Live fast, fly hard

Like most people in town, I’m at wit’s end with this whole winter thing. Right now, every person I know is at least thinking about going somewhere hotter with the possibility of never returning. I’d like to be one of those people. But I can’t. To go somewhere significantly warmer, you have to fly. And I hate flying. I don’t hate it because I’m scared of crashing or being trapped on a deserted island and eating my fellow passengers. I hate flying because flying gives me a boner. I don’t mean that figuratively as in “flying gets me ‘excited,’” I mean it literally, as in “flying gives me a crippling erection that is both embarrassing and uncomfortable.” A Sisyphean stiffy, a Herculean hard-on.

Now, first off, let me say that I’m not some mile-high club perv. This isn’t about some weird airborne fantasy, like wanting to do it 30,000 feet above sea level or getting off on girls in uniform suggestively asking me if I want cream in my coffee. In fact, I think airplanes are one of the most unsexy places is in the world: babies are crying, people are complaining about the food and you’re trapped in a giant metal tube full of whining, germs and weird smells. No, this reaction is completely unsexy in nature, and I can’t explain it. All I know is that when we take off and reach cruising altitude, so does the ol’ crotch rocket downstairs.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried to think unsexy thoughts: kittens dying, my grandmother in a bikini, the time I threw up when I asked Vanessa Schatskins on a date in elementary school. I’ve fastened the seat belt over it, I’ve done everything short of yelling at it. I once even considered going to the bathroom to relieve myself. But I’d probably look so suspicious that the stewardess would suspect I’m some sort of terrorist trying to set off a bomb in my pants. Heck, knowing my luck, my appendage would probably just end up knocking over the beverages of every passenger down the aisle before I even got to the bathroom. In the end, I usually resort to squirming in my seat and covering it up with whatever’s handy: books, sweaters, a copy of SkyMall magazine. If I do dare fly, I try to get that lone seat next to the emergency exit. Partially to sit alone, but mostly I figure if the embarrassment gets too great, I can just politely eject myself from the plane.

When it first started happening, I thought it was pretty common. I figured my initial shame would be unfounded, like when you were a kid and discovered that other people masturbate. But I remember when a group of friends were hanging out and sharing common pet peeves, talking about waiting in line at the bank and how the teller would always go on break just before their turn, and everyone would go, “Ohhhh yeah” and smile and nod their heads in accordance like an infomercial, then I added, “Hah, yeah hate that…or how about when you’re on a plane and you get that crippling erection and you can’t even get up to pee…amirite?”

Silence.

Eventually my friends would try to console me, telling me it wasn’t such a big deal and that it was “just the most natural thing in the world.” Sure, but try explaining that to the 57-year-old Mexican woman staring incredulously at the tent you just pitched on take-off.

A recent Google search about my affliction was inconclusive. Some argued because of the physiology of erections, any spontaneous stiffenings due to G forces or cabin pressure change was impossible. Even pilots chimed in saying they never noticed it happening. But the fact that the question was asked and at least one person responded that it happened to them made me feel better.

I dream of the day I could stand up just as the seat belt sign turns off and say, “Hello, my name is Raf Katigbak, and I have an airboner.” And, like some ’80s movie, after some shocked gasps from the crowd, other males would follow suit until every man, boy and male baby was standing proudly, dinks to the air solemnly saying, “Me too.”

While that probably won’t happen, I know you’re out there. All I have to say is: don’t feel ashamed. There are more of us than you think. To all the brave men who fly hard in the face of embarrassment: Let’s not let the height of our poles bring us down. To those about to fly with erections: I—and Captain Winky—salute you.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA