Ah, the panty-sniffer's dream occupation: airline security staffer. Not only can one legitimately paw the bathing suit bits of several hundred compliant travelers each working day - one can also rifle through their packed-up grubbies and dainties and they are disallowed BY LAW to object. Such was the case last evening as I shuffled with the rest of the hapless herd through the DFW Airport security checkpoint.
"Miss Esplanade, you've been selected by the airport for additional inspection." The fools - don't they know I only pose a tangible threat to one person at a time, and only within the confines of Rapture's dungeon? Nonetheless, like the moral and upstanding citizen I am, I assumed the position and submitted (now THAT'S a switch!) to their pokings and proddings, and once assessed to not pose immediate danger of grievous bodily harm (it takes me at very least thirty minutes to dress, make up and decide upon my weapon du jour), I stood back and observed while the nice young, well-scrubbed security officer plundered my possessions.
As my brief tenure in the Lone Star State had been in aid of my vanilla occupation as a web consultant to…let's just say it's a well-regarded brand of foodstuffs, Well-Scrubbed Security Officer found a sizeable stash of our signature goodie in my handbag. I explained the purpose of my visit to his fair city - including the name of the aforementioned foodstuffs brand.
And then I remembered what else was lurking in my suitcase.
I hastened to offset Well-Scrubbed Security Officer's impending offense. "Erm…you may find some…questionable reading material…"
Eyes narrowed, and corners of mouth twisted furiously as he scrabbled through the depths of my wheelie bag. Pay dirt - my dungeon notes on CBT, sounds, cutting, and a copy of the Encyclopedia Of Unusual Sexual Practices. He leered, "Just what exactly DO you do for Well Regarded Brand of Foodstuffs?"
Early morning Dallas TV programming, elevator conversations and taxicab radio in the course of the preceding twenty hours in Texas had included approximately twelve thousand mentions of our close pal and savior Jesus Christ and the swellness thereof, so I braced my lapsed Catholic backbone for an emergency involuntary exorcism. "I'm a dominatrix." And then hastened to add, "But not for Well Regarded Brand of Foodstuffs".
Well-Scrubbed Security officer leaned in conspiratorially, blocking the shocked-wide eyes and hearing of his clearly piqued co-worker. "My girlfriend is really into all that stuff. What's the name of that book again?"
It took everything I had not to high-five my southern-fried compadre in kink. "We're everywhere, aren't we?"
He grinned. "Thank God. I trust we'll be seeing you again on your next Well Regarded Foodstuffs trip?"
I winked back at him. "Ride 'em, cowboy."