Come Fly With Me, I Promise Not To Break Your Penis

Once, on a budget flight, I was waiting for ages to use the loo. The flight attendent knocked and got no answer, so he deployed the secret unlocky thing. The toilet was not vacant, a man was in there, doing a poo. I can still smell it, in my dreams. THAT is why I can't have sex on a plane.
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Publish date:
February 26, 2013
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Tags:
travel, Mile-High Club, Sex on a Plane, Samuel L Jackson

Last year I flew long-haul to South Africa, and I had both the best and worst flying experiences of my life.

The worst was the outbound flight, where I got so travel sick that I filled a whole puke bag with, well, puke. The flight attendant who came to collect my puke bag looked at me like I was a potential outbreak’s Patient Zero and went away to get a big sealable sack to put it in, leaving me holding it for a good five minutes.

Let me tell you, you haven’t hit rock bottom ‘til you’re holding what feels like a kilo of your own vomit, surrounded by strangers. And you’re crying.

The return flight was amazing because I had gotten hold of some magical travel sickness pills and I spent the whole flight boozin’ it up, watching films and having a whale of a time spritzing myself with my specially-bought-for-the-plane face water.

When someone says they had a great time on the plane, I’m like “yes! Hollaaaaa! How many tiny bottle of gin did you drink? Did you watch anything awful?! LET ME TOUCH YOUR BEAUTIFULLY HYDRATED FACE!” because I feel like everyone is like me: borderline alcoholic fans of so-bad-it’s-great films, and face-spritzers.

Of course, sometimes people mean that they had a good time doin’ it on the plane. Dangerous sex people who like sex in small but painfully public places.

I am not one of those people. Why am I not one of those people? Well, two reasons:

Reason One:I am so un-bendy and clumsy that any attempt to get physical, physical in a aeroplane bog would involve me getting leg cramp, falling over, banging my head and probably breaking the penis of my chosen paramour. My boyfriend also likes getting quietly drunk watching bad movies on planes, not penis breakage and panicked fumbling.

Reason Two:On a budget flight once, I went to use the loo. Someone was in there, so I waited, and waited, and waited, and knocked a few times in vain.

The flight attendant, on his third journey past, was like “are you still waiting? The ‘vacant’ sign must be faulty!” knocked, got no answer, and deployed the secret unlocky thing.

The toilet was not vacant. A man was in there doing a poo. I can still smell it, in my dreams. He yelled at us.

I just can’t get physical, physical in a space that will always remind me of Mr Stinky Poo Poo Man.

If I had £5,000 and a pressing need to get my freak on in an airborne setting, though, I could do the sexings in the air courtesy of Wish.co.uk. They’ll rent you a plane just for sex, for an hour (A WHOLE HOUR, eh? BLIMEY!).

Yes, it’s crackers, and yes it’s tremendously, luridly spendy, but for some reason I think it’s kind of cute.

Because, when it comes to sex, and there’s something you really really really want to do, you think about it all the time. You eat, sleep, dream that one rude thing you want to do.

If, like me, your tastes are really only a couple of minutes’ dawdle down the street from ‘Pretty Standard Bonking, To Be Honest’, you can comfortably sate your filthy yearnings with a minor purchase and/or a bit of internet research.

But if your one big sex thing is to get sweaty and naked on a plane, this is a way to do it without getting arrested or, horror of horrors, breaking your penis. Why do I keep going back to broken peens? I don’t know, but it’s food for thought, no?

Look, I don’t have £5k. You don’t have £5k. But if you did, and you wanted to treat someone to a mile high bonkfest, it’s better than doing it on EasyJet and possibly getting sucked out of the toilet while the plane is flying which is definitely possible because it happened to my mate’s uncle’s mate’s sister’s fella.

Plus, you’d feel like you were some kind of millionaire with a private jet that had a special, discrete sex pilot. And you’d stop getting the sweats every time you walk past STA Travel.

Oh, and you’d be a member of the Mile High Club, which is probably the sort of thing you could talk about at dinner parties.

Tell Becca about your last visit to the Mile High Club @becca_dp.