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The whole week had been hot. Actually, the whole damn beginning of the summer had been hot. And now, a small vacation. 24 free hours. 24 free hours were going to be spent in a nice, clean, quiet, motel room. But, that was yet to come…

Kathy bound out the door toward the car. Naturally, being the gentleman I am, I opened her car door for her and took her bags. I carefully placed her luggage in the trunk and quickly got back into the driver’s seat. Although we both knew what lay ahead this weekend (sex), of course, casual small talk took over. We had known each other for about a year at this time. Sex became something to look forward to for both of us. But, we wanted to put a deliberate twist into our sex to liven things up. Quite a few subjects were tossed in the air and commented on as we drove to the motel. But, not much substance to the conversation could be recorded. Ultimately, like all conversations where some anxiety or anticipation is present, the topic we returned to often was the weather. And, ironically, it was an appropriate subject. It was hot. And, it wasn’t going to get any cooler.

Through the whole summer, we had exchanged letters. We often met on weekends and had frequent retreats to motels. Sometimes motels could wait, sometimes hotel rooms were paid for in haste with no real sleeping involved, and sometimes we bummed around Indianapolis first to highten the anticipation for what was to come. After each liason, our letters would often jump into the subject of sex–literally. One subject never connected to another. These discussions would often lead to fantasies that we would both someday like to bring to reality. Unknown to myself, one of those fantasies we discussed would soon be reality.

I was soon surprised. Our favorite cuisine for that summer was Korean and Chinese food. As we were sitting in a Chinese restaurant, Kathy casually dropped her plans right in my lap.

“So, Allan, are you up for tonight?”

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“I hereby give myself over to chronic masturbation”, I announced to myself. My words were chopped up in the ceiling fan and then fell dead in the silent flat. Traveling alone to Cairns, Australia was exciting in one way. I mean there is the barrier reef and islands and topless beaches. But in other ways, such as at nine at night and being in a place where there were strict blue laws, well it was not so exciting. But laying in bed and lubing my prick with baby oil was giving me very little satisfaction. I felt restless. I had to move.

That is why I ended up cruising the bars. One was sort of fun. I danced with some women but nothing seemed to spark and the music and noise became too much to bear. Finally I stumbled on the sidewalk of a storefront (oh yeah, I guess I drank a few blue tinnies also) in which the window was blackened out. It was about a block from the docks where the reef boats departed and it looked deserted. There was an “ADULTS ONLY” sign on the painted black glass. I decided to give it a shot.

The inside was much cleaner and brighter than the outside would have suggested. The walls were covered with racks which contained soft porn magazines. Directly in front of me was a glass case which contained various dildos and fake vaginas (one that even pulsated!). To the right was a curtained entrance way which had a handwritten sign over top: FIVE DOLLARS – ALL DAY.

What really caught my eye was who was behind the counter. I couldn’t believe that a woman who looked like that could work in such a place. She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, slender, with short blonde hair. Contained in a loose string tie top were two perky, firm looking breasts. She was busy SEWING! of all things and every time she pulled the thread there was a solid but definite tremor under her top. Her nipples stood out as they rubbed against the fabric like the tips of two pinkie fingers.

“What does five dollars all day mean”, I interrupted her conversation and pointed to the sign.

She looked up, her eyes were blue, and she smiled.

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This is my first posting…I have more to share in the future if you like this, but must post anonymously, since I am a senior manager at a Fortune 100 company and knowledge about my extra-curricular activities would cause the end of my career.

It was hot and steamy as we arrived at the airport in Brisbane for the long journey home to Boston. This was the end of a month-long campervan vacation in Australia, and I, for one, was overjoyed to be heading back to some normalcy. For an entire month my wife Anne (I call her “the queen”) had avoided sex in the campervan, or anywhere else for that matter, since “the children are nearby.” — The irony of her way of thinking will be evident shortly.

Actually, she is not very interested in sex anytime, since she was taught by her mother that sex was “dirty.” The only time she ever saw her parents making love, they were fully clothed (hike up the skirt, dear – I’ll just quickly unzip.) Sometimes I wonder how we ever ended up with three children; one is grown and on her own, the two boys (Ralph, 17 and Trevor, 14) were with us on holiday. Because I travel regularly, I have opportunity for other sexual outlets during the year, but four plus weeks within close quarters with a demanding uptight woman does not give you much opportunity to develop alternatives.

I had some first class upgrade coupons, but at check-in time was told there was only one seat available. Anne immediately volunteered because of her “potential for a bad back,” and was seated in 3A. The boys and I were given 21K/L and 22L. This was aisle and window seating in the 2-5-2 configuration, and the last two rows in the second section. I took the single seat, and let Ralph and Trevor sit together for the first ten-hour segment of the flight.

An attractive woman dressed in a loose sweater and very tight blue jeans took the seat next to me. I could see that Ralph was uncomfortable and maybe even a little jealous, since he kept turning around to talk to me, but she was too old (29) to be interested in him. She introduced herself as Christine, “You can call me Chrissy.” She was about five foot eight, light brown (almost blond) long hair, a nice ass – firm and high, breasts with an impact even through her shapeless sweater, and obviously in good physical condition.

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Unlike so many of the bawdy houses of Amsterdam, the building bore no signs. In fact, as I stood in front of the chipped, black door marked #12, I almost thought it was all a practical joke. What did I know was that Hazraj, the strange Turk who, in drunken friendliness at the hotel bar, had insisted, “A whore’s a whore all over the world. You don’t need to visit Amsterdam for that. But…the Anal Sex Circus! There is not another anywhere.”

I rang the bell. Was this really the place — or was he having a joke at the expense of a white British tourist? When the door slowly opened, I realized that he was indeed a friend! Stepping into the interior of the townhouse, it was a though I had stepped through tent flaps and into the most opulent carnival ever.

There was actual sawdust on the floor. The air smelled of beer and popcorn. The big main room had concession stands where they were selling popcorn — delicately laced with hashish – and white cotton candy, also drugged. Beer and liquor were being sold by men in straw hats, red vests, and white striped shirts.

Garish rotary lights whirled a dizzy array of greens and reds into the air. Semi-nude women — black, Asian, and white — escorted the various men as they ate, drank, and laughed uproariously. In different languages, a barker in a derby hat shouted at the back of the room, “Hurry, hurry. Step right up! Come, Come, Come to the Anal Sex Circus!”

If the mad Turk Hazraj had not been so explicit in his description of the place, I don’t know what my reaction to this bizarre spectacle might have been. A beautiful Eurasian girl glided up to me. I ordered a cafe pousse at the bar. In American money, it cost me about $20. I was going to order one more for my “hostess” but reconsidered: “You wouldn’t drink, would you? Just water one of these plants with it.” I slipped her $20 cash instead. “Let’s call it a contribution to the continuing survival of horticulture.”

She dutifully explained the “play” at the Anal Sex Circus. After I finished the drink, I walked back to the back of the room where a man, dressed in imitation of an American carnival barker, guarded the entrance to the upstairs rooms. I bought two tickets ($100 each) which entitled me to see two “shows” of my choice. The tickets were actually more like plastic credit cards.

With insane calliope music blaring down the corridors of this two-story townhouse turned madhouse, I made my way upstairs. In the old carnival midways, you’d walk along seeing the posters for the midgets and fire eaters and freaks. You’d pay to go into the tent to actually see them perform. Here, there were rooms. On each gold-curtained door was a picture of the girl within.

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I was in the window seat of a Piedmont 737, taxiing out at Washington National that morning. My destination was New Orleans with a change of planes in Atlanta. As we passed the transient ramp in front of Butler Aviation, I saw my old airplane. It had been repainted, but bore the same numbers along each side of the fuselage. The sight of it brought back a memory from the 1960s that marked the highlight of my brief career in commercial aviation.

Officially, the airplane’s registration number — and radio call sign — was N-5558B. But to my two partners and me — and to the tower crew at her home airport in Opa Locka, Florida — Beech Travelair N-5558B was “Triple Nickel 8-Ball.” She was a outside business venture of three lawyers — my two partners and me — who shared a criminal-law practice in Miami, and a love of flying. Sherlock — the name my father, an Arthur Conan Doyle fan, gave me — earned the law firm some early publicity, and we were doing well enough to afford to buy Triple Nickel 8-Ball. Our aviation business involved flying bags of bank checks from Miami International Airport to Atlanta Hartsfield Airport where they were taken by van to the Federal Reserve Depository for processing. The income was predictable; but the flying wasn’t — particularly in the summer when the Florida thunderstorms topped out at about 40,000 feet.

What we admitted, to everyone but the I.R.S., was that our money-losing business was just an excuse to fly and hang around the airport’s Fixed Base Operation trading lies with the other pilots and would-be pilots that inhabited the pilots’ lounge.

There was a flying school there — a collection of Cessna 150’s, young instructors with their eyes set on the airlines, and students from the local area. Late afternoon usually found a fair sprinkling of women in the pilots’ lounge; some of them students, but mostly the girl-friends of the students and instructors. They all knew about our operation, and with suitable hints, could wrangle a ride in Triple-Nickel-8-Ball on our Miami-Atlanta-Miami trip when we wanted the company.

A few weeks before, the female “regulars” in the lounge had jokingly announced formation of a local chapter of the “mile-high” club — and that subject had replaced discussion of instrument-approaches and engine overhaul prices. As I understood it, the rules were simple: sex above 5280 feet, unaided by co- (or auto) pilot. The novelty of the topic wore off after a while; but one day a female student showed up with a small pendant hanging from her neck on a gold chain: a set of small gold wings with a cloisonne’ panel in the center, bearing the numbers “5280.” A second, and then third, pendant soon appeared on other necks. Although none of us had the nerve to ask, it appeared that the mile-high club was more than talk.

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