The deal also comes with chocolates and champagne, in case you want to eat a bunch of sugar before your cramped, obligatory plane fuck. You only get an hour, and that includes take off and landing, so it's not like there's a ton of time for being coy. I'm glad I'm not the guy who hoses out the Flamingo Air sex den. Or the pilot, for that matter.
“I have had a high heel in my ear once, been shot in the back of the head with a champagne cork, and thank God we wear headsets,” Dave MacDonald, pilot and co-owner of the business told WCPO-TV.
That guy is basically the concierge at an hourly hotel, only he has to be in the room with you and also he knows how to fly a plane. But anyway, if you want to join the mile high club for some reason, here is your chance. I kind of feel like the entire concept of the mile high club is a holdover from Pan Am times, when flying was classy and exciting—there is nowhere I feel less like getting down than jammed into a tiny seat, breathing in everyone's recycled farts—but different strokes and all that.