Airport Sex Stories

Airport Sex Stories

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flight attendants

memoirs

richard branson

virgin atlantic

6/29/15

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For more than a decade, Mandy Smith was an “international air hostess” for Virgin Atlantic Airways.
In her new book, “ Cabin Fever ” (out Tuesday), she dishes on partying with Virgin mogul Richard Branson, meeting first-class billionaire suitors and joining the Mile High Club in a Cessna. Now 41, the happily married mom tells The Post’s Doree Lewak how after years of looking for love in the sky, she found it in her own back yard …
I was spending my layover in Dubai lying by the pool at a five-star hotel when a server came over with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.
Then, a dark-haired hunk in a crisp white shirt approached me. “You look beautiful,” he said, as he extended his hand. “I’m Mahir Asker*, and I’d love to take you out tonight.”
Hours later, a Bentley arrived at the hotel to pick me up and a white-gloved driver helped me into the car, which escorted us to our date aboard Asker’s million-dollar yacht. We spent the night sailing around the Persian Gulf, holding hands and munching on salmon tartare, lobster and caviar.
This romantic evening with the handsome billionaire was one of many glamorous dates I had during my 10-year tenure as a Virgin Airlines flight attendant. Life was a blur of moneyed suitors and over-the-top parties.
It was more than I could have ever imagined when I was a little girl growing up in the modest town of Hartlepool in northern England. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I did know that I wanted a love like my parents had. They were always cuddling and kissing. Even changing gears in the car, they’d hold hands. They met in school and married at 16; their love was unshakable.
I was 9 years old when I first flew. My father — a sales director for an insurance company — would take us on a few holidays a year.
On one trip, while flying to the luxe coastal city of Nerja, Spain, I was mesmerized by the glamorous air hostesses in their yellow and blue uniforms. They looked so elegant and I wanted to be one of them. But at my dad’s urging, I went on to study computer science at Hartlepool College.
After graduation, in 1995, I got a job at Virgin Airlines as a planning support officer in the engineering department. But after three years, I grew bored.
“You know, you need to live a little!” my colleague told me after a long, tedious afternoon at the office. I was 26 and had just gotten out of a bad relationship and decided to take the advice to heart.
I applied to transfer to cabin crew, figuring I’d rack up some fun experiences and get over my breakup. Who can resist an application that says: “You will work hard, but you will party harder”?
I couldn’t believe what goes on thousands of feet in the air. More than once, I had a passenger slide his hand up my skirt when I was attending to the overhead compartment. And when the lights are dimmed on overnight flights, I’d see randy passengers masturbating while everyone else around them slept. Then there was the couple in the throes of passion who ran around upper-class buck naked. It was a lot to put up with, especially for my meager starting salary of 12,000 pounds (about $19,000) for my 1,000 flying hours a year.
From the Caribbean to South Africa, I had a guy at every port.
My favorite spot in Barbados was this club full of hot guys. One drunken night, I spotted a rugby team partying at a long table. I jumped on it and knocked back their drinks one by one. Later that night, back in my colleague’s hotel room, the hot tub collapsed because we had invited too many rugby players to join in the fun.
But nothing beats the InterContinental in Johannesburg, where the altitude is 6,000 feet and the booze goes straight to your head. We threw epic parties at the hotel — one time a steward tossed a sofa out of a hotel window. I always brought some wild props with me — my suitcase was like a traveling sex shop.
Eventually, I started dating a pilot-in-training named Jonathan. His wings ceremony was epic — held at Sir Richard Branson’s mansion in Cambridge.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked up to the moat leading to the mansion. Richard shook my hand and welcomed me to the party.
I’ve never seen so much Champagne in my life. Richard managed to spray everyone with all the open bottles.
I stayed up for 24 hours, wired on Red Bull and vodkas. At the end of the glam weekend, guests left with goody bags in hand — stuffed with condoms.
Since I had a steady boyfriend, I decided the time had come to cross another item off my bucket list: the Mile High Club.
Jonathan was flying me down to the Florida Keys in a two-seat Cessna when I decided to seize the moment. I climbed on top of him while he was flying and sealed the deal.
We had fun together, but my relationship with Jonathan didn’t last. He didn’t want to commit — and I had an endless supply of handsome, wealthy men at my disposal.
One billionaire I met on a flight to New York pursued me relentlessly. He was in his late 30s and chubby, but when my friend told me his family owned football teams, I was intrigued.
Robert came to England a few times to try to woo me, but since he was such a public figure, he didn’t like going out, so we’d get room service — Champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries and oysters. But I wasn’t really into him, so it was on to the next one.
In Gatwick Airport en route to Vegas, I met a dapper doctor — a Hugh Grant look-alike with a posh British accent — named Stephen. I was convinced I’d found my husband.
“I’m ready to settle down with a genuine girl,” he told me over a quiet dinner.

I was tired of the rich men buying me Hermès scarves and Manolos instead of making real connections. I wanted real love.
We had a steamy night of amazing sex, but when I woke up the next morning, he was gone.
Soon after that, I decided the high-flying life wasn’t enough for me anymore. I was tired of the rich men buying me Hermès scarves and Manolos instead of making real connections. I wanted real love.
In April 2008, instead of going to an exotic island for my vacation, I went to visit some old friends in Brighton. We were catching up over beers when a 6-foot-4 hunk came up to our group to buy everyone shots. Glenn was a former professional rubgy player, and as he chatted me up that night, we realized we had loads of friends in common.
“I play Xbox for a living,” he joked. “I earn a fortune.” The conversation was so comfortable — we just sparked.
For our first date, he took me to a local pub — no yachts or limos. And I knew right away that he was the one. He’s certainly no millionaire, but he’s got his own company selling corporate gym memberships. We were engaged after just 18 months of dating.
Now that I had found my Prince Charming I knew that I needed to say goodbye to my old, high-flying life. Six years ago, I took a buyout from Virgin.
Today, Glenn and I live in West Sussex with our 4-year-old daughter. I write full time and work for Glenn as his personal assistant.
We still travel from time to time, but I couldn’t be happier to have my feet on the ground with my family.

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Would you ever try to find love in an airport? According to a 2018 study from the British bank HSBC, 1 in 50 people have . At the moment, there's no hyper-localized option for Tindering at Gate C26, but there is App in the Air , a frequent-flier app that lets you, among other things, look for a mate in the airport.
If you're looking to start a conversation while you're killing time, might I suggest the following?
Real Stories from People Who Really Did It
Marius, 35, met his wife in the security line at LAX, a little over ten years ago. They were next to each other in the security line when they learned that their flight was delayed. Marius struck up a conversation. "We ended up getting coffee together during the delay, then I saved her a seat next to me on the airplane." Eventually, she moved from LA to San Francisco, they dated, got married, and have had two kids since that fateful day in the TSA line.
Nicole, 33, was seated next to her future fiancé on a flight; they hit it off immediately. "It was love at first sight." she says. "We even shared earbuds during takeoff while listening to the Sam Smith album. He claims he wanted to hold my hand the entire flight. After chatting up a storm during the flight, he asked me to go for a drink at the airport bar." Nicole says it was probably the first time she had ever wanted to hang around at the airport *after* landing, instead of getting out of there as soon as humanly possible. They're currently engaged and expecting their first child.
Sometimes, however, the spark doesn't catch until you're disembarking. Gabby Slome, founder of dog food company Ollie , met her husband in the customs line in Montreal. Slome was being grilled by a Canadian customs agent about the threat of tracking in American soil or horse muck (Slome is also a professional equestrian), which led to her first conversation with her now-husband. He was in line behind her.
Who knew airports were so poppin' for love? If this doesn't inspire you to make conversation at Hudson News the next time you're delayed, I don't know what will.

Featured
Lifestyle
Travel

Claire Harris
September 4, 2019

Paul Gregoire
July 18, 2019

Copyright © The Big Smoke Media 2021
Flying back from Los Angeles, I was strip-searched, one of the most terrifying and dehumanizing ordeals of my life. When you’re deemed a security risk, your rights disappear.
I write this as a white woman who will never receive the level of scrutiny that others do. I don’t often get singled out by security personnel or police—and certainly not now that I’ve entered my thirties and can list “finance” as my occupation on mandatory forms.
But back when I was a twenty-year-old solo traveler with dreadlocks, I guess it was less surprising that I was pulled over for a random drug search at Christchurch Airport.
I’d been traveling for a year and was on the home run back to Australia via the United States, Cuba, and New Zealand—the latter being where my relatives live. It was Cuba that attracted attention, not of the sniffer dogs, but of the young customs officer who checked my immigration card.
“Have you ever taken drugs?” he asked.
“Just answer the question,’” he snapped.
It was six in the morning and I’d rolled off a long-haul flight from Los Angeles with very little sleep. As my first run-in with the law, this was a surreal experience. I was also terrified.
When the interrogation of all the drugs I’d ever sniffed, snorted, smoked, or swallowed continued, I had no idea whether my answers could see me arrested for a crime. A few steps away, some British tourists were giving a detailed description of an ecstasy-fueled party they’d attended some years before on the opposite side of the world.
“Not recently,” I said, while the officer emptied the contents of my backpack, item by item.
“What’s this?” he said, picking up a book by the corners as though it carried a disease. The book was Junky by William S. Burroughs.
“It’s a—it’s a classic,” I stammered.
His response was to swab test my bag. We stood in awkward silence for a moment until his machine started beeping vehemently.
“When was the last time you came into contact with heroin?” was his next question.
I froze. “I’ve never even seen heroin.” My voice came out so small and thin I could barely hear it myself.
My mind raced with thoughts of Schapelle Corby, the Australian who had recently been imprisoned in Bali after drugs were found in her luggage at the airport. Throughout her very public trial, she maintained that she was the victim of a drug-smuggling ring run by airport staff.
What if she was right? I wondered. On our flight, the pilot had actually joked that he hoped no one was trying to “pull a Schapelle.” It now seemed like the worst joke possible.
The officer coldly informed me that I would have to be strip-searched.
Brushing off the tears that I couldn’t stop from rolling down my cheeks, I asked if there was an alternative. “Can I say no?”
He explained that I could appeal the decision to a higher authority within the airport—but most likely this would take hours and the outcome would still be that I was strip-searched. I was not given any other option.
By this stage, I had already been held for over an hour—during which time, I repeatedly asked for someone to let my cousin know what was happening. She was waiting to pick me up from the airport and I didn’t have a mobile phone to contact her.
“Yes, yes,” the officer was growing impatient with my demands.
But no one was sent to tell her. Instead, two stern women arrived to escort me to a small room off to one side.
“Take your clothes off,” was the order.
“Those too,” one of the officers said.
A knot tightened in my chest at the sudden realization that a strip search meant taking off everything . I almost laughed at my own naivete.
The embarrassment I had felt over strangers seeing my underwear disappeared—because far worse was the fact that I had my period. Of course, I did.
The woman directed me to stand facing the wall with my legs apart and my palms flat against the concrete, as they examined my body and sifted through my clothes and my underwear to determine there were no traces of heroin. They took my arms and scoured them for signs of intravenous drug use.
“I don’t have track marks,” I said.
The female officer twisted my elbow and pointed to sores that were scabbing over on the inside of my upper arm, where a jellyfish tentacle had clung to my skin a few weeks previously. The swelling had all gone down but only those speckled marks remained.
“Oh yeah? What do you call these?” she said.
“I was stung by a jellyfish in Cuba.”
The woman leaned into my face and shouted, “AND WHAT WERE YOU DOING IN CUBA?!”
The women shoved my things towards me so I could get dressed.
Back at the desk, I waited in silence once again with the original officer while the contents of my bag lay strewn from one end to the other. Finally, he got the call.
“Negative,” he said. “Pack your bag and go.”
The man was only a couple of years older than I was. I searched in his eyes for sympathy, for some acknowledgement that I wasn’t the hardened criminal they treated me as—but found none. He didn’t even look at me as I struggled to squash my dirty clothes back into my bag and lean on it to do up the zipper.
All I wanted was to get out of that airport and into the safety of my cousin’s home, but I had to know something: “What about the swab test? Why was it positive?”
He responded with an uninterested shrug. “Could be heroin, could be spilled cosmetics.”
Spilled cosmetics? My outrage finally trumped the humiliation I felt. “But surely if you test any woman’s bag …”
“You can go,” he repeated, staring at the wall above my head. “Go now.”
I shuffled past the next person awaiting their security inspection.
Something in my soul had snapped—my first experience of being treated not as a human being but simply a problem that needs to be resolved.
It is a feeling that many of my fellow human beings live with every day.
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