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Today has been one hell of a long day, dear readers.  Science never sleeps, and apparently, neither do I, but the physical needs of the body must sometimes outweigh the mental demands of burgeoning wisdom.  Or something like that.  (There’s definitely a negative correlation between my ability to write and the number of hours I’ve been awake.)

I say this because I REALLY want to finish the following My Life As Fiction post, but I’m just too tired to carry on.  Rather than leave any interested parties in limbo, I thought I would go ahead and post what I’ve written thus far.  I’ll supply part two at some point tomorrow.

Until then, I bid you all a fond sleepytime.


“I swear to Christ and anything else listening, this plane is going down,” I grumble through clenched teeth.  The Boeing 777 is, by all accounts, a very sturdy and reliable plane, but you would never believe it given the vertical displacement of my skull over the last two minutes.

I sit with my seat in its full upright position, unable to relax and unwilling to try, my hands gripping the armrests as though releasing them would somehow cause my seat to drop through the floor and into the freezing waters of the North Pacific.  I’m pretty sure that’s where the plane is going to end up anyway, but I want to prolong breathing a bit longer, so I keep the grip.  To my right, wrapped in a thin grey blanket and watching me with obvious amusement, is Shelley, my sole companion on this business trip.  She barely contains her laughter as she points out, “This is just a little turbulence.”

“This isn’t turbulence,” I reply darkly.  “Clearly our pilot has secretly landed us in a pothole farm to fuck with me.”  I glare toward the cockpit.  “He must have heard me question his credentials when I got on board.”

“Not having a ‘sweet moustache’ doesn’t exempt him from the good pilot club,” Shelley reminds me.

“70’s aviation porn and I respectfully disagree.”

Shelley rolls her eyes.  “Not to deflate your unenviable obsession with moustached macho men, but I somehow doubt John Holmes ever donned the pilot’s wings to fly the more-than-just-friendly skies.”

“Rule 34,” I say sagely.

She laughs again, and I can’t help but join in.  The turbulence eases back from bowel-shaking to nerve-wracking as the plane finally steadies, but I’ve already calmed down a bit.  Shelley has that effect on me.  As much as I enjoy going to new places, I am a bit of a nervous traveler, and she keeps me from devolving into a weeping ball of neuroses by engaging me in playful banter.  She’s also a brilliant scientist, just as comfortable discussing music and cinema as the intricacies of the universe and everything it contains, making her my ideal travel companion.

It also doesn’t hurt that she’s easy on the eyes.

Our laughter fades, and Shelley shifts to cuddle into my side, sighing contentedly.  This sort of behavior has defined our relationship for the past five weeks–parry, riposte, laugh, jab, snuggle.  We’d never discussed it, never needed to.  We were very comfortable together, and that we regularly held each other while our spouses were back in the States had never seemed strange or inappropriate.  I never told Ashley of it, of course, and I doubt she told What’s-His-Name (I’d never bothered to learn it).  It was something just for the two of us, business acquaintances who had become close friends during a gruellingly long conference, and it had never grown beyond that.  We were fine keeping it that way, or at least she was.  My masculinity seemed determined to remind me, frequently, that Shelley was unhappy in her marriage too, and damn did she smell good.  But she had never seemed interested, so I had told my masculinity to, respectfully, fuck off.

I push those thoughts aside, put my head back, and watch a lovely female flight attendant walk by silently, checking on the sleeping passengers.  I feel Shelley’s head turn to follow her.  “You know,” she remarks, “I actually wouldn’t be surprised if there were loads of airplane porn on the internet.”

“You said ‘loads’.”

“Ass,” she hisses as she jabs me in the ribs with her elbow.  I laugh again and put my arm over her, warming the back of her exposed neck with my hand.  She almost purrs in appreciation and leans into my hand.

“You’re right though,” I confirm as I massage beside her atlas and along the base of her skull.  She’s eating it up.  “The stewardess has been an American sex symbol since World War II.  I’d be willing to wager there’s tons of attendant-slash-passenger porn.  Everyone wants to be in the Mile High Club.”

Shelley’s eyes are closed, her face blank yet strangely content.  “I don’t see why, it’s not all that hard to get in.  Attendants are instructed to ignore airplane bathroom sex if the couple isn’t disturbing anyone.”

My masculinity, having previously fucked off, now returns in full battle regalia.

“And you know this how?”  I move my fingers up into her hairline, continuing to work on the stress knots I encounter, though proceeding more delicately than before.

“I read it in a sleazy checkout magazine,” she murmurs into the side of my chest.  Her breath is warm, and I catch the lingering aroma of lemongrass shampoo and woman.  It’s almost intoxicating, and I breathe it in while I pause as though considering something, though I already know exactly what I’m going to say, and where it’s going to take me.

“Maybe we should test it out.”

——————————-TO BE CONTINUED————————————————



  1. Beautifully written and you have me on the edge of my seat in anticipation

One Trackback/Pingback

  1. […] received an e-mail from someone who read The Mile High Club Has a Secret Knock.  I won’t copy and paste the whole thing, but rest assured, it was a nasty piece of work. […]

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