Imperfections (17 page)

“It's called
Passages
, by Gail Sheehy.” She looked at me as if I should know who Gail Sheehy was and stuffed a piece of chicken in her mouth without looking at it.

She may have just eaten the Virgin Mary, I thought. Perhaps she wasn't worth the effort. I nodded to myself, which she mistook as an expression of interest, a prompt to continue.

“Sheehy broke people's lives into decade-long phases and, based on seemingly universal Western sociocultural issues, plotted the average person's ‘life cycle' from the Trying Twenties through to the Serene Sixties.”

She used the side of her fork to slice the chicken.

“That's a little like fate isn't it?” I asked. “A little defeatist.”

The plane shook a bit from turbulence and I couldn't help but notice the tantalizing way she jiggled. She'd be worth the effort, I decided.

“It's true enough,” she said, flashing views of the grey chicken bolus in her mouth. “Man goes to school, man graduates and gets a job. He moves out of home, buys a car, dates and gets married. He moves with the wife to the suburbs, raises two children, has the neighbours over for a barbecue. Man works hard, gets promoted to manager, buys electronics and a La-Z-Boy. Then he retires, putters around the garage and dies.”

Shit, I thought, Father and Uncle Tony.

Maybe this woman wasn't worth the effort.

“I see,” I said and looked around the darkened aisles for a different play pal.

“And woman, she goes to school to become a secretary, a teacher, a nurse. She finds a man with a car and marries him. She moves to the suburbs, has kids, quits her job. She joins the PTA, becomes a pillar of the community. She bakes and becomes the PTA president. She retires with her husband, putters around the garden and then dies.”
 

Something had changed for women, I thought. Something got better.

“When was that book written?” I asked.

“The seventies,” she said.

“Things change,” I said.

“Indeed. This roadmap doesn't work anymore. I guess, in answer to your earlier question, it's not like predetermination. It's a record of what fate was. It's also proof that, with a little effort, you can change fate.” She paused. “You see, my theory is everything changed in the eighties when the idea of the makeover became so prevalent.”
 

I thought of Mother and Father. She broke the cycle and ran away with another man. I thought of Father desperately trying to cope with the unexpected turn in his life. Not being able to adjust, he settled for watching
The X-Files
and drinking beer.

“Once that was altered, it wasn't hard to twist the rest.” She smirked at me. “Men just couldn't keep up.”

Was she flirting or was I being insulted? Could I get laid? I was intrigued.

“You see, women broke their life cycle, reinvented it. It was really as simple as shifting the perception of youth. With makeover culture, thirty became the new twenty. Women rediscovered their youth, no, reclaimed their youth and that was the foundation for altering their whole life cycle. With an extra ten years, they could do anything. Altering and extending that youthful power, a little shift in the social attitude, a tube of lipstick and the chains just snapped. The point in the life cycle about meeting a man with a car, and all the steps after became moot. That altered the second half of the men's life cycle too but men haven't seemed to be able to fill in that gap yet, haven't been able to adapt.”

“Reinvented the life cycle?” I asked, giving her a skeptical glance.

“Yep,” she said, mopping up congealed clots of gravy from her plastic feed tray with a bun she had just peeled the cellophane rind from. “Changed fate.”

“New rules…” I commented. “I am going to the washroom,” I unbuckled my seatbelt. “The one at the back of the plane,” I said pointedly.

Sex in an airplane washroom is a fetish for some, a fantasy for others and an unfortunately pervasive urban legend. Common misconceptions are that it is exciting, romantic and daring. These are fallacies spread by the legions that claim to have had sex in an airplane washroom but never have. These people haven't even given it much thought beyond the actual deed. Those few people who have actually flown and fucked will tell you it is necessarily rushed, totally practical and potentially embarrassing or even criminal, if caught.

Sex in airplanes is no small feat. The sheer impossibility of the ratio of bathroom patrons to bathrooms, combined with the confined quarters of the bathroom itself, is cause for creativity. The copious sex I had in airplanes was not some pathological mental disorder, it was alleviating boredom. That and I was eighteen years old, which in hindsight, may have been a mental disorder.

The logic goes like this: the more you fly, the more likely it is you have read all the magazines in the seat pocket in front of you, the more likely it is you have heard some variation of the story the stranger beside you has to tell and the more likely it is you have seen the inflight movie.

So, you start looking around. Then, while most eyes are fixed on the movie about the woman who meets the man and falls in love and loses him and gets him back in the end, you notice that a few others are also looking around with meaningful glances. While most eyes are glazed and mouths are open, a pair of well-plucked eyebrows raise at you and the next thing you know, you are fucking, grunting and gasping in confined quarters with one ass cheek sunk in the ass cheek-shaped sink. Next time you are on a plane, watch for these others because they are watching for you.

The vast population of liars will tell you airplane sex is easy to pull off undetected and that it is quite a rush. The truth is you must be calculating to avoid detection by the cabin crew and your fellow passengers. Logically, anyone who has truly done it will tell you it is just sex, above the earth, in a cramped, smelly closet meant to barely fit one person but forced to accommodate two.

The choice of partner is important. It is best done with someone other than a close seatmate so you are not stuck sitting through a number of awkward hours trying to converse with someone you just fucked when all you want to do is inflate your horseshoe neck pillow and doze off until touchdown. This is, of course, unless you are either already acquainted with them or they are one of the few practised and professional mile-high veterans.

Timing airplane sex is important. It is best done early in the flight before the perennial line of bathroom goers forms, as is the case by the second half of any transoceanic flight. Also, avoid stewardesses blocking aisles with carts of steamed chicken and cellophane-wrapped buns. Therefore, the ideal time is right after dinner and drinks are served, early in the flight.

Once in the washroom, a new suite of logistical issues arises. First, the inward-hinging accordion door makes the meagre space even smaller. Clothing, at least those hindering access to naughty bits, is best removed before both participants are inside. This lessens the awkward fumbling and the potential for becoming inextricably wedged, which has happened in the long and sordid history of flying and fucking.

Assume at this point all has gone well and sex can actually commence. It is imperative that one does not become so rapt in the act that it overtakes conscious control of actions and noises. Excessive thumping, primal noises or loud proclamations should be avoided. A misplaced “Please, harder,” or “Oh God, yes,” will signal trouble. An errant “Drill me, pig,” or “Make me dirty,” will result in discovery due to the fact that, on the other side of the centimetre-thick wall, sit the people in the last row of seats. These people don't sleep for two reasons, the seats don't recline and they are invariably parents with small children. Parents think being at the back of the plane limits the nuisances that are their kids.

It is difficult to get lost in the act, though. There is always the jiggling of the door handle from people testing to see if the door is really locked or if the ‘occupied' sign is lying. There is the constant awareness of the various buttons and levers, which cause premature spraying in the washbasin, flushing of the toilet or soap to be dispensed. There are the hard edges of counters, racks and towel dispensers that must be accommodated. There is the ever-present danger of potentially wedging oneself due to unexpected turbulence or partner movements. Being acutely aware is necessary.

As is becoming apparent, the logistics are against you.

In the washroom, speed is essential. Anything that carries on longer than the length of a good dump, say ten minutes, will arouse the suspicions of the crew. Those who require foreplay before and/or cuddling after coitus should not partake. The rule is, get in and get out.

Say all of this went off without a hitch and everything is over. With two people, it is impossible to wash down or wipe up, leaving the best option to beat a hasty retreat. If both participants manage to get their clothes on, exit at the same time. If not, one gets out quick, then the remaining participant can pack up and leave a few moments later. If there is a lineup at the door best to behave as if everything is normal.

Sex on a plane is never great, but it is an entertaining way to pass the time.

Or, if you haven't seen it yet, you could watch the movie.

I ducked into the washroom, closed the door behind me. I dropped my pants, slid my underwear to my ankles, sat down and waited. Within a minute, my seatmate accordioned the door in and quickly closed and latched it behind her. The overhead light flickered on. With surprising grace for a heftier woman in a confined space, she had me on my feet and inside her in seconds.

She's done this before, I thought.

We were standing face to face, she with her back against the door, one leg up on the counter, her skirt hiked up to her knee and me very comfortably pinned in the joint of her legs. There was even enough room for me to get a good jiggle going. I could enjoy our reflections in the mirror if I looked to the left, though the attached sign that read,
Please be courteous and wipe down the basin for the next guest
got in the way a bit.

She leaned forward and bit my earlobe.

I squawked in surprise.

She grabbed my throat with one hand and pushed my head against the wall. I kept pistoning though I could feel my face flush hot and, with a glance in the mirror, I could see veins standing out in my neck and my face turning red.

“I know you like that,” she hissed, her lips brushing my ear. “But shut the fuck up. Don't stop.” Her look was a warning against either the noise I made or the possibility of my stopping.
 

She clamped onto my earlobe again as if daring me to react. This time, my vocalizations were squeezed into silence by her tightening grip on my neck.

“You better come soon because I'm going to. Then, I'm done with you.” She panted in my ear.

She whimpered and her body trembled a little. I doubled my efforts, speeding up the cadence and force. She stifled a squeal and took one long, continuous intake of breath. I swore that she was about to push my head through the wall but I shuttered and came too.

All in all, less than five minutes I would guess. Pretty good.

Within seconds, she was clothed. The light overhead snapped off when she unlocked the latch and flung the door open.
 

In the process of her leaving, I was inadvertently knocked off balance by her elbow. The door slid closed behind her. I tottered but, with pants and undies constricting my ankles, I couldn't recover my balance. I spun and fell toward the toilet. One outstretched arm bumped the toilet's flush button and the other hand wound up in the bowl to brace my fall.

A tepid flow of Peevercor Aircraft Toilet Chemical Solution coated the bowl from under the rim and doused my hand in a dark blue-green, slightly greasy and slightly viscous blend of formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, colouring agents and perfume additives. I managed to get my hand out before the trap door at the bottom of the bowl opened with a loud hiss.

Pushing myself into a standing position, I moved quickly to lock the door. The light flickered on and I looked at myself in the mirror, naked from the waist down, genitals floppy and retreating by the second, a glowing red earlobe, and both hands held up like a surgeon, one a deep tint of turquoise. Instead of the sterile smell of a surgeon, I smelled sweet like a chemical toilet.
 

My feelings aligned with the image reflected back at me: sad, used and alone. I looked away.

I ruminated on what had happened and I felt lonely wonder as I tried to scrub the stain from my skin under the tap with wadded-up paper towels. I didn't even know her name. I didn't know anything about her. I had lots of experience with anonymous sex in the past year and I had never felt this empty before, this incomplete.

I needed a deeper meaning for what we had done.

I needed something stronger than soap and water to get the chemical stain out of my skin.

I dried my now-pale, turquoise-coloured hand, pulled up my underwear and pants and returned to my seat with a newfound determination to build a connection.

“What's your name?” I asked as I buckled up.