Mile Highing: A Tart’s Guide to Getting Off After Taking Off

mile highing

I sat there at the bar in Seattle’s Tacoma airport, drinking a tall glass of the worst cider I’ve ever consumed and feeling decidedly unsexy in my oversized Weezer t-shirt, my black leggings and my compression stockings when it happened. Little did I know, I was about to enter the most sexually frustrating international flight of my life, and it all started with a tiny little facebook message from the sexy Aussie who would be meeting me at Melbourne’s Tullamarine upon landing.

“When you get here, I am going to fuck you till you scream and thrash and sob. You’re going to forget everything, right down to your own name. The only thing you’ll be able to focus on is how good it feels to have me inside of you again and the sounds you’ll be making as you cum.”

I was distractingly wet as I boarded the plane.

Getting Situated

I’m not saying that I set out that morning expecting to be humping my own hand in the darkness of an international flight– but some of my decisions that day did inadvertently assist the endeavor.  When it comes to low key self love in a cramped little environment, your biggest friend is a stretchy waistband or an easy access skirt.  Add in the extra privacy of the in-flight blanket that you’re provided with and you can almost pretend that you’re not a half inch away from being elbow-deep in the mouth-breather next to you.

Taking Inventory

A noisy vibrator is the last thing you’re going to want to be whipping out in such close quarters, no matter what volume your seatmates are watching Apocalypse Now through their headphones on.  In this situation, using your fingers is more or less ideal– but if you can’t make it happen without a battery-operated friend, there are always low-volume alternatives.  My personal pick is my Vesper by Crave: it’s quiet, it’s powerful, it’s gorgeous, and you can wear it through security without any awkward looks from the TSA agents or running into any Fight Club-esque situations.

“Nine times out of ten [the vibrating is] an electric razor, but every once in a while… it’s a dildo. Of course it’s company policy never to, imply ownership in the event of a dildo… always use the indefinite article a dildo, never your dildo.”
You may also want to consider your access to orgasm fodder, if your imagination is too zapped from the flight.  Downloading a sexy video or two to your phone and popping in some earbuds might be just what you need to pop you over the edge.  For a more discreet experience of course, a little bit of sexy lit can go a long way– without the danger of being spotted watching hardcore sex on your smartphone by any of your neighbors.

Timing is Everything

Half of the fun about masturbating in mid-air is the threat of being caught (the other half is mostly turbulence).  But that doesn’t mean you’re about to welcome the idea of sitting next to a fellow passenger who’s just caught you stroking your clit next to them for ten more hours of in-flight awkwardness.  The best time to start playing with the little man in the boat is after the first meal service on an international flight, after the stewardesses have picked up your food trays.  On a domestic flight, keep an eye on your neighbors– once they’re sufficiently distracted with their business reports, their Kindles or their eye masks, you’re in the clear.  And it should go without saying, but should you be seated near children, you’re not in the correct environment for anything of the sexual nature– for your own sake and theirs, keep those hands busy with something of a more innocent nature.

The Silent Climax

So you’ve gotten this far– now it’s time for you to come. You’ve been careful, you’ve been discreet, and you can feel the pleasure building to an intense peak as you soar over 40,000 feet in the air.  But what do you do if you’re a heavy breather– or a panter– or a screamer?

My own orgasms tend to be pretty loud, but after living in the dorms at my university for two years, I’ve become a master of the silent climax.  The technique is simple enough with a little practice.

First, make sure that you don’t orgasm too intensely.  A heavy touch or too-fast fingers can lead to an accidental orgasm that you weren’t expecting– which can lead to the kind of noises that are sure to alert your neighbors to your dirty deeds.  Instead, use a gentle hand to ensure that you’re the one in charge of your orgasm, not your body.  When you feel yourself reaching that edge, take in a long, deep breath; once you’re over it and you can feel yourself spasming, release that breath in short, quiet bursts.

And then, once you’re done, wipe yourself off on an in flight napkin and enjoy that post-orgasm afterglow.  Or hell– have another go at it! Fifteen hours is an awful lot of time to keep those hands of yours occupied, after all…

So, dear readers, are any of you members of the mile high club? Where’s the craziest place you’ve found yourself getting intimate? Let me know in the comments!

Until next week,


Where in the World is India Reid?


Presently, the answer is kind of vague: I’m on a plane somewhere between St. Louis and Seattle, off on my latest sexy adventure.

The last six months or so have been anything but sexy. They’ve involved a lot of sweatpants and oversized band t-shirts, essays on new criticism and deconstruction, late nights, cheap booze and cheaper coffee. School has left me off the grid for a solid while now, just trying to keep up with classwork. But all of this has culminated into something that’s, I guess, kind of a big deal– I’m a college grad now! No more pencils, no more books– you know the drill.

But the real sweetness to my newfound freedom is that I’m sitting in first class (not nearly as fancy as you’d imagine it to be, but better than economy and with unlimited glasses of champagne) on my way to a weekend with a good friend in the publishing industry– and then off to Australia afterward. I haven’t quite figured out what to do with the hot towel yet (do you put it on your face? Wash your hands with it?) but I’m feeling bubbly and excited and, well… horny. So very, very horny.

The flights, the girls’ weekend, and all of the mysteries yet to come when I hit Melbourne are some kind of “good girl” rewards from my current beau, and yeah, I guess, my “Master”– even though I don’t call him that. We’ve been separated since July so I could go home and finish up school, which for me has been a serious case of not getting laid for the last six months. Tragic, I know– so maybe that’s why I’m being spoiled so much.

The main benefits of all of this to you, dear readers, is that I’m writing full time now and in about six days, doing sex on the reg’ again– so there are all sorts of stories (true, half-true, entirely fictionalized and those ones that we all really, desperately wish could happen) ripe for typing.

Expect me,

Matryoshka by Elizabeth Woodham (Five Flaming Hot Stars!)

Matryoshka: A NovellaMatryoshka: A Novella by Elizabeth Woodham
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Sometimes, it feels like there is a schism in the prose of today: there’s “real” literature, and then there’s erotica.

This is not one of those times.

In Matryoshka, Woodham walks the line between the literary and the erotic so beautifully that she leaves it scuffed and blurred in her wake. Her narrative reads like poetry, words chosen so carefully and cleverly that it would be easy to get lost in her artful phrasing alone– but make no mistake, this is no wine and roses purple prose romance. Woodham’s characters get intimate in all the best ways, leaving the reader (or this reader, anyway) torn between finishing the novel and going out to bag a sexy, brogue-ing Celt of their own. It’s intimate, it’s intellectual, and most importantly, in a genre that so often tends toward the low-budget porno script, it’s classy as all hell. Matryoshka isn’t just another erotic storyline, it’s an experience– one that leaves the reader feeling elegant, sensual, and sexy in their own right from the first letter through the final period.

The cover imagery was aptly chosen– I burned through the bulk of this novel all in one sitting! For smart, upscale literary erotica, there’s no question about it: Woodham is our Queen.

View all my reviews

Why Erotica?

There are currently hundreds, if not thousands, of erotica and erotic romance authors making a living self-publishing on ebook sites such as Amazon, Smashwords, Kobo, AllRomance, and others.

As an avid reader of erotica, I was beginning to feel like most of these writers, at the risk of taking a cheap shot at my own kind, are, in my opinion, not that great.

Let’s start things off on the clear– I never imagined I would ever be an erotica writer.  When I wrote my first erotic short story, it was for me and me alone– my own desires, my own pleasure.  I’m a science fiction and fantasy writer by trade.  It’s what I went to school for, and it’s what I always planned on doing with my life.  Erotica was something intimate, something I shared and wrote with my romantic partners and never aspired to show to a larger audience or to make money off of– until I did.  College was expensive, and writing was leading me to a point where I was embodying the starving artist trope a little more than I wanted to.

So, maybe I sold out.  That’s how I felt when I first started, anyway.  I read what was available at the time and did my best to replicate it.  As a result, my first stories were little better than expanded porno scripts, with one dimensional characters and sex scenes so dry an industrial sized barrel of personal lubricant wouldn’t have made penetration possible.  And the sad thing is, they sold– better than I ever imagined.  An endeavor that began as a scheme to avoid wasting precious student loan payouts on things like books and alcohol grew into a lucrative career, despite the fact that the stories I was writing were devoid of life, hopelessly trite and barely worth the paper they were printed on (and we’re talking ebooks here, so they weren’t printed on anything at all– harsh).

The fact of the matter is, writing passionless 3000-word sex scenes that you are almost entirely disinterested in wears on a girl after a while.

So, why erotica in the first place?  Beyond the paycheck, a couple of reasons, really.  For one thing, I love to write.  Always have– probably always will.  It’s the one profession I can never imagine retiring from.  If money was no object, my laptop would still be frying my ovaries as I clickety-clacked away on its keyboard, making up lies and justifying them with pretty literary words.  Sure, I can imagine doing something else with my life, but I can’t imagine being happy with it.  I’m a writer.  Writing is just what I do.

Secondly, I’m a slut.  Physically speaking, maybe not so much– I can be a little picky when it comes to sexual partners, admittedly– but sluttiness doesn’t begin and end with the number of people you go skin to skin with.  What we’re dealing with here is a mental sort of sluttiness– I’m a cerebral tart, if you will.  Maybe it’s something about a strict Catholic upbringing, or maybe everyone’s brain works like mine but they’re not quite so vocal about it, but I have a dirty, filthy mind.  I think about sex– a lot.  Erotica is a good way to put that kind of gutter thinking to use.  After all, idle hands…

The third reason I write erotica is the least practical– and as a result, perhaps the most poignant.  For the majority of history, female sexuality has been heinously repressed, with little done to rectify it.  While men were heralded, urged toward and socially rewarded for sexual activities, women have been put down and degraded for exactly the same.   Sex, for many women, has become a topic of shame, when in no way should it be.  Further hindering the abilities of women to fully explore their sexuality is the fact that the vast majority of pornography was in no way, shape or form produced with women in mind.  Just take a look at excerpts of interviews with former porn stars— this is not an industry that was created with women in mind.  But video pornography is not the be-all, end-all of sexually liberating material out there.  Erotica, written by women, for women, allows for full exploration of nearly any sexual fantasy under the sun, in an environment that is conductive to the reader’s imagination and in a medium in which no real people can be physically victimized or psychologically scarred.

Erotica is a movement that is feminist at its core.  It’s a safe zone in which a woman can find empowerment in her own desires, safety in her own fantasies, and liberation in her own sexuality.  And if that’s not a damn noble cause, then I don’t know what is.

My problem with erotica– even the kind that I’ve written in the past– is that by and large, it’s not treated as a labor of love.  A heaping handful of authors in the genre are in it for the money and the money alone, and another handful have become so caught up in the sway of the almighty dollar that they exercise deceptive, utterly sketchy business practices or settle for selling sub par work .  But like I said, there are hundreds, maybe thousands of writers self-publishing erotica.

Shouldn’t every one of them aspire to be one of the good ones?

And so, seeing the house I’d built out of bent second-hand nails and dried out driftwood, I surveyed it carefully and burned it to the ground.  Then, like Danerys Targareyan emerging from the embers of her husband’s funeral pyre, a new endeavor was born– filthy and nude and now with dragons.  India Reid Erotica– stories that give a shit for readers that give a shit.

Or, anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  Au revoir, à bientôt, and thanks for supporting your local battery factory by continuing to wear out your vibrators.

Why Erotica?