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HUMOR
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tty to make flying a pleasant experience.
I bring my own food, I wear comfy clothes
and, willing as I am to take on the awe
some responsibility of opening a door, I sit
in the emergency exit row.
But I recently had a little Air Rage
experience.
T hat’s right, my friends, I’m an Air Bitch.
Fly me!
Now I won’t tell you where I had my little
incident, but its initials stand for The Worst
Airline. It all started when I discovered a piece
of luggage marked “Crew” in an overhead bin
designated “For passengers in this emergency
exit row only.”
Reasoning that I paid for the flight and the
crew didn’t, I moved it. Big deal, right?
You’d think I’d desecrated a sacred burial
site. “In 27 years of flying no one has ever
moved The Crew Kit,” announced the flight
attendant like she was some character in The
Lord of the Rings responsible for guarding The
Magic Flight Bag.
Yeah, well it turns out The Crew Kit is just
a fancy-pants way of saying “flight attendant’s
luggage.” Big whoop.
I think perhaps the problem lies with the
uniforms for the airline whose initials also
stand for Try Walking Across. Give flight
attendants blazers with a couple of stripes on
’em, and it’s only a matter of time before they
start barking orders like Gen. Patton.
Just the sight of that winning mix ’n ’ match
look of nylon neckerchiefs and aprons makes
me want to fulfill my responsibility as Emer
gency Doorman by flinging the exit open and
screaming: “Fashion Emergency! Fashion
Emergency!”
You’d think with so many gay male flight
The friendly shies
Male flight attendants get it up
THE GOSPEL
ACCORDING
TO MARC
b y M a r c A c it o
attendants the outfits would look better, but I
guess our tribe is just no match for an industry
made bitter by too much random drug testing.
I’m sure if gay men ran the union, they’d
bring back those go-go boots and cute little
pillbox hats.
So why are so many stewards, shall we say, a
little light in the loafers? I’m gonna guess it’s
the Peter Pan Principle. If you recall, Peter Pan
sprinkled fairy dust on the Darling children
and, poof, they could fly.
Likewise, I’ve had more than one poofter
flight attendant call me “darling” and reach for
my peter. OK, I asked them to help me tighten
my seat belt first. Still, a fairy’s a fairy.
I love these guys. They see me and my part
ner, Floyd— two men, one carry-on bag—and
before the seat belt sign has been illuminated,
they’re sneaking us free booze and headphones.
(I still use mine at the gym— the headphones,
not the booze.)
Once I even got a whole bottle of cham
pagne from first class accompanied by a grope
in the galley. Cute Brian from Ameri
can Airlines, if you’re reading this, why
haven’t you called?
A nd I always can count on the
for livening up the otherwise
tiresome in-flight rituals.
O nce I actually heard
this queen announce:
“For those of you seated on
the left-hand side of the plane,
you have a simply fabulous view of
M ount Hood. For those of you seated
on the right-hand side of the plane you
have an equally fabulous view of the pe
son sitting next to you.”
Another one confided to me, “The pilot
today is a woman, so for the rest of the flight
you should refer to the cockpit as the Box
Office.”
I asked Cute Brian what it was like having
license to look at every passenger’s crotch as he
made sure all the seat belts were fastened. “Oh,
you should hear what we say about you peo
ple,” he said. “One of us is always running back
to the galley to tell the girls about some guy
asleep with a hard-on. We call it Sweet
Dreams.”
I remind him that the passengers are eye-
level with his crotch most of the titne, as
well. 1 won’t tell you his reply, but suffice it
to say there’s a
very big reason
why I wish
h e’d call.
O ne thing
is for certain
about gay
male flight
attendants:
I know I won’t ever
get into a fight with them about T he Crew
Kit taking up my overhead bin. If these boys
overpack anything like I do, I’m sure their
luggage is down below with the other over
sized bags.
Even if we do fight, I’m certain they’ll Air
Bitch right back at me. And I’ll love every
minute of it. As far as I’m concerned, these
guys are the real in-flight entertainment.
And that, my friends, is The Gospel
According to Marc. JF!
M arc A cito iwants to be a little boy
forever just like Peter Pan. He can reached
at MarcAcito@home.com.
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