column from gay author Desmond Waite
Mile High Memories
Tales of membership in the Mile-High Club are mostly apocryphal, wishful thinking, macho tall-tales told to impress the guys over beer. That is not to say the club does not exist or that sex on airplanes never occurs. It does. But less often than reputed. Although my membership is ages old and may have lapsed for lack of use, I am indeed -- or was -- a member in good standing, so to speak.
After years of fruitless flirtation with hunky, frequently (usually?) gay flight attendants in all parts of the world, I was initiated into the select sybaritic membership of the Mile-High Club (more accurately the Six-Mile-High Club), gay division, on a flight from San Francisco. (Where else?) My host took me to the airport in a downpour, a real aphrodisiac for me, for my flight home. Sex in San Francisco was singularly and surprisingly unsatisfactory -- a couple of disappointing visits to the bath houses, so I was exceedingly horny.
In the airport lounge, waiting for the same flight as I was, a slender ginger-haired young man with a short beard, dressed in the gay uniform of the day -- faded tight jeans and a plaid shirt -- and carrying a six-pack of Coors. He was obviously gay but ignored my cruising eyes both in the lounge and on the plane, a 747 carrying only 12 passengers. I thought I had been foiled again.
But among that dozen scattered about the huge cabin was a handsome young man who looked like a model. He was of medium height, average weight and had soft brown hair and brown eyes. He was wearing a three-piece tan suit with an open-neck paisley silk shirt and a then-fashionable gold chain. Since he was flirting with the stewardesses and would have had no trouble making out with any of them, I assumed he was straight. I was blessedly wrong. It was perhaps over Colorado that I turned from my aisle seat and saw him standing a dozen or so rows back, straddle-legged to brace himself. The gaydar was activated. Two or three times I turned to look again and he returned my cruise. He then turned and walked to the rear of the plane where four toilets were arranged in a semi-circle. I followed him.
He had drawn a cup of water and was standing at the fountain. I went into one of the toilets, leaving the door unlocked. He did not try to join me. After I emerged, we both stood awkwardly and speechless. In but a few moments, he went into another toilet and left the door slightly ajar. He peered out invitingly. My RSVP was a quick entry to join him in the tiny space and we locked the door.
His dick was already erect and out of his fly. I sat on the lid of the toilet and unhitched his pants so they would drop to his ankles and I could get the full effect. The effect was impressive. His circumcised cock was a nicely proportioned 7 or 8 inches and his hairless balls already retracted. A thin patch of fine brown hair adorned the base of his cock. Otherwise, I detected from roaming my hands beneath his shirt, his body was smooth and hairless.
With little time for foreplay or get-acquainted conversation, I took his cock in my mouth, giving him deep throat while I stroked his bubble butt. I withdrew my hand to savor the delicious scent of pheromonal sweat from his cleft. Fortunately, unlike many models, he had not doused himself with off-putting cologne. After he shot his load with a silent orgasm and was pulling up his trousers, I asked if we lived in the same city in the hope that I could get him prone and naked in my bed for a complete tongue bath. Alas, no.
How, he asked, were we going to exit the cubicle without being seen, although I did not particularly care if we were. I told him I did not know because this was the first time I had had sex on an airplane. It was his first time too. He opened the door slightly and peered out to see if anyone could see, then slipped out without a goodbye kiss. I locked the door and remained a while. While sniffing his scent on one hand I masturbated with the other and too quickly had a volcanic orgasm. As I walked back to my seat, he again was flirting with the stewardesses and ignored me as I passed by. At the terminal I tried to follow him to see where he was going in the hope that I might find him again, but he was lost in the crowd.
So much for my initiation ritual. And what a memorable occasion that was.
A few years later on a flight from Honolulu to Manila I renewed my Mile-High membership, albeit not quite so delicious rendezvous as my initiation rite. Again the plane, another 747, was only sparsely occupied. With a summoning backward nod of his head, a young Filipino summoned me to his otherwise unoccupied row of seats across the plane. He told me he was lonely and put a blanket over his lap so I could feel him up. He was reluctant to accept my invitation to join me in a toilet; afraid we might be seen. Apparently he was lonely enough that he overcame his reluctance.
Once we were safely locked in, his loneliness was relieved much too quickly. Like most Asians, he had a slender, smooth, taut body, with a thin dark pubic moustache. His succulent uncircumcised cock was smallish, not that that would have mattered had he been more enthusiastic. We parted and went to our separate seats. At the terminal in Manila where I had rejoined my three gay traveling companions, the young man passed by and gave me a broad smile as he said goodbye. Sweet.
Planes these days are much more crowded, making it difficult to join a fellow member of the Mile-High club, or to initiate one, even if one is to be found. "Loneliness" also seems to have abated -- at least for others. Not for me.