This morning I read a statistic that thumped me.
I wish I could say it was about endangered elephants. Or levels of global warming. Or world hunger.
But it was about plane sex.
So here goes. The statistic was: Five per cent of people have done the dirty on a flight.
The reason I was so rattled… is because I am one of those fools. All of a sudden, I realised I’d been fed a filthy lie and fell for it. Call me naive, but the amount of times the “mile-high club” came up in dinner conversation with friends or I’d read about it in the media, I would have sworn that figure was closer to twenty-five per cent. Anybody who’s anybody was doing it. Or so I thought.
I’m from the Cosmo generation, sold this idea that vanilla sex = bad and spicy sex = good. The mile-high club is treated as some kind of holy grail. How can you consider yourself adventurous in the bedroom if you haven’t bonked in a plane bathroom? At the time, it made perfect sense. My partner and I, young and dumb (and horny), convinced ourselves we just had to do it.
So we did. And it was quite possibly the worst sexual experience of my life.
The first thing you’re probably going to assume is that we were on a long-haul flight to Europe and we snuck into the bathroom while the plane was shrouded in darkness and everybody was asleep.
We were on a two-hour flight to Ho Chi Minh.
But as soon as we boarded the flight, we could feel it in our loins: this this was our moment.
We were given two seats right at the back of the cabin, with no one else beside us. The bathroom was basically adjacent to us, only about six footsteps away. The sex gods were giving us lemons. It was our turn to make the lemonade.
We shot each other knowing glances and quickly hatched a plan. The only way we’d actually pull this off without chickening out would be to get it done right away. Like ripping off a band-aid.