CONFESSIONS OF AN AMERICAN FLYER
6/3/2008 12:16:04 PM by Hades Cloud
Although riding on a private jet is a dream come true for most, for this American flyer, it became an uncontrollable nightmare that still haunts him more than two decades after his escapades aboard ruined his life.
Photos by Ryan Christensen
You may have noticed my pen name for this article is Hades Cloud. And although it’s not my real name, it’s a fitting moniker. Not because I’m inherently a bad person, but because some of the decisions I’ve made over the years could be considered by many to be evil, although at the time of their occurrence I justified every move to the contrary.
Of all the things I’ve done in my life that I’ve regretted, in retrospect, most of them have occurred while aboard a private business jet and fit into a now too-common storyline. As an executive VP for a major firm in the U.S. back in the mid-‘80s and early ‘90s, traveling was a pre-requisite from day one. My wife at the time accepted this until the constant airtime started taking its toll on our relationship. We divorced after my fourth flight to Southeast Asia, five years into the job. That year was to be our silver wedding anniversary.
Our separation came as a shock to me initially, until I had a chance to absorb the impact and overcome the denial I had unconsciously developed. You see, most of my flights involved a mix of reviewing meeting notes, preparations and no-holds-barred pleasures. I frequently had female companions aboard who were both anonymous and eager to please. Besides the booze onboard and the recreational drug use, it was the sex that most thrilled me. Every week it was a different girl, brought aboard to fulfill my every command during our secret rendezvous above the clouds.
I never fully understood the thrill of these altitude-induced lapses in judgment until my wife left me. It wasn’t until after she moved out of our home that I realized these in-flight “perks” I’d become addicted to were nothing more than a sad attempt at reverting back to my younger days at the expense of everything — and everyone — I loved and cherished. I did it because I knew it would remain top-secret. I did it because it was dangerous. I was a foolish James Bond wannabe floating ridiculously over the Earth living a persona that I had plagiarized from the pages of spy novels and Hollywood blockbusters. It doesn’t get any more pathetic than that.
Pathetic and selfish. Those are the words I would use to define who I was back then. What of my wonderful wife? Occasionally, I wondered if she was sitting at home wondering if I was alright while my tongue lapped up some poisonous, perfumed skin. I always rationed that if she didn’t know, it couldn’t possibly hurt her. But she knew. She could hear it in my voice, spy what I’d done in my eyes. Smell it on me, somehow.
So now, more than two decades after taking my first corporate flight, I’m ready to retire from the career that gave me the tools to ruin my marriage and subsequently erase my soulmate from my life. What I’m most proud of, however, is not the seven-figure deals I closed overseas, the new business partnerships I developed with some of the world’s top players or the in-flight conquests I had with girls nearly half my age who wouldn’t have given me a second glance if we passed one another in some plainclothes encounter outside of corporate America. Instead, what I’m most proud of is having learned I was wrong and accepting that fact, establishing a genuine admiration for the person I’ve become in the process.
Now, after acquiring sufficient funds to get me through my golden years, I plan to invest in my very own private jet. Once a flyer, always a flyer, it seems. This time, however, I will share it with my second wife, with my kids and with my grandchildren. They deserve it more than I. And if you were wondering what my ex-wife made of herself, she died in a car accident shortly after our divorce was finalized. I was flying to Paris for a conference thinking of her when it happened.