The moment itself didn't seem to last as long as the whispered preparations that led up to it � secretive surveillance, restroom reconnaissance, furtive fumblings under a pile of blankets.

There was a time when I scoffed at the very idea. My track record with carnal challenges had been poor at best, and the sheer logistics made the whole thing seem less sexual and more like a painful sensory overload. Simply put, the reasons not to do it could stack up a mile high -- a pleasing double-meaning, but a deterrent nonetheless.

But then I became a member. And damn, does membership ever have its privileges.

I used to believe the bed had gotten a bad rap; in fact, I still do. I pity the poor the mattress for becoming, unwittingly and despite its every effort to please, a bastion of bedroom banality � the definitive icon of sexual tedium, symbolic of a couple's most dreaded rut.

There's nothing the bed can do about this. Yes, the bed was made for banging, but the world wants too badly for all its lovers to get their respective grooves on in the neatest, naughtiest of places. Soap stars make a living by making out in barns and boardrooms, on beaches and hospital cots � sometimes with a comatose, cuckold spouse lying motionless nearby. Richard Gere sexed up Julia Roberts on a piano in "Pretty Woman." And, let's face it, JR Ewing's bathtub saw more ass than his toilet seat. The moral of their stories: The weirder the place, the wilder the whoopee. Beds are for the boring.

As fantasies go, the standard steamy fare is a shower sex-a-thon, or bumping and grinding in a hot bubble bath, or shoving Gray's Anatomy off the desk in favor of a different lesson in body parts. But none of the magazines or romance novels confess that, after a hot bout of spur-of-the-moment sex on the living room floor, your scorching passion will only give you rug burn. There's always some cold, hard, Mexican ceramic tile in everyone's reality. Something always plays sex-life spoiler.

Years ago, my boyfriend and I tried the bathtub. Big mistake. Nothing kills the mood like a cold chrome faucet assaulting the back of the skull. I learned that the hard way. Reality 1, Fantasy 0.

And who could forget the shower. Now, it�s possible I�m a moron, but if there's a safe way to get the positioning right that doesn't involve being quadruple-jointed, then shower manufacturers owe us a manual, complete with pictures, to save us the trouble and the wasted sexual energy. Of course, it didn't help the cause Doug is 10 inches taller than I am. If he liked humping bellybuttons, we'd have been set.

Fantasy? Fun. Reality? Dumb. Numb. Hum-drum.

Which returns me to the bed, the original tried-and-true locale for a little naked frolicking. It's traditional, it's predictable, and doubtless sounds horribly boring to the sexually ambitious, but arguably more importantly, it's soft. Accommodating. Forgiving. And far less likely to put me in traction.

Thus, given my previous problems with sexual spontaneity, the very concept of the Mile-High Club seemed painfully out of reach. So many factors to consider: space, time, the spying, prying eyes of other passengers, just to name a few. Surely, it couldn't be that much fun. Surely, the delight of the deed itself would be eclipsed by the logistical headaches of airborne nooky.

Then again, some people can be pretty inspiring.

We boarded our flight at 11 p.m., facing a nighttime trip back east long enough for two movies, landing us at an early enough hour that it made sense to somehow stay awake for the duration. Weaving our way to the forty-third row, we began to notice that our flight was not exactly teeming with people. In fact, nobody sat in the eight rows behind us; each middle row had only one occupant, and the right side of the plane was sparsely populated at best.

"This could be fun," he mused.

We stared at each other. I think, in that second, both our pulses quickened apace. Suddenly we realized that the thing we'd been joking about, the thing that seemed so impossible, was presenting itself to us on a cheap airline-issue platter devoid of any plastic utensils with threatening edges.

"We should do it," I heard myself say.

What? What the hell was I thinking?

What if people noticed? What if the flight crew saw? What if we were in the bathroom for ages and a line formed outside and people started banging on the door in protest? What if we exited the bathroom together and somebody was standing there, catching us in the guilty afterglow?

Ah, fuck it. I'm horny.

"Let's do it," I repeated.

There are several keys to a successful airborne sexcapade, and surprisingly enough, our vigilance only got us hotter. By the time we made it into the bathroom, I was on fire and he'd spontaneously combusted into a very cute pile of ash.

First, do it on a night flight, because most people try and catch forty winks, and those that don't are either reading or watching a movie to pass the time. Never attempt this between movies, though, because that's when people get up to stretch their legs and empty their bladders before settling in for another two-hour time-suck.

Second, watch the flight crew. Pay attention to where they hang out and how often they pace the floor. But the real key was that no members of the flight crew hung out near our lavatories because all their equipment was stored somewhere else. We had a clear path, and no watchful authority figures.

Third, scout the bathrooms. We had four from which to choose, so he used one and I the other so that we could compare the layout, determining which one afforded us the most space. Which, incidentally, is a comparative term -- there is no airplane lavatory that could remotely be called "spacious," or "comfortable," or even "larger than a coffee table." It's all about being creative. Make the most of what you've got -- and always use the bathroom on the left or right, rather than the one that's straight ahead.

Fourth, get started in your seat. For us, the relative dearth of passengers was perfect: Nobody would notice if we disappeared, and without a soul seated behind us or in front of us, no one cared if we cuddled up under a pile of blankets.

Fifth, and most importantly, wait until the creepy guy sits down.

Right when we'd decided it was time to make our move � the movies were fifteen minutes old and the steward had just done a cursory check of the cabin � I stood up, turned around, and saw a greasy guy hanging out right in front of the bathrooms. Turning red and whirling around, I scrambled back into the seat.

"There's someone there," I hissed.

He peeked through the seats, brow furrowed. Then he slowly rose so he could peer over the row of seats.

"I think he's waiting for a bathroom," he whispered. "Why is he waiting for that bathroom? There's three others."

"He's totally going to see us if we go for the other bathrooms!" I panicked.

"No, look," he said. "The stall is free now."

The creepy guy didn't move.

"Shit! What is he doing?" he groaned. "He's just standing there! Sit down, freak, in your seat or in the bathroom!"

The creepy guy yawned. Then he perched on his armrest, then he stared idly at the bathroom.

"Okay," he decided. "I have a plan. As soon as he sits down, or goes back into the bathroom, make a break for the other set of bathrooms on the right side. I'll follow you."

"Got it," I whispered.

The creepy guy stood up� and walked to the right-side bank of bathrooms, where he stood quietly and stared around the cabin.

"Go away!" I spat under my breath.

"What is he doing?" he growled.

The creepy guy continued moseying, surveying the group.

"Is he trying to fucking pick someone up?" I complained. "On an airplane? That's just gross."

He looked at me.

"Come on! I had already picked you up," I pointed out.

"Look! He's moving. He's sitting down," he said excitedly.

The creepy guy sat back down on his armrest and continued to stare at the bathrooms. He got up and wandered toward one, then changed his mind and paced again.

"I'm going to kill him," he said in a low voice.

"I'm probably gonna have to have sex with him," I muttered.

"That is the least funny thing you have ever said," he glared.

"And that's up against some pretty stiff competition. And, speaking of stiff competition..."

"That guy is so creepy!" he complained. "What the hell?"

"Seriously. Shit or get off the pot, dicksmack," I snarled quietly. "Partial puns completely intended."

"I think he's doing it on purpose. I can't believe this. I'm getting cock-blocked by a creepy guy in an airplane."

"No way. He's The Creepy Guy, not The Cunning Cock-Blocker."

"Okay, breathe. This isn't such a big deal. The creepy guy will sit down," he chanted.

And so we kept waiting.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," he grimaced.

"This man is NOT going to be the reason we don't have sex up here!" I cursed.

"Oh, we're having sex, all right," he hissed. "Fuck this."

"He has to be about to hit that bathroom."

"I know. Look at him � he wants that bathroom. He needs it. He's going to go back there soon. When he does, run."

An old guy strolled up the aisle and stole the creepy guy's bathroom.

"Oh, fuck YOU, grandpa!" I growled.

This went on for fifteen minutes until finally, blessedly, the old guy vacated the creepy guy's favorite stall and our nemesis decided it was the appropriate time to go relieve himself in what was apparently his cherished spot.

Next came the acting, a show purely for the benefit of anyone who was bored and lame enough to be watching what we did. I clutched at my stomach, groaned softly, and stood up. "Are you okay?" he said. "Could you find the Dramamine and bring it to me?" I asked. "Sure, sweetie," he cooed. And off I trotted to the bathroom of our choice.

He followed a minute later. The rest is history.

Plus, it's our story. The salacious stuff � the hows and how-longs � is ours alone, and it's the part everyone gets to determine for themselves. I can help get you in the bathroom, but that's where the map ends. Incidentally, though, it ruled. We are good. Damn good!

I do recommend a little additional acting once the deed is done. When he exited the bathroom, he fixed a concerned expression to his face and said, "Honey, are you going to be okay? I'll wait for you if you need me." I moaned, "Thanks. I'll be out in a second, I promise." And when I emerged, still grabbing at my stomach, nursing a water as my brow bore gentle beads of perspiration (deposited there with a make-up artist's precision by a damp paper towel), the line of people waiting for the toilet stretched deep into business class, and they all looked at me with total sympathy and ignorant concern.

Okay, fine, nobody was there. We'd gone undetected. But our acting was top-notch, as far as you know, and his concerned expression stayed in place until we arrived back at our row. He helped me to my seat, then collapsed inext to me in triumph and cuddled up to me under the blankets, this time just for the companionship.

"We had sex in an airplane bathroom," he noted.

"I noticed," I replied.

"We rule," he decided.

"Fuck yeah, we rule," I said eloquently.

And there we sat, darting each other furtive, gleeful glances, squeezing each others' hands, and glowing at the memory of an invigoratingly mischievous caper. But more enduringly, we'll never travel without remembering. We'll never get on a plane without a secretive smile slipping unconsciously, accidentally, across our faces. In that instant, we became more than a name, a face, and a collection of beautiful memories: We became sluts.

Sluts with a good story. And a whole stack of bragging rights, which makes me laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

So what if the shower thwarted me? And the bathtub � what of it? I'm a proud member of the Mile-High Club. Some guys just awaken a girl's sense of adventure, I suppose; add the right circumstances, shake well, and you get a girl with a hungry inner rebel. I�m a coach-class hussy, a naughty woman of the night, and I love it. I'm unashamed. I'm uninhibited. I'm unflappable. I'm unstoppable.

But I confess, when we got back � damn, did that bed feel good.

Someone got here by searching for: "photocopy of old telephones" and "I fucked nikki ziering in the ass" (and if, gentle Googler, you are not Ian Ziering, then you have problems� but if you are, FUCK yeah! Hey, man! You're Steve Sanders and you're reading my diary! Let's go bowling!) Reading: The Best American Travel Writing of 2001 Watching: Monty Python's The Meaning of Life