It has been many years since someone so young touched me so intimately. And I didn't even get her name.
We were at Logan airport last night making our way back from a day in Boston. The airport was empty and checking in was a breeze. Then we got to the security line. It was forty-deep and moving slowly. Still, we had plenty of time. So when I was finally called forward to go through the metal detector, I neatly placed all my belongings in the bins. I quickly walked through to retrieve my purse which contained the new watch I had just given my husband for his birthday. (Why he handed it to me to carry for him in the first place, I don't know but, I am sure that it was what caused the following to ensue.) As I reached for my bag, the TSA screener told me to wait. I picked up the bag anyway and replied that I was just getting my purse. A bit more harshly this time, she again told me again to wait. I waited until I saw one of my boots fall off the x-ray belt onto the floor and I picked it up. Big mistake. "I told you to wait!" The rather butchy screener commanded. "I am waiting," I replied calmly, "But my stuff is falling on the floor." The Silly Ant spoke into her walkie talkie, "I need a female agent over here immediately!" A moment later a very young woman approached me and asked me to step aside, explaining that she needed to pat me down and give my bags a look. She was maybe 23 at most, and very new to the job. "I'm going to use the wand and whenever it goes off , I'm going to have to use my fingers to check the area." She seemed very embarrassed by this. I told her that it was okay. She waved her wand over me stopping whenever she manually examined each metal part of my bra. When she got to the underwire she said, "I'm just going to slide my finger over this part of your bra." I wanted to giggle but, thought better of it." I need to ask you to roll over the top of your waistband so I can examine it. Would you prefer a private room for the examination?" She asked. "No, that's alright" I said smiling at her. She proceeded and I was sure that she was nearly done with me. "I need to put my hands down the front of your pants to examine this area." She said waving her hand over my lower torso. "Would you like a private screening room?" "What?" I said, "Can you please repeat that?" She repeated that she needed to put her hands down the front of my pants to examine me. At a momentary loss for more appropriate vocabulary, I asked her, "Are you saying that you need to grope me genitally?" ("Examine" would have been a far better word but, things were getting personal way too quickly and I was a bit appalled at how swiftly this operator worked.) I tried to read her name tag but she was so much shorter than I am that I couldn't make it out. I looked over at the middle-aged man going though my carry-on and saw that his name tag had "Michael" printed on it. What's with the first names only? It's not like I'm ordering a meal at the Olive Garden. Why are TSA agents allowed to hide their full identity from the pubic? I wondered. "Would you like a private room?" The young agent asked me again. "First, I want to know what you're going to do." Still at a loss for a better way to put it, I repeated my question, "Are you going to grope me genitally?" She nodded. Holy cow! I thought, I guess we had better get a private room for this.
So, off we went into a dimly-lit, tiny office off to the side with only a curtain as a door. Inside was a small black desk and lots of clutter everywhere. It hardly looked like a private examination room. I had expected an ultra-modern, all-white room with lots of harsh lighting. Another female agent followed us in and stood by the curtain. Things were getting more and more Chained Heat with every passing moment. Then the agent told me she was going to "examine the area." Bracing myself for what promised to be a very amateur quasi-gynecological experience, she slid her hand quickly across my clothed bellybutton and said we were done. "Is that all?" I said. I didn't want to press the point but, she had told me that she planned on putting her hands down the front of my pants. She nodded, "That's all." The curtain was opened and I was released in possession of the vague idea that I had somehow (no pun intended), gotten off very lightly.
Chained Heat, 1983 starring Tamara Dobson & Linda Blair.
"Don't chu walk away from me, you chalk-faced whore!"
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