I’ve had some funny things, some mortifying things, and some mortifying-only-to-become-funny-in-retrospect things happen to me as I’ve gone through airport security, rode trains and public transportation, and stayed in various hotels and AirBnBs and campgrounds in my travels.
One thing that has never happened to me is to have a sex toy pulled out of my luggage or commented on at airport security.
Guess what? Popped that cherry today!
I’m flying back west to meet K so he and I can drive back home together. Yesterday, after my “no erotic energy” comment, he “helped” me to find some by telling me to wear my rose plug for him during my workday. (Yum.) Additionally, he told me to pack it in my carryon bag. He knew the bit of anxiety as it went through X-ray would probably give me a charge.
I figured I’d be a little nervous, but nothing would actually happen – it’s glass, they probably wouldn’t even give it a second glance in the X-ray machine. Besides, it’d be in my suitcase with a bunch of other stuff.
Welp, plans changed, and I decided to check my suitcase at the last minute. BUT – being the good girl that I am, I made sure to grab the bag I keep my plug in from the now-to-be-checked-bag and put it in my carryon backpack. Still, NBD, right?
Except my bag gets pulled aside. “This yours?” The woman asks, indicating my bag as she pulls on blue gloves. “Do you have something sharp in there?”
“Oh…yes,” I say, relieved. I had my yarn scissors in my backpack with my crocket hooks. “Yarn scissors. In a small bag.” Normally this would not be an issue – they are short, and even if they pull my bag aside to search, which they have done, they are in an easily accessible bag.
Much like my buttplug is.
I realize my error immediately. Of COURSE the “small bag” bag she pulls out of my pack is the buttplug bag.
“Oh, no, um that’s…” I say, reaching for it. Pro tip: never reach for whatever it is they are searching through.
“Stay behind the partition!” she says sharply.
“Oh! Sorry! But umm … the scissors are in the OTHER bag,” I say weakly, retreating.
She just continues on, unzipping the buttplug bag. I’m whispering desperately, “That’s just glass. It’s um, it’s just decorative glass…”
She pulls it out, holding it by two gloved fingers, looking perplexed. She looks up; she has apparently called over her supervisor, because that fine woman comes over and looks at the object. She barely glances at it before she pushes the woman’s hand down, shaking her head. I see the smirk on her lips as she walks away. The other woman shrugs and puts it back in the bag, zips it closed and continues her search for my crochet scissors, which she eventually finds, sending me on my (now thoroughly rattled) way.
But the dumbest thing? When I knew I was going to have to confess all this to Sir…yeah, I did get a charge. He was right again.
