Members Only: The Mile High Club

It seems like a great time to go on a cross-country roadtrip. Kate Digby Skinner and I were Skyping, and throwing around ideas for such a trip, and somehow, the subject of having sex on a plane came up, and I told her this story.

I tried to join the mile high club, once, sort of. On my way back from Paris last year, I had a connecting flight in Munich. I've flown with a boyfriend on one trip, we did not do it, and the rest of my limited time in the air has been alone. Darcy once had a party on a trans-continental flight with the crew and some of her friends in the back of a plane, and during a rowdy game of Never-Have-I-Ever half the staff admitted to doing it, which makes me really want to be a flight attendant.

It was overcast but bright, in Germany that day, and the terminal was very white. Very few of the signs were in English, and it's really ignorant of me to assume that everything will be in English everywhere. So I'm exhausted, ready to go home, almost out of money, with a long day and a long flight ahead of me. I was probably alternating reading a book and people watching, trying to decide who was American and who wasn't, which I was terrible at. David Sedaris had a really funny passage in Me Talk Pretty about identifying Americans by their clothing, but it didn't help. Just as I'm thinking about this, a man sat next to me, a few seats over, and starts talking. Really, I couldn't have cared less. He seemed like kind of a d-bag, bragging about how much he travels and how easy loud, obnoxious American tourists are to spot. (If I can't identify them, does that mean I am one? Like, if you don't know anyone like Michael Scott from the Office it means you ARE Michael Scott?) He's wearing jeans, sneakers, a ball cap, possibly lightweight North Face jacket. Oh, and a black longsleeve shirt, made of some kind of material that people buy if they are very physically active, or camp a lot... I only know that it dries fast and does something like wic the sweat from your body. Darcy was helping me pack for the canoe trip last year, and she said to bring fleece, polyester, or wool... Anything that will dry fast. That's when I realized all of my clothes are cotton- no excessive physical activity or die hard camping for this kid.

I digress. This guy tells me that he's not even sure that he's getting on the plane, because it's overbooked and the airline offered him $100 cash and a night in a hotel to stay in Munich for the night to go on standby. I'm thoroughly annoyed- why didn't Luftansa offer ME that deal? I had a really difficult time getting to Munich, and they owed me. If I had little interest in talking to this man to begin with, when I found this out, it was gone. He was only talking to me because I was alone, American, not fat and under 25- he striked me as the type of guy to have an oval sticker on his SUV. I have this way of acting like a raging bitch and causing people to not want to talk to me anymore, and that's what must've happened, because he got up and walked away.


Without a doubt, I'm judgemental. But as quickly as said judgement is made, I'm willing to change it. I get in line to board, they take my ticket and I'm in. It's a huge plane, and there are a lot of babies and it's taking a long time to get to my seat. I'm at a window, towards the back. When I finally get there, guess who is in the seat next to me. That guy.


"I swear I'm not following you," was my opening line. He smiles. I realize that this guy, Joe, and I are going to share an arm rest for the next six hours. We start talking, and as he's telling me about his travels (Germany for two weeks, drinking a lot of beer,) his job (nurse, but, people often mistake him for the doctor, which probably pisses off the actual doctor, royally,) where he lives, (Idaho,) his hobbies (volunteer smoke jumper, deer hunter, marathon runner, amateur photographer,) things we have in common, (the iPhone, taking planes from Munich.) He laughed at my jokes, I laughed at his. We had two poor quality meals together, he flirted with the stewardess and we got as many free drinks as we wanted- I even napped on his shoulder. It was like a six hour date, and the more time passed, the more attracted to him I became. His body was rock hard, and though I've been known as something of a chubby chaser over the years, this guy was hot... or the pressure in the cabin was low and I was delusional.

It was after I had to stop watching Marley and Me, the in-flight film we were both watching, (because I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably if I didn't take my headphones off immediately and stop watching,) that I started to consider how to make this mile-high club thing happen. Hey, I wasn't a virgin anymore, I could have sex with anyone I wanted to! The world was my oyster! I let my leg touch his leg and he didn't move. I brushed my body against his when I got up to use the bathroom an annoying amount of times, hoping he'd read my mind and follow me in. I'm good, but I'm not that good. But there was no condom, was there? Absolutely not going to risk it. There was no way to get kicked off the plane if we were caught, but would I have to pay a fine or something? We were the only two people in our row, but I was paranoid someone would hear me if I started talking about it.

To make a boring story shorter, we stayed together until the bitter end, through customs, through baggage claim at Logan, I said goodbye, and that's it. I texted him and said he was the handsomest guy I'll ever fly from Munich to Boston with, and we're now friends on Facebook, which is the new first base. I seriously regret nothing happening, but I'm prepared for next time, though, thanks to Kate's sweet Googling skills and this eHow article she found. My favorites are steps 6 and 7:

Having sex on an airplane is many people's fantasy. The idea of engaging in sexual activity high above the rest of the world is so exciting that it leads people to have sex in very uncomfortable situations, like tiny airplane bathrooms. If you want to join the mile high club, follow these steps.

 

Difficulty: Moderately Challenging

 

Instructions

1. Book a flight to anywhere you desire. If you want to have a better opportunity to have sex, take a red-eye flight--most of the passengers will be asleep and you will have more privacy.
2. Find an attractive person to have sex with, if you didn't bring a partner along. Choose someone who is traveling alone and try to negotiate a seat close by so you can invite him to join you in the bathroom.
3. Get up and head for the bathroom one at a time so you are less obvious. Go at a time when you are least likely to be disturbed such as during the in-flight entertainment.
4. Clean the toilet seat and cover it with a seat protector before you sit down to be extra cautious. It's safest to have sex while one partner sits on the toilet so you avoid injury if there is turbulence.
5. Finish quickly because other people may need to use the restroom. Be courteous to others and don't tie up the restroom for too long. Clean up all evidence of your adventure so you stay discreet.
6. Exit together and if anybody approaches you about having sex, deny it. Having sex on an airplane is illegal, so pretend that one of you got sick and the other was helping out.
7. Brag about having sex on an airplane to your friends. You have officially joined the mile high club and you deserve bragging rights.

Licture Piste

Hey! It's been a while. I don't even know what to say... I've been hemming and hawing over this stupid blog thing for months. Like "Man, I wish my blog was still functioning." "Man, I wish my blog was as funny as Joe Ricchio's blog." Or the infamous, "I'm so totally going to go home and blog about that!"

So, I'm going to. Go home and blog about it. Actually, I am home... so... It's been almost a year, and life is so completely different, a little recap is in order:

March: Ordered new glasses, got my passport, and cut all my hair off. (Locks of Love... you're welcome.)

April: PARIS!!! Turned 25 on Easter. Wore an inappropriately low cut dress to my birthday party, got drunk and had a one-night-stand.

May: Decide to move to Kennebunkport.

June-August: Hilarity ensues. Lots of beach, cocktails on the patio, loving life, waiting tables, karaoke at biker bars, failed romances. Another awesome Moose River trip, and multiple teary goodbyes to Darcy.

September: Baby and I move back to Portland, where I have an awesome roommate and enroll full-time at USM, leave the MDA peeps to professionally sling coffee and procrastinate on my homework.

October: Classes? What classes? I get a Missed Connection and Bangs. What a month!

November: Mom makes the best Thanksgiving dinner ever.

December: Crash my car on the day before finals week, break my phone, and successfully ruin the rest of my year. Thank god that's over.

January: Rung in 2010 with EIGHTY Happy New Year's txts (WTF?) and classes started this week. My eyeball still isn't better, but, I can still wink, so who cares? Started modeling for Mandy's Etsy. That's right, I'm a model now.

Anyway, you know I love telling stories. So, here's one from Paris:

After a few hang-ups with my bus ticket, my luggage, and staying up like, 36 hours straight while consuming surprisingly little alcohol, Kate and I meet Tess and Mandy at the airport, and... we're in Paris. It's everything I expect it to be. Kate's family is amazing, the city is obviously ridiculously beautiful. We spend our time eating really outstanding food, drinking espresso and wine, sightseeing, and hanging out in blissful ignorance of the conversations going on around us. We tried to be ultra-considerate about giving Kate enough personal space and making sure her needs were met, after all, we were crashing her visit home- and she did the same for us. We'd go on little excursions without her, bravely navigating the RER and constantly putting our fingers on the maps, a surefire giveaway that yes, we were tourists (at least we weren't wearing Crocs? I tried to remember everything David Sedaris ever said about living in Paris, but I was too overwhelmed.


Kate brought us to this fancy restaurant where the customers were rich and a man at the table next to us had one of those dogs that Charlotte has in Sex and the City. In the restaurant. We're told that this is the best hot chocolate in all of Paris, there, on the Champs-Elysees. And it was, I think. We part ways with Kate, she's spending some QT with the rents, and we leave in search of a post office. Tess and Mandy have promised post cards, and this seems like a relatively simple task we can complete on our own, no translator required. We find a few blocks down there is a post office, with a kiosk. I was too irresponsible to remember to write down anyone's addresses, so Tess and Mandy are on their own. I stand over Mandy's shoulder, eager to jump in with my opinion, just in case. It was relatively easy to navigate the automated system, as the first option was selecting language. English, stamps, international, 10, credit card. Right? So, she swipes her card. "Licture Piste" flashes in yellow on the screen. What the hell does that mean? Didn't we select English? She swipes her card five more times, upside-down, backwards, left to right, right to left, and each time, "Lecture Piste." I walk over to Tess to see how she's doing at her kiosk, and things seem to be running smoothly until it's time to swipe her card. Licture Piste. I start laughing, because it's completely and totally ridiculous. Say, Licture Piste out loud, seriously. And we can't even buy stamps? None of us are Survivor candidates, obviously. Licture Piste! It could've meant get out of here, you silly children, for all we knew. We're so baffled by the whole thing, why wasn't it reading our card, why wasn't the error message in English, and how the hell are we supposed to get the stamps? This was supposed to be a quick stop, but was quickly becoming a fiasco.

I'm almost doubled over laughing, as Mandy walks over the counter: "PARLE-ANGLAIS?" which is pretty much the only French she knows. The man shrugs, and she sighs. "STAMPS?" So he gives her ten stamps. Tess is still struggling to decode "Licture Piste," when Mandy walks back over, slightly defeated, but with stamps in hand. I'm still laughing, trying to help Tess, when the unthinkable happens... I fart. The smelliest fart that's ever come out of my body, by far. So let's recap: We're three young American girls, standing in the post office of one of the most elegant, posh, richest streets in the world, trying to buy stamps. We have no Kate, no dictionary, no phone, and I farted on the Champs-Elysees. Which only makes me laugh even harder. Obviously, they haven't smelled it yet. I can hardly breathe. Between gasps for air, I manage, "Guys, we have to get outta here," (long pause, more laughter,) "I just farted." Tess's face drops. Mandy and I walk out while Tess fends for herself at the counter. They get the stamps, mail the postcards, and I've never laughed so hard in my life.



Guess what Licture Piste meant? Kate, the native French speaker didn't even know: The magnetic strip on your card is unreadable."

"Hey intern, Get me a Campari."