My college girlfriend had an insatiable appetite for sex. So an hour before heading to the airport to catch a flight to Italy in 2002 (the trip was our graduation gift to ourselves), we had sex. By the time we were boarding, she was already ready for more. Naturally, we checked out the plane’s bathroom, but we agreed that it looked too cramped for a mid-air romp.

Undeterred, my gal summoned a flight attendant shortly after takeoff and requested two blankets. Then she draped the navy blue polyester throws over my lap, slipped her hand beneath the makeshift barrier, withdrew my dick, and massaged me to erection. Bear in mind that we were in a three-seat row. She was by the window, I was in the center, and a middle-aged European dude neither of us knew was sitting near the aisle.

While jerking me off as slowly as possible so as not to raise suspicion, she whispered in my ear that she wanted to make me come. It was odd being shoulder-to-shoulder with a complete stranger, and it wasn’t easy to muffle my increasingly heavy breathing, but it was incredibly hot to do something so daring out in the open. After about half an hour, I came, smiling wide, aware that I would never forget that less-than-innocent hand job.