Mind Of Man: The Lamest Fantasy Ever

Unless you own a private plane with a bed in the cabin, having sex in an airplane has got to be the lamest sexual fantasy ever. Not to mention corny. And tacky. If you want to do it in public, do it in a park or an alley like decent people. I find its apparent popularity confounding. There are websites dedicated to tales of airborne debauchery, which all read like the ridiculous letters sections of soft-core porn magazines, where some unemployed former Blockbuster manager just can’t believe he had a threesome with two 19-year-old Icelandic snowboarders hitchhiking through Alabama. This is to say, I have never believed any story anyone has ever told me about putting the “cruise” in “cruising altitude.” At least, I’ve never believed any story that makes it sound hot, or desirable, or like anything that doesn’t make me want to pour myself a Lysol bath.

There just aren’t any lamer sexual kinks than wanting to have sex in a chemical toilet that is fitted inside a pressurized tube hurtling along at 35 thousand feet. Nothing flips the boner switch like the stench of powerful disinfectants, poo smog, and sweet perfume. What an erotic rush!

I even read about this sexual desire this past week. A recent column online breathlessly described an airborne encounter. I’m not linking to the story, because it’s gross and silly and might encourage some fratboy mouth breather and his lady pterodactyl to scamper off and try to break a condom on my flight to Texas next week. All I will say is that the column was written for a cable news network that dresses their women up like slutty bankers. Which, I suppose, is all of them. This cliché sexual daydream even has its own nickname – those who get busy up in the air are part of the “Mile High Club.” Ho-ho! Can’t you imagine two drunk pilots coming up with that one at some small, regional airport bar? It was probably based on a lie, too. One pilot named “Chuck” inflating his wheezing ego and bragging to another pilot named “Chuck” about getting his ripcord pulled in the cockpit by some stewardess. That story would eventually end up in the pages of a soft-core porn magazine.

“Man, I could never get my dipstick wiped while flying. I’m a big, fat loser!” says Chuck.

“Come on now. The girls are always checking you out. Why, your mustache is like a freshly shampooed carpet,” replies Chuck. “Keep smiling, give plenty of thumbs up, and aim for the clouds. And who knows, maybe one day you’ll join my club. My … Mile High Club.”

“I’ve always wanted to be part of something bigger than me.” Glasses clink!

There just aren’t any lamer sexual kinks than wanting to have sex in a chemical toilet that is fitted inside a pressurized tube hurtling along at 35 thousand feet. Nothing flips the boner switch like the stench of powerful disinfectants, poo smog, and sweet perfume. What an erotic rush!

Come, honey, let’s tiptoe down this cramped aisle while our ears pop, then squeeze into a plastic coffin that stands mere inches away from a family that looks like it ate a smaller family! Maybe some turbulence will knocks us around and I’ll put my foot in some blue liquid! Or maybe the stewardess will bang on the door!

You know what’s even more pathetic than the walk of shame back from a tryst in the crapper? (TRUE STORY ALERT!) Pathetic is me turning my head to catch a view from the other side of the plane, and accidentally locking eyes with a guy getting a hand job under a blue blanket. He was leaning back, she was snuggling against him, the blue blanket was bouncing. He grinned. Tent goes up, tent goes down. She tried her best to make it look like they were just having an innocent snuggle. Except that blanket looked like it was hyperventilating. Our eyes met for the briefest of moments, but I swear that he would have knuckle bumped me. DUDE!

I mean, I can’t stand food in bed. Crumbs. Ants. If it belongs on an ice cream sundae, it doesn’t belong slathered on my nipples. Ball gags remind me of clown noses, so they just creep me out. You know what’s a lame fantasy? Swinger parties. In theory, you know, it’s sex with new people. But jealousy and possessiveness aside, those new people always seem to have more teeth than chin and housefly hair. I had a friend once who drunkenly admitted he wanted to have sex with his girlfriend while an older woman looked on and criticized him. A naked, older woman. He admitted this in the hopes of finding someone out there he could connect with. I was not that guy. My point is: even these assorted sexual quirks aren’t as epically unappealing as sex in what is, essentially, a Greyhound bus that can crash to the ground in a fiery fireball of fire. Well, I take that back. I will excuse some things on a bus, partly because so long as you are not hacking someone to death, everything is hunky-dory on America’s discount road boats.

Once, on a Greyhound bus trip once from Richmond, Virginia to New York City, I saw two people get up and have loud sex in the restroom. But I also saw those two people load their crack pipe in their seats and count dozens of packages of, presumably, stolen pantyhose. So I gave them a pass. I’m a romantic.

It’s not like I’m a prude. I’m totally fine being spanked with licorice. I’ll shake things up and shave a single testicle. Want me to talk dirty? I will make your elbows blush. Want to role-play? You be Bella; I’ll be a vaguely homoerotic werewolf. But meanwhile, leave sex in the clouds to the angels, those horny buggers.

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