the airport. Not this hotel. This one was about 10 yards past immigration and actually inside the airport. We weren't going to get much sightseeing done on that layover.

Luckily, our Spanish-speaking flight attendant, Jose, was a commuter from a small town outside Mexico City. He asked us if we wanted to go to his house and see the real Mexico. Four of us from the crew, three females and I, accepted with no hesitation.

We stopped off at Jose's local cantina, walked inside, and were greeted by mariachi music. Several rounds of "hola Jose" roared from the full bar and half-full dining room. It was like a Mexican version of Cheers welcoming Norm.

Cervezas and margaritas were plentiful, and everyone sang along to the mariachi rendition of "La Cucaracha." The table had chips, salsa, peppers, and a small wooden bowl of what looked like black beads.

I picked one up and rolled it around in my fingers, squeezed it until it popped, but it had no smell. I didn't think any more about it.

The dinner started to arrive so I thought I would get washed up for the meal. Now, when a man says he'll get washed up for dinner, it usually means he has to go to the toilet and then wash.

There I was, standing at the urinal doing my business humming a mariachi tune. I started to get a small tingling sensation from down below, followed by a burning and then a sharp painful scorching.

I looked down in horror at my hands and remembered. The black bead.

There is no delicate way to say this, but my crotch area and more specifically its most important resident were on fire. I hobbled over to the sink, stood on my tiptoes, and ran cold water over my groin in panic.

Jose entered the bathroom.

"James, what the hell are you doing?" he exclaimed in shock.

"The beads, the table, hot, hands, pee…" was all I could muster between splashes.

Jose ran out of the bathroom and re-entered seconds later with a glass of milk. "I know you're going to think I am crazy, but put your thing in this glass. It will help."

He chuckled and handed me the glass.

As stupid as it sounded and as silly as I felt, it really helped. The burning sensation subsided and tenderness set in.

Jose left to give me a little privacy. After a couple moments of regrouping, I cleaned up my mess and tried to reappear inconspicuously.

I opened the door, and everyone, including the locals, shouted "OLE!" The mariachi band played the theme from Rocky (Eye of the Tiger) in my honor, and everyone had a good laugh.

Even though I swore the crew to secrecy, my nickname around the base became "Hot Stuff." (Which is a lot better than the alternative of "Jalapenis")

So the lesson of the story is: First of all, always accept a local's tour offer, and second, when in a foreign country, don't touch what you don't know. It might get you in the end - or in my case, the front.

And oh yeah, milk does do a body good.

James Wysong has worked as a flight attendant with two major international carriers during the past fifteen years. He is the author of the "The Plane Truth: Shift Happens at 35,000 Feet" and "The Air Traveler's Survival Guide." For more information about Frank or his books, see his Web site or e-mail him.