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The Mile High Club

by Dr. Susan Block


Do you get horny when you get high?

Now, don't start aiming the War on Drugs against me, darling, I don't mean screwing on smack. I do mean doing it in airplanes, eg., joining the Mile High Club, that special society of plucky people who go all the way at 30,000 feet.

A while ago, I met a spunky, sexy mama of three named Diana Benson who had written a book by that title. We were both guests on the show, Philly After Dark with Wally Kennedy. Diana talked about her book--a delicious, decadent, down-and-dirty dishing of all the celebrities who flew on the oh-so-posh, but now extinct MGM Grande Air where she was a flight attendant--and I was there as the sex expert to talk about why lots of folks--not just celebrities, but anyone with a boarding pass and a bold libido--joins, or tries to join, the Mile High Club. 

some people get motion sickness,
others get motion horniness. 

So, why is flying such an aphrodisiac, despite the cramped conditions of those awful little airplane lavatories? Well, there are physiological and psychological reasons why so many of us love to 69 in a 747. Physiologically speaking, an airplane is like a giant vibrator. Yes, men can get erections from the simple vibrations of flying. Women can get aroused too. Your body starts to groove to the movement, as in many moving vehicles, from fast cars to slow boats. It's true; some people get motion sickness, others get motion horniness. 

Psychologically, flying can be a turn-on for a variety of reasons. One reason is the sheer romance of flying. As Freud pointed out, images of flying often symbolize sex in dreams. Think of Superman flying Lois Lane around Metropolis on their first date. What's more romantic than that? 

Excitement is also a factor. Unless you're jet lagged, hung over, or you're just carrying too much baggage, flying is exciting. You're taking off for faraway places. You could meet an attractive stranger, have an adventure. Even if the person next to your isn't so appealing, there's always the flight attendant. Why do so many guys adore female flight attendants--formerly, and more seductively, known as "stewardesses"? The hottest ones are a cross between Florence Nightengale, Ameila Earhart and Brittany Spears. That is, they're nurturing, capable and sexy in a cleancut nonthreatening sort of way.

one wonders how many recent crashes have been due to a little too much
cock in the cockpit

Flying is also dangerous. You could meet a maniac. The plane could crash. You could get hijacked. The airline could send your bags to Kalamazoo. The possibility of danger raises adrenaline, causing natural amphetamines to flow through the body, exciting you to action. Since there's virtually no constructive action you can take when you're a passenger on a plane, your adrenaline tends to either make you anxious or horny, partly depending on your personality, partyl depending on who's sitting in the seat next to you. Studies have shown that people are much more likely to fall in love and/or lust under dangerous circumstances, such as in wartime or while engaged in hazardous work, than under stable conditions. 

But isn't joining the Mile High Club dangerous in and of itself, wondered Wally, and shouldn't it be illegal? Well, yes, I agreed, if its your pilot and co-pilot who are joining the Club. That's definitely not safe sex (and one wonders how many recent crashes have been due to a little too much cock in the cockpit). But if its a couple of passengers who are joining, where's the danger? In fact, it's probably safer to let nervous fliers release their tensions through a little consensual sex than through fighting with the flight attendent or bothering other passengers.

You're away from your family, your
nosy neighbors, your competitive co-workers, the folks who care about you and would probably call you a slut or a nut if they only knew.

Then there's the boredom factor. If you've finished your magazines, don't like the movie and didn't bring your laptop, there's not a whole lot to do on a plane. You're all cooped up, sometimes for several long hours. Why not have sex?

Then there's the seductive siren of anonymity. You're away from your family, your nosy neighbors, your competitive co-workers, the folks who care about you and would probably call you a slut or a nut if they only knew. Traveling makes it easy to be wild. It is well known to cause otherwise conservative people to commit all sorts of spontaneous, risky acts they would not try at home, such as indulging in crazed, passionate whoopy in a public place. 

Speaking of which, that titillating possibility of exposure is often a hidden Mile High motivator. All that banging on the lav door is quite thrilling to closet-exhibitionists. Then there's the challenge of having sex in a tiny airplane lavatory--or right in your seat. There are quite a few of us challenge-fetishists doing our bit to make the skies even friendlier than you thought they were, Virginia.

though it does say "No Smoking," nowhere does it say "No Sex."

Max and I met the challenge when we first joined the Mile High Club on one of those long, lazy, midweek afternoon, half-empty flights from Philly to LA. It started when I was just taking an innocent little nap, my head nestled in Max's nice warm lap and, since it was daytime, I put a blanket over my head to block out the light. So, in between snoozes, I would sleepily snuggle and rub my cheek against Max's jeans around his rather responsive crotch area. Then, keeping the blanket pulled down over my head, I proceeded to drowsily yet deliberately unzip his fly, and go down, down, down on him as we kept going up, up, up in the air. It was quite exhilarating for the first 10 minutes or so. Then I started getting pieces of yucky, mood-breaking airline blanket in my mouth, and I think the elderly couple across the aisle were wondering if Max had a small, flight sick animal on his lap or what. So I pulled up his pants and emerged from the blanket, a little soggy and bleary-eyed, but determined to finish what we started. 

There was nowhere to go but the infamous airplane lavatory, which is very small, but just big enough. And though it does say "No Smoking," nowhere does it say "No Sex." So let's see, how did we do it? Max was sitting on the toilet seat. I was in the woman superior position (of course), though I didn't exactly feel superior. More like a crushed bird with my feet pressed up against the sides of the stall, as my nether parts gamely tried to catch the worm. 

It was some of the most uncomfortable and ridiculous sex we've ever had, but it was also some of the greatest. An achievement, you might say. We even both managed to climax before the inevitable turbulence occurred, which actually felt kind of nice--a little rock n roll rhythm to the afterglow--at which point the flight attendant started banging on the door . And sorry guys, but only in fantasy does the flight attendant join the Club with you, unless you're flying MGM Grande. Since this was reality and not MGM, we had to get out of that position, which was even trickier than getting into it. But we managed, and my, but we were proud of ourselves. We had a sense of danger conquered and mission accomplished, something that one doesn't often get after regular in-bed sex. A few temporarily crippling cramps, but so what? We had become full-fledged members of the Mile High Club. Too bad we didn't get some kind of membership card entitling us to free champagne in coach or something.

Two duck hunters paddled over to the wreck and rescued the couple who was, much to the hunters' amazement,
totally naked.

Historically speaking, the honor of being the first Mile High Club "members" should probably go to Aviator Lawrence Sperry and Mrs. Waldo Polk. It was during November of 1916 when Mr. Sperry, a handsome, wealthy mechanical genius and daredevil flier (as well as the inventor, appropriately enough, of the automatic pilot) began giving flying lessons to Mrs. Polk, a New York socialite whose husband was off fighting World War I in France. Sperry and Polk were aloft in a Curtiss flying boat over Babylon, New York one day, evidently engaging in airborne nookie through the benefit of Sperry's recently devised autopilot.

A Curtiss Flying Boat

Suddenly, something went wrong, and the plane plunged 500 feet into great South Bay. Two duck hunters paddled over to the wreck and rescued the couple who was, much to the hunters' amazement, totally naked. Sperry, always the gentleman, quickly announced that the crash itself had "divested" them both of their clothing. Local papers glossed over the fact that the duo was discovered without any clothes. But the New York Mirror and Evening Graphic headlined their front page with"


By the way, I didn't get a chance to tell Wally that there's also a Mile High Club for masturbators. Of course, it's much quieter that the couple-sex Mile High Club. People don't tend to brag about jerking off in the plane, but they do it a lot! Actually, physiologically speaking, it's a lot easier to do--in the lav or under the blanket. But don't forget to zip up before you stand up. And be kind to your friendly, overworked flight attendents; clean up any mess you make before deplaning.

Bon Voyage, darling!  And happy holidays.

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