Flying High

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“One cannot fly into flying.”

—Nietzche

Tell me not to do something. Go on. Try it. Say, “Don't run
your finger through that gold, glittering candle flame.”
Watch me slide the tip of my pointer through fire. Say, “That
ruffled skirt's far too short. You can't wear a mini that micro
out in public.” And then, oh, what's this? Am I doing a Marilyn
Monroe in the flirtiest skirt of them all? Right in front of that
café window, with everyone seeing my scarlet satin knickers?

Tell me I can't have sex on an airplane. Go on. Try it. Say,
“The Mile High Club is, for many, only a naughty fantasy, a sultry story
lovers tell each other when they have both feet firmly on the
ground.” And oh, what just happened to you? Did a charcoalhued
blanket appear out of nowhere? Did your sinful girlfriend
wiggle her hand, her head, her entire sublime body under that
soft gray cloud and into your lap? Or did she take you by the
hand in the dead of night to the lavatory?

Click goes the
Occupied
sign.

Down goes the girl to her knees.

Throb goes the beat of your hearts in the tiny, mirrored
compartment.

Or flip the switch—did your man slip his fingers under your
deceptively casual, wrinkle-free skirt to find you not only inhibition-free but pantyless, as well? (Yes, planning goes wing-in-wing
with airplane sex. Stealth is the perfume of choice.) While
your fellow passengers dozed peacefully in the cabin, did he pick
you up and hold you against the wall of the tiny bathroom,
keeping you airborne 30,000 feet in the air?

Sex in the air fulfills a multitude of fetishes and fantasies.
You can log miles in exhibitionism, public fornication, taboo
encounters. Let's not stop there. Humans crave flight. We dream
of engaging in winged adventures, of touching the stars. The
writers in this book fly with their words. Sommer Marsden,
Kristina Wright, Cheyenne Blue, Donna George Storey, Teresa
Noelle Roberts, Thomas S. Roche, and other meteors in the
erotic universe are sure to illuminate your milky way.

Let editor extraordinaire Rachel Kramer Bussel be your
pilot. Soar with her through that pink-tinged forever sunset into
the great unknown. Unfasten your seatbelt. The pilot has determined
it is safe to move about the cabin.

XXX,

Alison Tyler

The Mile High Club is, for many, the stuff of legend, but I'm
here to tell you that where there's a will, there's a way. Flying
can bring out so many of our insecurities, fears, and frustrations,
that it's natural we'd want to find a way to relieve all that
tension by getting it on. Indeed, several of the stories here deal
with sex as a way to conquer a fear of flying.

Just as I was completing this volume, I got a call from a friend
who told me that on the way back from a family vacation, he got
it on with a woman he ran into on the plane whom he'd known,
but never slept with. They managed to have full-on intercourse
(and much more) as the rest of the passengers slept—or so they
thought! They found out later that they'd been true exhibitionists,
seen by horny voyeurs.

In these stories, characters are often surprised to find themselves
engaging in such risqué behavior midflight. The surprise
and naughtiness make what's happening even hotter. For others,
it's been carefully orchestrated, such as the woman meeting her
online pen pal in “34B” or the one putting her arsenal of sex
toys to good use in “Obedient.”

Other scenarios are more fanciful, and, unless you're really
lucky, are probably not going to happen to you. Part of the thrill
of even thinking about the Mile High Club is that, in such close
quarters, someone's bound to notice the movements, noises, and
sensations of sex happening near him or her. Voyeurism and
exhibitionism are part and parcel of sex on a plane, even if you
never officially get caught.

I'm sure you are probably picturing getting it on in a tiny airplane bathroom, and yes, that happens here. But there's more than one way to join the Mile High Club, as the “Wild Child” in the story by Matt Conklin learns when her kinky new friend asks for some extra ice. And in “Bermuda Triangle,” we're introduced to a threesome that takes edge play to new heights, as a man is blindfolded and instructed to fly, his fear upping the ante for the novel sexual encounter about to take place.

While this isn't a how-to manual, I'm sure you can pick up a
few tips on the fine art of blanket placement and in-flight discretion
from these talented writers. Alas, during the numerous flights
I've taken in the last year, nothing so risqué has happened to me,
but that hasn't stopped me from fantasizing about what might be
going on a few rows over, or wondering, as I stand in the security
line, who might try to pick me up. I love that Wi-Fi is the wave of
the flying future, as I write about in my story “Urgent Message,”
and I'm looking forward to much in-the-air flirting.

Whether you're a member of the Mile High Club or just
want to be, I hope these stories take you on some exciting trips,
and that your next plane ride is just as eventful! Please feel free
to share your story or keep up with what's new in plane sex at
my blog at
http://flyinghighbook.tumblr.com/
.

Rachel Kramer Bussel

New York City

Every time the car hit one of those speed bumps on Airline Highway, you think about turning around. This is thrilling, yes—but stupid, too. Stupid to spend this kind of money over a man you've never met.

Waiting in line for your ticket, waiting to board, you look at the men around you, even though you know he isn't one of them.
He'll board the second flight, when you switch planes in Baltimore. You don't know where he's from. He doesn't know where you're from.

As you go through security, you half hope you're stopped for something, that the emery board in your purse disqualifies you from air travel, that overzealous air marshals decide you're a threat to national security—and you get sent home to your matching plates and new stereo and warm safe bed.

You fidget on the plane to Baltimore, unable to concentrate on the paperback you brought in your purse. You glance down at your lap to see if anyone can tell you're not wearing panties. Baltimore is a forty-seven-minute layover that seems to stretch on for hours.

You board the second plane.

34B—it sounds like a bra size. You don't even know his name. You gave yours—your real name, though he may assume otherwise—but he never offered his and you didn't want to ask and have him say no. You didn't want to establish his right to tell you no that quickly.

This is stupid. But it's safe, isn't it?

He pointed that out when you hinted at your uncertainty a month ago:
It's an airplane. What is it you think I can do without you letting me do it?

34C is empty, as he said it would be. You steel yourself, don't look at the men on the plane. You don't want to seem eager or desperate or stupid. Maybe he's up front in first class, or maybe he's watching you right now. Maybe he's changing his mind. It's 3:00 A.M. Eastern Time, and scattered passengers are asleep or reading. Most of them were here when you boarded. You didn't think to check where the plane was coming from. Maybe from where he lives. Florida? Alabama?

You wait for the captain to turn the seat belt light off, and a
piece of you hopes for turbulence, hopes the light will stay on and on and on until you disembark in Portland. You'll promise to reschedule but of course you won't, and—the seat belt light clicks off. He's free to move about the plane.

You do what he told you to do.

You unbuckle your seat belt and drape the flimsy airline blanket over your lap. There's no one in 34A, and you wonder if he bought that ticket, too. You push your armrests up. There are only the three seats on this side of the aisle: across the aisle an old man has fallen asleep reading the in-flight magazine. The flight attendant turns his light off as she passes.

You sit and wait.

You're wearing what he asked you to wear: the red blouse you'd told him you liked, the one that's comfortable and sexy at the same time; an underwire bra with no shoulder straps; a black skirt, short (but not too short), cut wide and loose. No stockings. No panties.

What should you be doing? Looking casual? Reading your book? Looking around? Ten minutes pass…fifteen…thirty. You wonder if you should give up, and what exactly “giving up” would entail. You wonder what you'll do when he—Someone is sitting down next to you.

You look at him, doing your best not to look nervous. He's tall, but not impressively tall, just taller than you, tall enough for that moment of awkwardness when he maneuvers his head beneath the luggage compartment to sit. Nice hands (no ring, but you don't know if it would matter). Dark blue eyes, and black wire-rimmed glasses. Light brown hair rumpled in a professorial way. Tasteful suit. No tie.

You smile, and he nods to you with an expression you can't read. You start to say something but he holds a finger to his lips and nods behind him: a businessman is sleeping in 35B. Maybe
that's for the best: you have no idea what to say.

Nothing happens, for the longest time. You keep looking at him even though you don't know if you should. You don't want to seem impatient or…or you don't know what. Stupid. You don't want to seem stupid. You don't want to seem like a girl—but you want to be treated like one. Maybe.

His fingers brush your leg through the blanket. It would seem innocent if you didn't know it wasn't, like he'd just forgotten what close quarters airplanes have. You move your leg a little closer and his hand slides over it, under the blanket. He has a warm hand, with long fingers that squeeze your leg firmly, which you know is the signal.

Under the blanket you pull your skirt up, eyes studiously down; no one glancing this way could tell what you were doing.

You pull his hand between your thighs. You want him to feel that you're not wearing panties. That you shaved for him. That you did what he said.