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I started the flight fantasising about airplane sex but ended it fantasising about murder

To catch up on the series, read Love, sex, drama and self-discovery: The escapades of Violet Online

I’ve always had this fantasy about sex on an airplane. And in fact when I was eighteen I did some heavy petting on a 747, which was all fun and games until an attempted hijacking in Amsterdam put paid to that.

But now, I’m on a Jumbo en route to Paris. There’s a nice looking guy sitting next to me, and we keep glancing at each other.

It could be sexual. I’m almost waiting for him to say to me - ‘I’ll go to the toilet first, follow me in a minute…’

But it isn’t sexual, and he isn’t going to say that,

Because our glancing has turned to glaring 

I have the armrest. 

He wants the armrest.

And I’m holding my ground.

He already has the aisle seat because of his long legs. I had the aisle seat and was gently pressured into giving it up for him. And I’m pissed off about that. I have long legs too. And I hate the middle. Now I have to climb over him if I need to go to the loo, and apart from the fact that I’m wearing a short skirt and am likely to flash, I’ll lose the armrest if I go wee.

So I’m closing my eyes and trying to fantasise about sex on a plane instead of getting into a fist- fight over the stupid armrest. But every time I close my eyes and imagine a hand on my leg, I really do have a hand on my leg.

Not in a sexy ‘Oh move it a bit higher up my thigh’ kind of way. In the way that he is falling asleep and he is huge and his body parts are spilling over on to my body parts. Apart from the armrest, he is now colonising my entire seat. I’m shrinking and he is getting bigger and bigger, and he’s started snoring too.

I keep jabbing him in the forearm with my elbow, but when I do that, he takes the gap, he grabs the armrest. He’s pretending to be asleep. 

I hate 23C.

I am no longer fantasising about airplane sex. I’m fantasising about murder.

The man on the other side of me is pretending none of this is happening. His eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow. OH MY GOD HE HAS A BLANKET OVER HIM AND THERE IS SOME MOVEMENT, OH MY GOD, and well, I don’t know what’s going down on Seat 23A, but I don’t want to know. And he certainly wont be useful, this man with the heavy breathing and the blanket and dear sweet Jesus he’s not even fantasising, I think he’s just come.

I hate 23A.

It doesn’t help to call an air steward. I tried. They’re French. They offer sympathetic looks and an extra croissant, but they don’t speak English and I don’t speak French, and I think they’re so sick of armrest battles in the air. 

They also take ages to come help, and I have a feeling they’re the only one having fun on this aircraft. They seem to spend a lot of time in the bathrooms, and they all have this glazed look in their eyes.

I hate the Air Stewards.

I’d always wanted to join the mile high club. But it isn’t going to happen in economy class on Air France. It isn’t going to happen in Row 23.
It isn’t going to happen. I don’t even want it to happen anymore.

I just want my own fucking armrest.

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