I kept my camera in my purse, resisting the urge to take photographic evidence. After all, everyone else was acting like it was no big deal.
But let’s face it. It’s the jet. Well, one of several. It’s a big deal.
I stepped inside behind the big cheeses. I was clearly the little cheese. But I was still getting onto a private plane to go across the ocean. Leather seats, wood grains, full service everything. No crappy overhead announcements, personal explanation of all safety features from a lovely young woman.
But after a while, the leather seats are just seats, and the only thing different about in flight entertainment is that I got to pick it from the little DVD library, rather than having some monkey in a corporate office pick the month’s entertainment.
Until I got to the bathroom.
First, I wasn’t even sure I was in the bathroom. It was 3 times bigger than a normal bathroom on a plane. And rather than being death gray plastic, the walls were covered in fine wood grain and mirrors. I couldn’t see a toilet. Just a sink in granite and some toiletries that hinted at bathroom-like activities. And a lovely leather bench seat. Maybe there was a second door.
I started opening drawers and doors . . . found all kinds of amenities and goodies. Anything a world-weary executive could need to make themselves appear fresh and lovely.
As I stood there looking for the toilet, I realized this was more than just a bathroom. This was the kind of room you had airplane sex in. Like the world headquarters for the Mile-High Club. Mirrors everywhere. Perfect lighting (now that I mention it, I did look ravishing). Room for arms and legs and more than one pair each. Padded leather bench. Plenty of maneuvering space. Plenty of toiletries to freshen up after the deed. Like it never happened.
And then I realized I was traveling on a corporate jet with executives I had no interest in engaging in anything other than small talk. It was at that moment that I found the toilet hidden beneath the leather bench. Just a toilet. Oh, to be sure, the toilet paper was hidden away in a nice little wood grain holder, and stuff. But functional, nonetheless; no romance at all.
I washed my hands in the gold-trimmed sink, and studied my face in the mirror. The lighting really was outstanding. And I made myself a promise.
If I ever join the Mile High Club, it’s going to be on a private jet. And I’m blogging it.
Unless reading about old people having sex in airplanes grosses you out.