When I tell people that my partner is a Blackhawk pilot, 97% of them immediately ask whether we’ve had sex in said helicopter. (The remaining 3% are under the age of eight.) Now, however you feel about the relative organizational skills of the U.S. government, it actually keeps pretty good tabs on who’s taking the birds out for a spin and would probably be pretty likely to notice a civilian stowaway giving sky head to the pilot.
Despite the fact that both of us qualify as frequent flyers (me more decadently, preferring to enjoy pressure-controlled comfort and a bloody mary rather than swelter in a flight suit), a trip back to the best coast in July found us together in the air for the very first time. So, naturally, after we enjoy a free grope-and-tickle from the TSA, we contemplate the potential for mile-high-club membership.
Sex at elevation is a heady prospect, not only for the lightheadedness that comes from the hypoxia but for the logistical difficulties. Rarely do you find yourself with a willing partner in the upper atmosphere in a situation conducive to sexual congress. (Although I hear from the guidebooks that the ladies’ room on the 95th floor of the Hancock building is the most scenic place to get it on in the Windy City, I’ve never figured out what role the washroom attendant plays in this particular popular scenario.)
Of course, this is why I always get the highest hotel room possible, and I’m certainly not alone. When pressed spread-eagled against the plate glass windows of the Stratosphere—or, hell, even just the Westin tower in Seattle—a glance into neighboring high rises will quickly reveal a sprightly army of frenetic fucking. It took me approximately four seconds, while enjoying the view from a friend’s 25th floor condo, to point out the buxom brunette self-gratifying ten floors down and two streets over—and I didn’t even use the binoculars.
I admire anyone who can figure out how to fuck on a plane, though, since I can’t even figure out how to retrieve the carryon I’ve tucked under the middle seat without pouring my cocktail over the neighbor’s cock or tail. Of course, I’ve never had the extra yearly-GDP-of-an-island-nation sort of spare cash to spend on a first class upgrade (which I hear grants you enough extra millimeters of room around the genital area to make coitus theoretically possible) or those lay-flat coffin-sized business class beds. But in addition to having a distinctly necrophiliac flavor, it hardly seems fair to give full credit to new club members who had to stretch their creativity only enough to squash into a portable casket.
As we spitball the details of how, theoretically, we could rise to the occasion in the fully economy class accommodations in which we find ourselves, we are joined by our aisle seat row-mate. She’s a blandly attractive mid-twenties coed, and she introduces herself to us while marveling at the outrageously confusing and mind-blowing concept of open seating. Apropos of nothing—not having heard our previous conversation—she muses that she’s never joined the mile-high club and suggests that on such a long flight we’ll have time to really get to know each other. She inquires whether we knew each other before we chose our seats, glancing at Partner’s hand sliding up my inner thigh. Without even a hiccup, Partner responds that there was a killer happy hour in the executive club before the flight and waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive Groucho Marx fashion, implying we have just met. She seems to accept this completely, which causes Partner to give me the “what the literal fuck” look. I brush my lips to his ear and murmur, in response to this latest expression of his constant bewilderment that I find myself running across spontaneous orgies and other “once-in-a-lifetime-vanilla-dude-fantasies” when 1400 miles from home, welcome to my life, my love.
Our Freaky Flier rowmate babbles on that she is returning to Seattle after a whirlwind tour of Phoenix’s pool-party-club scene, having come directly from a multi-day rave/EDM/DJ event with a five-minute stopover to shower off the molly sweats. This all makes more sense now. However, having failed to bring a blanket or otherwise properly prepare for this potentiality, we resign ourselves to fantasizing silently through the two-hour flight and discussing lustily the Pac NW craft beer we’re planning to pour into our faceholes during our pilgrimage home. FF has mostly nodded off, but perks up at the mention of Black Raven brewing, noting animatedly that her friend works there, have we been there, and have we met her friend Ethan?
Partner, who apparently has forgotten how to deal with drunk bimbos, tries to explain that though we’ve been there before, as he previously mentioned, we don’t live in the area now and…. I cut him off and tell FF that we’ll keep an eye out for Ethan. Satisfied, she drops into ecstatic dreamland, leaving us with pretty much no chance of a score unless we happen to go down in a water landing and have to put our heads between our knees.
When we make it to the brewery a few days later, we are amusedly reminiscing about FF and resolving to never be caught unprepared on future flights for the chance that a strange woman with lingering ecstasy desperation wants to get handsy and make an emergency sexit. We’re also sampling some spectacular stout, and when Partner opines more loudly than he intended that the brewery really should barrel age some of it the bartender promptly sets him straight that there’s already some in the works. As he bustles off, Partner mutters, “should we ask him if he’s Ethan?” and, feeling punchy from the 13% ABV, I can’t resist.
Apparently, this question comes across less as “random interested beer fans” and more as “creepy stalking weirdos” until we tell him we met a friend of his on our inbound flight. Turns out FF is actually his ex-girlfriend and he’s not even mildly surprised that she was inappropriately forward; he’s actually had to block her on Facebook since she freaked out his current fiancée with repeated overtures of friendship that read more as backpage personal inquiries. In her spare time, when not attending desert raves, she spends her time chatting up and “working out” the Seahawks’ practice squad. We feel a little flattered that FF relaxed her standards to hit on us, being used to the glamourous life of making sure tackling dummies get and stay erect, and resolve to tuck a tube of hand sanitizer in with the condoms, blanket, and lube that we’re definitely packing for our next commercial flight. (We also anticipate TSA will spend a few extra minutes with us when they figure out we belong to that piece of carryon baggage.) In the meanwhile, we’ll be booking a penthouse hotel suite, working out the mechanical logistics of midair coitus, and planning a visit to Denver so we can at least check the box on a technicality.