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Lusty Lady

Watch me talk about my debut as an author, Sex & Cupcakes: A Juicy Collection of Essays, in this Q&A with my publisher Thought Catalog Books

Thursday, April 02, 2009

Interview with The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories contributor Cheyenne Blue

What was your inspiration for your story in The Mile High Club?

My story, “Wing Walker” was inspired by a friend from some years back whose boyfriend was a stunt pilot. He traveled to air shows around the UK and Europe in his biplane. At one point, he was looking for someone willing to train as a wing walker. I was very, very tempted despite the fact that I am an absolute chicken with heights. I went along to the airfield with them, and while it cemented that fact that my feet are better kept on the ground, it was an awesome thing to watch. And then I read Rachel’s call for submissions for The Mile High Club and I’m afraid I took sex ON a plane rather literally.

Why do you think The Mile High Club has such a mystique?

It’s a bold and brazen statement of your naughtiness. Pretty much everyone knows what you’re doing. After all, why else would two people willingly go into a cramped airplane toilet together? And half of the plane have probably been listening to your pleasure as they line up outside waiting for the lock to slide over to “vacant”. And however subtle you think you’re being with that carefully positioned blanket, you can bet the flight attendants have you pegged. You need to be bold and brassy about it, and let’s face it, not all of us have the guts for that. There’s no way to join the Mile High Club discreetly, not unless you’re Barack Obama in Air Force One with a whole spacious plane to romp in, and only the Secret Service looking discreetly out of the window. Hmmmm, now that’s an idea for a story…

Do you have any tips for people looking to join The Mile High Club, whether from personal experience, observation or imagination?

Move to Denver? Somehow that mile-high city doesn’t count for this. So, wear a skirt. Smile sweetly when security pulls out your mini-vibe from your carry-on baggage. Select the two seats at the back of the airbus, so that you don’t have an inadvertent threesome with the person in the third seat. Wiggle your way onto Air Force One.

What celebrity would you most want to join The Mile High Club with and why?

Sexy tennis players Rafael Nadal and Amélie Mauresmo come to mind. Can I have both of them? At once? And now I’ve got Air Force One into my head, I’ll add Barack and Michelle Obama.

Are there any specific planes or airports you find particularly sexy?

Right now, I’m having major fantasies involving Air Force One and a certain president, but I have to say that normally planes don’t do much for me. That’s probably why I set my story “Wing Walker” ON a plane, out in the freedom of the cold open air, rather than in an air-conditioned tin can.

We all know that in real life, plane travel is often not very sexy at all. What’s your best piece of advice on how to make plane travel as relaxing as possible?

Assuming you’re traveling Cattle Class, and can’t sashay your way into an upgrade, my patented method for making plane journeys fly by, is white wine, loose clothing, no shoes, toothbrush and toothpaste for those long haul flights, and of course a good book. Personally, I love long haul flights, and consider them prime story-writing time. And the expression of the person in the next seat as they read what I’ve written over my shoulder? Priceless.

What’s next for you?

I’m eyeing Australia again, and expect to be living back there by the end of the year. Writing wise, right this second I have twitchy fingers to write about Air Force One. I’m also taking second (Third? Fourth?) looks at some unfinished stories that stalled for various reasons, and I’m working on a novel with bisexual themes. My website has details.

Below is an excerpt from Cheyenne Blue's story "Wing Walker." Read the entire story in The Mile High Club: Plane Sex Stories.

The conversations go something like this:

“I’m a wing walker,” I say, demurely twiddling my glass of chardonnay.

“Oh?” he says, and his eyes flick over me dismissively, no doubt picturing me in thick overalls wielding an industrial hose of airplane deicer at DIA. “You don’t look the maintenance type.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I wear a catsuit, not a boilersuit, and I dance on the wing of the plane as it flies along.”

That always gets their attention, at the very least a double take, while they decide if I’m serious or not. And if they decide I am, then I have their interest for as long as I want it.

Wing walking goes something like this:

I dress warmly—a layer of wicking thermals because it’s colder than the moon out there, with the wind whipping away every thought of warmth; then the catsuit. It’s a patriotic red, white and blue, a line of stars down the thigh, diagonal stripes over the torso. Patriotism goes down well with the air-show crowds. I wear goggles against the wind, soft slippers on my feet so I don’t harm the fabric of the wing.

Bob is our pilot, Buttercup is our plane. Bob is sixty-eight and has a steady hand on the controls. Buttercup is also sixty-eight and she’s a Boeing Stearman biplane, a game old girl painted as sunny as her name. Bob and her, they have a long history together. I often think they’ll go together in a burst of flame on a hillside. I just hope I’m not on the wing at the time.

We take off from a back strip, away from the crowds. I’m already on the upper wing in my safety harness, securely fastened to the upright struts that protrude from the center of the plane’s structure. Surely you didn’t think I’d do this without a harness? Some people used to, but they tended to have short careers.

We circle the air show once, up high. We’ll talk a little on the radio. Bob worries how long he can keep doing this. The maintenance on the old girl gets harder every year. Then we get the signal to go and we come in fast and low. I’ll be in a pose: arm extended gracefully, my long hair streaming behind me like Boadicea the warrior queen. Or Xena the warrior princessæI guess more people have heard of her. One leg cocked up, I’ll hold the pose and wave to the crowd as Bob takes us up in a hard spiral. And for the next fifteen minutes or so, Bob will twirl with Buttercup, looping the loop, flying upside down, flipping her from side to side, always within sight of the crowds, of course. And me? I’ll be up there, posing, slow-motion dancing, sometimes doing a handstand, although Bob has to keep her totally steady for that one, so I only do that when he’s been dry for a few days. The wind pummels the breath from my body, and moving a limb is like pushing against cement. The roar of the air and the rumble and creak of the plane beneath my feet fill my head. There’s a crowd? I honestly couldn’t tell you. It’s just me and Buttercup and Bob, flying in our little space-time continuum.

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