Club

I met my new roommates. My new crew. We were talking about our flights and stopovers. Milan. London. Amsterdam. The guy with the Amsterdam stopover said it was long and boring. Then he had a stopover, “fucked a prostitute,” took shrooms until the faces melted at the Van Gogh Museum, and woke up on the side of the highway.

There was a laugh or two, but I wanted to know more. He then said he “jacked off” on the airplane. There was a collective gasp and groan among guys. What the fuck? What is the matter with you? Who are you? How? Dafuq?

I laughed like a sucker. Man he got one over on the crew.

He said so prostitutes and shrooms are ok, but masturbation on an airplane isn’t?

A room of young wannabe bros went silent.

One tried to quote Descartes. Another said Hume. The pleasured talked of Dylan. I then said well I believe it was Pac who called out the hypocrites.

We sat with that for a minute, and one asked how he did it.

He said he went to the bathroom and roped one out. Simple.

The other guy said he thought it was in front of people.

It was the pleasured who then said what the fuck is wrong with you?

The tables were turned. I respected the logic.

And reader, I would be lying if I didn’t tell you, the next time I was on an airplane, I joined the mile high club.

Alone.

I didn’t even need to use soap.

I washed my hands with soap after.

I’m not uncultured.