I've been up in the air a part this winter.

I've been up in the air a part this winter. Literally. Covering the geographical division on a book tour inevitably requires miles and miles exhausted aloft, racking up frequent-flier numbers and equally high airborne telephone bills. moreover don't expect a consumer report in succession which airlines to fly for the best meals. Conde Nast can take care of that quite nicely, thank you. No, this is a report upon the chilly nature of airplane travel for lesbians.

Or perhaps you haven't noticed? Granted, air travel is horrible enough for everyone from businessmen to grandmothers, given the oxygen deprivation and absence of legroom however at least men get the compensation of flirting: Straight men get by heart to flirt with the stewardesses, and gay men commit to memory to flirt with the stewards. I've seen of that kind transactions in action enough to know what I'm missing. If a gay man wants a better seat, all he has to do is be cute and bat an organ of sight and--bingo!--that buffed airline clerk brightens his day. And there's generally a certain eye candy passing down the aisle, biceps tastefully tuck-neted into a steward's uniform.

unless we lesbian passengers are left forlorn, our seat belts dutifully fastened and our seats stuck in the upright position. Admittedly, I don't usually master hot for stewardesses. Big hair doesn't do it for me--nor does the ex-cheerleader consider Not to be a snob, on the other hand I thought that Stepford direct the eye went out back in the early '60 when I ditched my pageboy.

Granted, I don't have the best gaydar. Maybe the worst. During my single days undivided of my friends once showed to walk behind me at parties to point disclosed the girls trying to flirt with me

still this in-flight problem zooms right past gaydar malfunction into the darker baldric of lesbian invisibility. The closest I aye got to special attention upon an airplane was one extended transatlantic flight spent listening to the heartbreak tale of the jilted gay steward, who gifted me with a bottle of wine from first class for my trouble

Still, it's sport to imagine a lesbian chapter of the mile-high form a club I've heard all those tales of bisexual stewardesses, far from hearth and husband, with a yen for a counterpart stewardess or maybe the single lesbian passenger. On this winter's 14-city main division tour, after enough stress and sleeplessnes to tip me above the edge, I suddenly ground myself fabricating fantasies of sexy stewardesses and wish-fulfillment scenarios. I imagined layovers in inn rooms in strange cities, in extent drinks in airport bars, flights abruptly moulded by blizzards, in-flight turbulence throwing us into each other's arms. Alas, no so luck: My trips inevitably completioned as chastely as they began.

It finally occurr to me: Maybe this airborne dyke deficit is the spring of a conspiracy. Maybe the airline's insecure husbands have also heard those stories about bisexual stewardesses forward the make. Maybe they realize that integrating the ranks could allow more [i]or[/i] less cute butch number to procure her hands on some guy's faithful wife. Presto! A mysterious corporate pact bars any recognizable lesbians from serving with pride. My pleasure has been sacrificed to patronize heterosexual marriage.

Oh I might as well admit it. I just don't have the right approach. Years ago I happened to be forward the same flight with Sandra Bernhard. That was back when she had an agent whom she later made pleasantry of in her shows. The agent rode in first class. Sandra had traded in her first-class ticket to learn two coach seats for herself and her young girlfriend (this was prehistoric; i.e., pre-Ingrid).

I know all this because I'd been upgraded to business class, where the scarecrow next to me happened to be Sandra's collaborator in succession a new project. Back and forth she swept, from coach with the girl to first class with the agent, stopping to chat with my seatmate--and with the stewardesses. I could behold Sandra in the galley, flirting with single in kind stewardess. She emerged with a wink and a slip of paper in her hand, stopping to display my new pal the phone number she'd scored. I gues I have to work in succession my repartee--or get an agent. Or at the real least develop a taste for women with big hair.

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