I am delighted to be kicking off the blog tour for Cleis Press‘ Flying High: Sexy Stories from the Mile High Club! This fantastic collection edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel will surely take you to new heights of sexual, erotica delight. Take a read of Rachel’s introduction here and then delight in this excerpt from “34B” by Bill Kte’pi.
SWF seeks adventure. 34, attractive, strong, professional, healthy, happy. Seeking that missing piece and a man to take control. Tell me what you have to offer.
Every time the car hit one of those speed bumps on Airline Highway, you think about turning around. This is thrilling, yes—but stupid, too. Stupid to spend this kind of money over a man you’ve never met.
Nancy—be on the flight from Baltimore to Portland: I’ve pasted the itinerary at the bottom of this email. Buy a ticket for seat 34B. I’ll reserve 34C. I’m buying two tickets; I’ll leave C empty until it’s time.
Waiting in line for your ticket, waiting to board, you look at the men around you, even though you know he isn’t one of them. He’ll board the second flight, when you switch planes in Baltimore. You don’t know where he’s from. He doesn’t know where you’re from.
As you go through security, you half hope you’re stopped for something, that the emery board in your purse disqualifies you from air travel, that overzealous air marshals decide you’re a threat to national security—and you get sent home to your matching plates and new stereo and warm safe bed.
You fidget on the plane to Baltimore, unable to concentrate on the paperback you brought in your purse. You glance down at your lap to see if anyone can tell you’re not wearing panties. Baltimore is a forty-seven-minute layover that seems to stretch on for hours.
You board the second plane.
34B—it sounds like a bra size. You don’t even know his name. You gave yours—your real name, though he may assume otherwise—but he never offered his and you didn’t want to ask and have him say no. You didn’t want to establish his right to tell you no that quickly.
This is stupid. But it’s safe, isn’t it?
He pointed that out when you hinted at your uncertainty a month ago: It’s an airplane. What is it you think I can do without you letting me do it?
34C is empty, as he said it would be. You steel yourself, don’t look at the men on the plane. You don’t want to seem eager or desperate or stupid. Maybe he’s up front in first class, or maybe he’s watching you right now. Maybe he’s changing his mind. It’s 3:00 a.m. Eastern Time, and scattered passengers are asleep or reading. Most of them were here when you boarded. You didn’t think to check where the plane was coming from. Maybe from where he lives. Florida? Alabama?
You wait for the captain to turn the seat belt light off, and a piece of you hopes for turbulence, hopes the light will stay on and on and on until you disembark in Portland. You’ll promise to reschedule but of course you won’t, and—the seat belt light clicks off. He’s free to move about the plane.
You do what he told you to do.
You unbuckle your seat belt and drape the flimsy airline blanket over your lap. There’s no one in 34A, and you wonder if he bought that ticket, too. You push your armrests up. There are only the three seats on this side of the aisle: across the aisle an old man has fallen asleep reading the in-flight magazine. The flight attendant turns his light off as she passes.
You sit and wait.
