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Copyright © 2021 by BB Easton
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Copyediting by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing
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Operation: Mile High Club
Before you judge me for what you’re about to read, just keep in mind that my children were not with me on this trip. I did my motherly duty and secured a sober(ish) babysitter, read them both eight extra bedtime stories to make up for the ones I was going to miss while I was in Italy, and left the fridge stocked with fully prepped organic dinners, made using only the finest ingredients, which I’d sourced from a local farm that employed a choir of sweet little orphan children to sing gospel hymns to its free-range animals after their nightly deep tissue massages.
Then—after the stories and the kisses and the meal prep and all that—and only then did I pack my bags, take my husband to the airport, and embark on my quest to fulfill my holy grail of sexual fantasies.
Joining the Mile High Club.
Now, if you read the anniversary beach sex chapter in my memoir 44 Chapters About 4 Men, you know that I’m a planner. Adventurous sex? Sign me up. But spontaneous, adventurous sex? Pssh. Please. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that’s how people end up with Nick Nolte mug shots and a lifetime of mandatory community service. No, thank you. I’m a rebel, but I’m a rebel with two kids, a mortgage, and excellent credit. Before engaging in any risk-taking behavior at this point in my life, I’m going to need a few hours to do some recon, secure the perimeter, bury a few yards of trip wire, tap into the local security camera feeds, stash some emergency bribe money, and of course, secure a false identity, just in case shit goes south. I’ve made it thirty-eight years without being arrested; I’m not going to let something like piss-poor planning ruin my streak.
My approach to joining the ranks of this elite aviary association was no less rigorous than if I had been challenged to rob a bank or steal the Hope Diamond. Did you know that only five to ten percent of the population has had sex on an airplane, and of that group, eighteen percent have done it with a crew member? Did you know that the chance of getting caught is virtually the same whether you do it in the bathroom or in your seat under a blanket (thirteen and fourteen percent, respectively)? Did you know that international overnight flights have the highest success rate for aspiring initiates of the Mile High Club?
I know—because I don’t fuck around.
When I was invited to a book signing in Italy a few years ago and realized that it would require my husband and I to take an international overnight flight … Operation: Mile High Club commenced. I found out what model airplane we would be flying on, how many restrooms it had and their exact locations, and where the crew members would be stationed for the majority of the flight. I made sure that blankets were still a complimentary item and found out the approximate times for food and beverage service, which I read would require the crew to move to the front of the plane and make their way back, thus leaving the rear restrooms largely unsupervised for twenty, maybe thirty minutes on a plane that size. I even made up the perfect excuse as to why I would need to accompany my husband to the restroom in case we got caught—he gets severe airsickness and needs me to give him an injection of antinausea medication in the buttocks, which, obviously, isn’t appropriate to do in a public setting.
And before you ask, the answer is yes. Yes, I did buy a fake retractable hypodermic needle online.
Success is my middle name, you guys.
So, the big day finally arrived—May 21, 2018.
I kissed my children good-bye, whispered a few gentle threats in their ears, and headed out the door, feeling like one of those 1950s secret agents whose briefcase was actually full of high-tech spy gear and whose international paper clip business was really just a front for the CIA. I was a woman on a mission. I had a date with destiny.
I also had a fake hypodermic needle in my pocket along with a forged note from Ken’s “doctor.”
Ken, on the other hand, was less than enthusiastic about my plan. Whenever I brought it up, he’d make subtly discouraging remarks, such as, “You know you’re going to TSA jail, right?” and, “What do you want me to take pictures of while I’m in Italy without you?”
But I was undaunted. Besides, I didn’t need his encouragement. All I needed from Ken was his reluctant cooperation. And his penis.
I felt good when we parked at the airport. Excited even. But with every passing minute that I had to stand in line at security with that damn needle in my pocket, I felt my confidence slipping away.
This is a horrible idea.
Ken is right. I’m going to TSA jail.
Look at them. They all know. They can tell I’m acting weird. I mean, I’m not doing anything but standing here, but I’m sure my body language just screams, Ask me about the sharp object in my pocket! And the hair. Oh God. Everybody knows that people with pink hair are all criminals and sexual deviants.