Compiled by Brian Peters
(02/26/03)
When we cast out a topic and see what we can troll in from Clean Sheets' staff and friends, we're most often delighted by the variety of what we get, and we figured that "Tell us about your sexiest experiences while traveling" would do just that. And it did. But we usually figure that the heart of the variety will come from our clever staff and friends transforming a dry, everyday reality into scenes dripping with sex. And some of that happened, too. Still, these responses are more memoir than fantasy, strongly suggesting that our esteemed contributors carry their libidos as hand luggage -- although perhaps that shouldn't surprise us, either.
So at a time when airlines are operating from bankruptcy court, and travel agents are waiting tables, we present eight lascivious trips: a standing "O" for a blowjob at dawn; airport transport in paradise; cross-country reunion sex; the pounding thrill of a little red racer; London and Lolita; a tour of Greece with a mysterious stranger; whips and chains on the train to Gotham; and a sleepless night in Chicago with the college choir. So pack your suitcase and stimulate the, umm, economy. No need to thank us, Mr. President -- we're patriots at heart...
It was in the misty dawn of the fabled Sixties. I'd just turned twenty. For two weeks I'd hitched
through the Pacific Northwest, and, in memory at least, it rained every second
of those two weeks. I was so wet and miserable that a state trooper, after
warning me -- twice -- that hitching was illegal, gave me a ride over
Snoqualmie Pass to where it wasn't raining.
In Idaho, a car passed, braked, and careened back in my direction. Somebody
hollered: "Bill?!"
Hank had gone to high school with me in Massachusetts. He was having a big
party with a bunch of friends, and he was on a beer run. How the fuck was I?!
Did I want to hang out for a few days? It was easy to say yes, even before he
mentioned girls.
We carried the beer into a sprawling cabin fragrant with marijuana, pulsing
with music, and full of happy, stoned people. Within minutes I was stripped
and in a blissful shower. A woman with black hair down to her waist joined me
for a moment and then vanished, and another woman with a round, freckled face
stuck her head around the shower curtain and licked my shoulder.
By dark that day I'd kissed at least a dozen breasts and smoked dope for the
fourth, fifth, and sixth times of my life. I slept in a jumble of sleeping
bags and bodies, and in the morning Freckle-face made love to me for a long,
long time. "You on the pill?" I asked, and she nodded a solemn yes. AIDS was
still years away.
I stayed for three days. Leaving, a Jersey girl named Elaine stood me in the
front yard with my pack on and gave me a farewell blowjob while a dozen
people applauded from the porch.
The music was cranked up, and the front door was wide open. Guitar riffs
followed me for nearly half a mile before they faded into the crunch of
gravel and the scolding of jays.
--Bill Noble, Clean Sheets fiction editor
The limo was black and sleek and full of champagne, even in broad daylight. I rented it because it was just so much sexier than my VW Jetta, and then I went to pick up my lover, whom I hadn't seen for two months, from the airport. In truth it was only $75 for an advertised special of "one-way airport pickup," but he would never know that. I wore a short black dress, silver jewelry, heels, and mostly I felt like a younger version of Ivana Trump as I waltzed through the airport to meet him, except, of course, Ivana would never climb out of the back of the limo -- even for love.
We kissed and kissed -- airport kissing desperate with longing, is there anything sexier? -- and he loved my short dress and couldn't keep his hands off me, but he knew we had the usual hassle drive home from the airport before we could continue...and then I led him out to the limo. The look on his face was worth a million bucks -- it was an ordinary Wednesday afternoon, but when we climbed in the back there was nothing but tinted windows and champagne and jazz on the stereo and a driver who had been fully notified (and entertained by) the need for privacy, not to mention being asked to drive the long way home. My lover was tired from his flight, I was flying high on sexual energy -- he sat back and I undressed him and knelt before him, raised my skirt, and began to make love to his body like never before. I know he looked out the window at the rest of the world while I was sucking his cock and wished that they all knew how special he was. I remember what he said -- "I have always dreamed of a woman who could figure out how to completely surprise me;" but most of all, I remember the sensation of kneeling on the lush carpeting when the life-altering thought struck me that with just a little imagination I could always create a special kind of sexual joy that would last across time.
--Samantha Capps Emerson, exotica editor
I was in a long-distance relationship for years, flying from Oakland
to Salt Lake City, then from Salt Lake City to Chicago. Sometimes I'd see
him every few weeks, sometimes a month or two or even three might go by
between visits. Usually it would be me flying to visit him, since I
actually like to travel and he doesn't. And often, I'd be thinking about
sex on the plane -- making plans for what I'd do when I arrived, how he'd
be waiting at the gate or at baggage claim, how I'd come into his arms and
hold him, feeling his body pressed against mine after all that time apart.
How I'd kiss him, how he'd kiss me back.
Sometimes, I'd arrive early enough in the morning that it was easier to
just take the train from the airport to his place -- more painful
anticipation, but when I arrived I could turn the key in the lock,
enter the apartment, take off my clothes, and climb into bed with him,
waking him up, burying my face against his bare chest and just enjoying
the feel of him, the scent of him, after too long away.
--Mary Anne Mohanraj, Editor-in-Chief, Strange Horizons
My first serious lover restored and raced vintage sports cars. The
idea of racing scared me -- all those crashes and burns I'd seen on TV -- but I soon learned that this guy put way too much work into his
cars to risk much of a crash. Races were once-in-a-while things,
anyway. Mainly, he liked to get out into the New England countryside
and drive.
Most often there was a destination -- at least a nominal one. We would
drive to the Maine coast; I would swim in the breakers while he
leaned against the trunk of the big Austin Healy, smoking a cigar
with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He took pictures of me during a
picnic in the Vermont woods, lying across the hood of the
Abarth "Double Bubble," my curves blending with those of the car.
Some stops were accidental; mechanical breakdowns became an excuse
for hours of heavy kissing, petting, and blowjobs.
The sexiest part for me, however, was the actual motion. I would
never have expected to consider driving a sport, but out there --
caressing the hills or eating up the coastline at speeds I'm ashamed
to tell you now -- I would feel an almost orgasmic rush that made me
understand why all the boys I knew seemed to have a thing about
driving fast. Only this man drove fast and beautifully.
I don't see him any more, and I doubt whether I'll get involved with
vintage cars again. (My lover, I soon found out, spent more time
under those beautiful monsters than driving them.) But I've bought a
little red convertible (modern, no maintenance), and on summer days I
drive into the country, thinking of him.
--Naomi Darvell, Clean Sheets articles editor
At 15, I was an avowed Anglophile. I inhaled everything from Shakespeare
to Sillitoe, memorized long passages of Monty Python, and often spoke
(accidentally, I swear) with an affected accent. I was absurd. Then I
visited London on a class trip over spring break of my freshman year in
high school, and my passionate intellectual obsession turned physical.
Our tour guide was Richard ("Rich-ahd"), a long-haired, goateed 25-year-old with a Master's degree in Political Science and an affection for
Russian literature. He was my first encounter with a British man and the
instant I met him I fell into a lustful, agonizing crush.
Over that week, he seemed to take me on as a tyro, piling books into my
arms and teaching me backgammon, but treating me more as a peer than any
adult had ever done. He surely noticed my glistening, anxious eyes
avoiding his, my adolescent fingers trembling, but he said nothing, did
nothing. He was very appropriate and professional.
Then in a W. H. Smith in Kensington, this delicious man (a committed
football player, with the body to show for it) towed me to the back of
the shop, into the literature section. Squatting beside me next to the
lowest shelf, he slid out a paperback, flipped to a page in the middle,
and began to read. "I shall not bore my learned readers with a detailed
account of Lolita's presumption..."
I didn't hear his words, I only felt his voice, deep and quiet, rolling
through me, vibrating my belly. My eyes locked on his hand, wrapped
caressingly around the book. I wanted to watch his lips moving through
the sounds, but I couldn't drag my eyes to his face. My lips parted, my
breath halted, I felt my breasts against my knees, my jeans around my
hips. I crouched close
enough to feel heat emanating from his body, to smell his warmth -- a
smell that to this day sets me instantly on fire. "My life was handled
by little Lo in an energetic, matter of fact manner..."
When he finished reading, he looked at me with a little grin and I said,
"Woah. I should read that." I struggled to look composed and literate.
Needless to say, I spent the entire following summer reading the
collected works of Nabokov.
Richard and I have been writing to each other sporadically these 10
years. I'm now the age he was then and I can't imagine doing the
equivalent to a 15 year old boy. I've never asked Richard what possessed
him to read that paragraph to me. I've also never told him the profound,
instant, and permanent impact it had on my body. But to this day I do
highly recommend international travel (and Nabokov) for high school
students.
--Rebecca Adams
Several Junes ago, I signed up for a tour of Greece. I'd been laid
off after a pretty horrible year; for some reason, a bus trip with a
group of strangers seemed like the best possible distraction.
It should have been a disaster, but it wasn't. I treated myself to
the privacy of a single room. Even the tour bus -- one of those big
Mercedes tour buses -- was barely half full. Everyone, except the
joined-at-the-hip couples, had a seat to him or herself. I settled in
with my camera, guidebooks, and diary.
Before long, I'd noticed another passenger: a tall, quiet man about
20 years my senior. Actually, I learned when we finally talked, it
was more like 30. He was thin, deeply tanned, a marathon runner.
Recently retired from his job. One night, strolling around a mountain
village after our group dinner, we started kissing and didn't stop.
It sounds like a corny '70s movie, but we decided right then not to
meet once the tour was over, not even to get in touch. I've no idea
whether the other tour members knew. Possibly they guessed; but we
stayed in our respective seats at opposite ends of the bus and
quietly got together at bedtime.
I think my first full night of sleep was on the Olympia flight home.
But my diary -- complete with a farewell letter he wrote in it on the
last day -- makes pretty steamy reading.
--Roberta Carwin
The Metro North out of New Haven might look like any train line anywhere
in America, but to me it is a promise of things to come. As it courses
to New York City, every mile is an exercise in balance, wavering between
anticipation and patience, readiness and waiting. More than once, I've
sat on that train, wearing the chain that circles my waist and runs
between my legs. One off-center move and I get pinched in the labia,
reminding me that I'm his. More than once, his hand has discreetly
wandered up under my shirt to clutch my breast. Sometimes
mine rests discreetly in his lap, placed to sense every little twitch.
If the casual observer were to spy us out, he'd likely see one lover
cuddled up to another, his head on her shoulder, perhaps lightly napping.
He wouldn't notice where our hands are, although he might notice the
leather collar around my neck. With a lock bold and visible, it would
likely clue the unexpected voyeur to our context.
The Metro North takes us to things extraordinary. A flogging among
friends at Hellfire. Browsing at the Museum of Sex one day and eyeing
the rare erotica/curiosa at the Strand Bookstore the next. Maybe even a
daring stop at what's left of Show World in Times Square. But always,
the weekend culminates in a night of lush, wet sex, likely accented with
whips and chains and, later, of two bodies -- one of which is chained to
the bed -- entwined in touch, warmth, and sleep.
Homebound, the Metro North is an excursion of sated souls. All things
have been explored and exhausted, all promises made good. If you noticed
the lovers then, you'd find us still close, touching one another as if
afterglow can be found anywhere, any time. And if we're napping, let us
be. Likely, our dreams are set to the rhythms of the track, and formed
of promises yet to happen.
--Debra Hyde
I met him while I was touring with the college choir. We were in Chicago and
I was dead tired and ready to pack it in, even though we were only halfway
through. But I survived the performance and went to the home of our host
family, a parishioner of the church where we sang.
It turned out to be an elderly woman and her grandson. His grandmother left
the task of being a good host to him and his best friend, who took over with
considerable enthusiasm. They had, I found out later, suggested the
arrangement and made certain that they were hosting girls in hopes of getting
lucky. We ended up at the friend's house, hanging out in the basement
talking and laughing. The pace of that tour was grueling and it was great to
be able to relax for a while. The guys saw to it that we lacked for nothing.
I'd been exchanging glances with the friend, an intelligent man with a sweet
smile and a hard body. When our host took us back to his house, the friend
went with us. The looks were getting longer and starting to smolder, so when
he asked me if I wanted to go for a walk, I replied with an enthusiastic "yes."
He took my hand and we walked down the hill into the night.
Neither of us came prepared, so we did "everything but" in the back seat of his
car. We were absolutely mad for each other. When his fingers slid inside
me, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. By the time we ran out of steam,
the sun was coming up. There seemed to be no sense in me trying to sleep, so
we drove aimlessly through the dawn and I curled up at his side as he showed
me the town he grew up in.
It was the beginning of something warm and intensely sexual, marvelous while
it lasted. We fucked like bunnies whenever we got within reach of each
other, which wasn't often since we lived and went to school in different
states. But that sleepless night gave me enough energy to survive the rest
of the tour and I was thrilled to find a letter from him waiting for me when
it was over.
--Ann Regentin, Clean Sheets contributing editor
And From the Staff Archives...
She leans back and closes her eyes, melting into his strong hands reaching higher and higher up her legs under the blanket. No words are needed between them, he knows her body so well. She feels his fingers enter her, first one, then another and another, twisting and exploring. Her hips start to rotate with the pace of his strokes. She's sure that being half-naked in a crowded passenger car in the middle of the night is exactly where she belongs in life.
--from "Slow Trains" by Susannah Indigo
Two cars, two lives, one traffic jam -- five-oh-three p.m., headed home. Perhaps headed west into a smog shrouded sun still a few hours from sunset. Maybe headed east with a nearly setting sun glancing off the rear view mirror. It's hard to tell for sure. The turnpike is parked solid with a lonely mass intent on travel, and stalled in place. A still life of humanity crowds the road nearly touching, but desperately isolated, perhaps by the proximity itself.
Meet Dusty Smithson: CEO, single, fourth decade and a year, sport utility vehicle four months from purchase, cell phone, tailored suit, NPR, lonely.
And meet Leslie Tolly: between jobs, failed marriage (second), third decade and eight tenths, simulated wood paneled station wagon quickly becoming rust, want ads, stained work shirt, AM radio on local talk, desperate.
That's about all I can say for sure -- you'll have to fill in genders and colors and brand names. The more I concentrate, the fuzzier that gets. I can't say why.
Then meet their fantasy, within sight of each other: a fantasy of love, perhaps.
--from " Fantasies in Rush Hour" by Brian Peters
