Well, it happened again, for the first time since my post holiday incident in 2010. Â I’ve been through airport security several times since then, through the old-fashioned metal detectors and at least once through the newfangled body scanners with no extra attention, but I suppose my luck was due to run out at some point.
And so it did on my way to SFO to meet up with Roxy and go to Butch Voices. Â I was flying out on the last Virgin flight of the night and there weren’t many people in the airport at that hour. Â In fact, there was no line at security, I walked right up. Â This got me feeling pretty good, and I was chatty with the woman checking my ticket and identification, and she was relaxed and chatty right back. Â I was still feeling relaxed when I was waved into a biometric scanner.
But once I stepped out, things took a turn for the not-so-easy going. Â I was asked to step out of the flow and stand on the now familiar yellow shoe marks. Â The agent told me that there was something odd about my image, she was guessing it was blurry or something. Â I wanted to believe that, but in the back of my mind, I knew it wasn’t a blur that was causing them to see anÂ anomalyÂ in my scan.
I didn’t have my watch on — it was tucked into my carry-on — so I could track how much time it took for them to get a senior female agent to pair with the junior in order to conduct my special pat-down search. Â At first they just called for one agent, then someone came up and whispered to them and they called for a senior. Â I guess I’m just that special. Â I knew that the best way to get through this was to stay calm and pay attention. Â I took a deep breath and went along with each instruction, feeling a moment of panic when my stuff rolled down the security ramp unattended. Â And you know, they get nervous when you so much as lean away from those yellow shoe marks toward your stuff. Â Shoes and carry-on were gathered up and I was escorted to a small room.
If you’ve read the story of my last ‘interesting’ encounter Â with TSA, you’ll remember that the agents in charge of that drama didn’t communicate very well, were confused, without a clear plan, and downright surly. Â Without exception, the TSA agents I dealt with at Seatac on this night were polite, open about the process and apologetic about the delay.
So what happened? Â I was taken to a small room where they explained the pat-down process, which is basically back of hand every where but across the groin. Â They both put on gloves and had me assume the position: Â feet on the shoe marks, a little more than hip width apart, arms out to the sides at shoulder height. Â The senior agent conducted the pat-down, talking me through it as she did it, even though she’d explained it completely before beginning. Â It reminded me a bit of a gyno-exam: Â I’m going to touch you here, I’m touching you here now.. and so on.
Between the explanation and the search, I told them that I was pretty sure I knew what the issue was, that this had happened to me before. Â They both raised eyebrows which I took as encouragement to continue. Â I explained that I had a silicon prosthetic in my briefs and that was probably the ‘anomaly’ that had shown up on the screen. Â I told them this had happened to me before. Â The senior agent said that she still had to follow procedure, I nodded my assent and kept quiet as she ran her hands across my body. Â As expected, when she did the palm-side pass across my crotch, her face registered surprise.
I offered to get my cock out and show it to them, though I didn’t use the word cock, I just said ‘it’. Â Well, apparently, they’ve got a procedure for that now, instead of the hap-hazard series ofÂ embarrassments I endured at the hands of the TSA in SFO previously. Â Instead of staying to watch me partially disrobe to remove the mystery object, they would step out and I would take the object out and place it on the table. Â Then they’d come back in and inspect the object, after which I’d be able to take custody of it again (and put it back in my briefs). Â Then, since my carry on stuff was in the room with me, and I’d be unattended with my stuff for a few minutes, they’d have to reinspect my stuff before I could continue to my gate. Â All this time I didn’t know what time it was, but had given myself enough prior to security that I thought I’d still be OK. Â But that wasn’t the thing that was of most concern to me at that moment. Â I was still stuck on one point of the procedure she described.
I’m going to put my cock on the table?
It was a cheap plastic fold up conference table that probably hadn’t been wiped down in a while. Â But seriously, my cock was just going to be lying there, on a table, away from me? Â My cock? Â The senior agent must have noticed the change in my body language, breathing or facial expression. Â I was actually stuttering a little trying to articulate my concerns. Â I sort of seized up, where previously I’d been chatty and cooperative.
She must have had an inkling about what I was trying to say, and offered to put a paper towel down on the table for me. Â She asked if that would be better and I said yes. Â They were both pretty respectful about my situation. Â I tried to explain that it might be a bit uncomfortable for them to deal with my packy, as it had a realistic penis shape. Â They both smiled politely and left me with a paper towel and the promise of privacy for a moment.
I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this. ItÂ was repeating like a mantra through my head. Â But, of course, I did it anyway. Â Unbuttoned, reached in and pulled the velcro away from the waistband of my briefs. Â Placing my packy on the paper towel, I stepped back to the yellow marks and waited. Â It was so wrong to stand there with my cock on a table, exposed to the world and about to undergo some sort of inspection by people who, though polite, didn’t understand what it really was, what it signified to me.
A couple of long moments later, they returned, donned fresh blue gloves and grabbed what looked like a cotton cosmetic pad. Â I’m guessing they were swabbing for gunpowder residue, making sure I wasn’t packing a cock-bomb. Â I couldn’t help but wince a bit at them handling that piece of me, even if it was made of silicon and sitting on a table 3 feet away.
They completed the inspection and told me they would be leaving the room again, allowing me to put myself back together. Â I retrieved my packy quickly and made a mental note that I should wash it as soon as I could do so privately (not sure I want to pull my cock out in an airport restroom, besides, I assumed I’d need to hustle to my gate as soon as I got out of security). Â I called out that I was ready. Â As nice as these two ladies were, I was done with this and wanted desperately to get my things and make sure I could make my flight. Â And call Roxy if possible.
They took my carry-on bag, pulling each item out and doing the swipe/detector routine. Â I was standing where I could see the machine they were putting the pads into, and you know how even when you know you haven’t done anything wrong, you worry they’ll find something questionable? Â Yeah, that was me through those tense moments. Â Finally, the inspection was complete and I was given my bag and shoes and allowed to continue on my way.
All in all, a better experience than the first time, but still not great. Â I hustled to my gate, sending a quick text to Roxy and a quick Facebook status update and then I was boarding. Â Roxy and I continued to text as I got settled. Â She was wonderful: reassuring, outraged, gentle, encouraging and loving. Â Reminding me that she’d be waiting for me at the other end of the flight. Â And with a deep breath, I switched off my phone and sat back, very much looking forward to the hugs and kisses that awaited me.
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