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Mile High Club

Joining the Mile High Club isn’t enough. We have to do it on the longest, highest altitude commercial flight. That’s the premium Mile High Club certificate.

Los Angeles to Maui. Mainland US to Hawaii is the farthest destination over water reachable by a single leg of a commercial flight. Most flights fly in curves, trying to minimize distance from an emergency landing on land. Not mainland to Hawaii. It’s a beeline.

The great Pacific Ocean is the only option below for 2500 miles. 

I have flown to Hawaii over a dozen times before this. This will not be my last flight to Hawaii. But this is the best ever flight to Hawaii, and my single entry point into the Mile High Club. 

I love flying. I fly so much I can’t remember where and when I’ve been, which for me is extreme as my memory is impeccable. Flying as much as I can so that I will forget, so that everything is new, so that my life and location spins as fast as my mind. 

I’m enamored with airports, the people, the rituals, and the vibrations. The freedom I get leaving everything behind and starting something new. I relish saying goodbye to the dramas I’ve engaged in and wiping the slate clean. 

I love the technology. The machinery turns me on, I love a good 777, it’s my favorite and I get excited when I see it as an option, or when the equipment change favors my favorites and I get a juicy surprise. 

I love the magic and orgasmic feeling of liftoff, the state change of the moment the wheels leave the ground, followed by the dazed sleepiness of compression. 

I love looking out of the window and seeing the sky, the weather, and the land below.

But airplane bathrooms, I’ll admit, are pretty gross. And I can’t see anywhere else to really have adequate sex on a plane. Motionless weirdness across armrests just ain’t gonna work for me. Neither is getting cited.

We don’t plan it in advance. I joke about it. I want it, but at the time it seems like stating my desires directly frightens and puts pressure on men, so I keep it short. When I do mention it, he doesn’t remember the term.

“Mile High Club!” I enunciate. 

He isn’t sure whether he ever has heard it. I shrug at his idiosyncrasy. He is rife with magical thinking and surprises around information that he has or doesn’t have. We’ve been together about three months and are at a tenuous point in our relationship. We almost don’t make it through, and this trip is tense and mistrustful.

That tension also fuels hot, sudden, angry, power struggle fucks that turn our cheeks red and make our pupils wide. Just his jagged jerk-off rhythm abrades me and yet yanks me at the intersection of my gut and pussy. Fucking him is raw, and primal, with a hint of danger and secrets. 

“It would have to be spontaneous.” he says, squeezing my ass. “Our Mile High Club certificate.”

I’m all for spontaneity. But I also like comfort and maximizing results. And so I choose seats carefully when I purchase the tickets, knowing these could be our tickets to the Mile High Club.

We’re in the second to last row near the middle crew area between the regular economy section and our special economy plus section, which is a poor substitute for an actual class difference like first or business.

Our section includes a bathroom outfitted for disabled people. This is larger than the other airplane bathrooms, and less used I assume because people feel bad about occupying a special needs place if they don’t have those needs. There is no one behind us, no seated humans between us and the bathroom. The bathroom is set so that there is no way for anyone further back in the plane to see us slip inside, so if we time it when the aisles are free of people in front of us, and the attendants are elsewhere… it will work.

The Plant Whisperer and I immediately see this. 

“Mile High Club” he mouths to me, and winks. I nod. 

He’s at his best. His ruddy, boyish, brusque energy spills out of him and I know he’s thinking about it with focus. I know he’ll be a good boy and get the job done.

We take turns scanning the patterns of the flight and movements of people.

We discuss what that Mile High Club membership really constitutes and I tell him that IMO it’s down to a matter of biology and efficiency here. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, with that innocent look that lets me know that this will likely become his opinion too.

“I mean that you know you can come faster than I can. I can’t get there easily standing up, with all the distraction, and if we don’t focus on just that we reduce our chances of getting it done.”

“True, but you have to need it or I can’t get hard.” he says.

“I can need it. I can get wet. I’ll think about things that get me ready the whole time we’re flying, until I just want you to fuck me so fast and so hard that we can damn well be sexist and call the male orgasm the entry card into the Mile High Club. Or we can just make it about you and me – and make it your orgasm that counts, this time, and not make it about gender.”

“I hope you think about what I’m going to do to your pussy to get my Mile High Club membership because I know I can rise to the occasion.” he winks at me.

“Seriously if you make your awful puns my pussy will not be wet for you. Not at all.”

“At least they aren’t sexist.” he shrugs. “Now make that fucking pussy wet for me.” 

We giggle.

I’m a good girl and spend my flight thinking of men fucking me and licking me and jerking off and once in a while tying my hands together and using my mouth to edge them and them losing control on my tongue.

We are two hours into the flight and probably more than ten miles above the ocean when we see our Mile High moment and in unison slip out of our seatbelts, seats, and into the bathroom. It is like a dance, graceful, and coordinated. No one sees us enter. 

Mile High Club certificate

I lock the door and his hands are skidding up my belly under my shirt and crashing into my breasts, kneading me while his tongue shoves into my mouth with a force that makes me have to push back to keep from being bent uncomfortably backward over the counter. 

I’m ignoring the room, the location, the function, everything but the sharp edges, smooth textures, and manufactured angles of the surfaces I can’t help but touch to get the leverage I need. I do my best not to touch anything but him. And oh do I touch him. 

I knead his shoulders, pressing his upper back so that his chest crushes mine. We’re pawing at each other with focus, goal-oriented, efficient, rough. His arms are strong and he holds me to him, intentionally ignoring all my hints and doing only what he wants.

He yanks my yoga pants and panties down over my ass and sticks his finger in me from behind to test my wetness.

“That’s a good girl.” he hisses, fucking me slowly just with the tip of his finger, loosening me. Knowing he cares about how ready for him I am gets me even wetter, I’m soggy, clear. Like water.

I claw at his pants unbuttoning him with one hand as I spit on the other. I stroke his taut, curved cock slippery and he twists my hips until I turn facing the mirror and grunts hard as he thrusts into me harder.

He’s hard. So hard. He fucks me like we’re winning a prize, and we are. This is our entry into the fucking Mile High Club, and it’s going to be a good one. I’m bucking back into him, like he can’t fuck me hard enough, but yielding, snaking, showing him how much I want him with every piece of me. Taking what he gives me. I want every inch of it and he knows it. He’s groping for my tits and using everything for leverage until I knock back into him and he falls against the wall.

And then it’s me crowding him into it, pushing my pussy and ass into him, squeezing him, sucking his cock with my cunt, grabbing the counter and fucking him quick and hard, slamming my hips back into him as he twitches and shakes and sputters through his orgasm, shooting hot squirts of spunk deep inside me.

Oh yes, my longest term partner had a vasectomy long before he met me. Hallelujah. I love it when he shoots his blanks into me.

I love how The Plant Whisperer comes hard and long. He’s still shaking and collapsed onto me minutes after he comes. I kiss him deeply while I push him off of me. 

We spring into action cleaning ourselves, I do my best but still dribble our juice out of me for the rest of the flight. 

We agree to leave one at a time, communicated with whispers, but moreover our version of Hollywood military hand gestures.There’s a lot of using our first two fingers to point to our eyes. 

He goes first. He opens the door. On the other side of it are a pair of wide eleven-year-old eyes that are now wiser than they were before. My partner slams the door shut. 

“What should I do?” he exclaims.

“Anything but what you just did.” I reply.

He opens the door again and walks by her back to his seat. I look at her and make a run for it myself, figuring that she no longer counts as a new witness. She cocks her head at us, and raises her eyebrows and the side of her mouth with a knowing look and I think about myself at her age, and how I definitely would have known, and chuckle. 

Can’t say you did it if no one saw it. That’s the Mile High Club certificate.

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