My Penis is a TSA Security Risk
The first time it happened I just thought it was weird. The second time it happened within just a little over 24 hours, I knew my penis was definitely to blame.
I had a short trip planned for work. I’d fly out in the afternoon, stay the night, work the next day, and fly out that next night. I just barely had to pack a change of clothes and had a real feeling of pride when I made the decision to pack along some dental floss. With just a backpack and some flip flops, I figure moving through the airport and on and off the planes will be a breeze.
I pack my things in bins to pass security for the first leg of the trip and wait to be prompted into the large radioactive scanner-tube-device. I place my feet on the feet icons and hands in the air. 3 seconds later my body is scanned and I step out.
The TSA agent asks me to wait a moment while the scanner display catches up.
I glance behind me — a line is building up now. Seems I got in just before a rush. During my glance I also catch a glimpse of the screen that displays the results of the radioactive body scan. There I see my body, imagined as a restroom or street sign stick person — arms up, legs spread — all to be expected save for a menacing yellow square slightly off right of my stick figure representation’s groin area.
“Sir, do you have anything in your pockets?”
I do not. I’m wearing board shorts — admittedly a little ill fitting — that are held up by an amateurish bow tie, which I learned how to tie in the 4th grade and have since neglected to refine my craft. The shorts only have one pocket low on one of the legs. They’ll droop if I’m standing or walking around too long or if the single pocket is too heavy.
“Sir, I’m going to need to preform a pat down around the area in question — in the back and in the front of you.”
Okay, not a problem, whatever you need to do. I want to introduce myself first and make a smart remark like, “I really think we’re rushing into this.” I’m able to refrain.
He says he’ll need to wait for a supervisor to watch as he completes the inspection — is this to prevent a TSA agent from getting too inquisitive or to ensure proper form? I don’t know and I hesitate to ask. He asks if I’d like a private screening. I didn’t want to have to pay more for that.
The line behind the radioactive tube continues to build behind me. No one is allowed to continue since the agent has his hands full — or was preparing to at least. The looks on their faces are that of frustration, impatience, and “look at this barefoot asshole in board shorts holding me up.”
The TSA agents calls to a supervisor as he hurries by — the supervisor’s got stuff to do — he tells the agent to wait. We do.
As we continue to wait the TSA agent describes the procedure he’ll need to preform. It’s a ceremonial combination of two handed swipes, grazes, and pats — both front of hand and back of hand across front of me and back of me. The description evokes ancient shaman imagery as he briefly mimes them for me — not that I’m all that knowledgeable on ancient shamans or their imagery.
Okay, I think, I’ve been through weirder things . ( More on those some other time.)
As we wait — he asks if he can check some non-sensitive areas (i.e. Under my arms and such) — Sure, we might as well warm up to each other.
The supervisor arrives and the “sensitive area” ritual begins — it was the reason we were there in the first place after all.
The TSA agent begins on my buttocks and moves to my inner and upper thighs. My facial expression is likely one of — well, I don’t really know what it was. A combination of humor, discomfort, and tolerance I suppose. Though, I’ve got to guess that it’s not the favorite part of his job and I’m not in the business of making people’s jobs worse. I keep my thoughts to myself.
Those areas are clear and he tells me he’s going to move to my front beginning with a double palm graze and finishing with a double back of hand graze. (That particular verbiage is my own, I don’t think it’s found in any screening protocol manuals.)
As he begins, the long line behind me is ushered through the archaic metal detector adjacent to the radioactive body snatcher machine — ”what a loser,” they look at me as they gather their belongings from the conveyor belt.
A few things go through my mind as I wait for the TSA agent and his supervisor to finish their search:
- This has never been touched like that in a setting like here.
- This has never been touched like that in any setting at all.
- I’ve never been touched nor observed being touched like that in such an unconventional way. ( What I mean by that is 2-part: is that method really the best way to check for whatever you may need to check for or is it just an impersonal way to touch a penis in public?)
- What else would have been included in the private session.
I ask what it was all about and he says maybe my shorts we riding too low — okay, I think — that’s certainly plausible — maybe the bow tie set it off. I felt like I needed a good smoke and a cold shower. I order flowers for the TSA agent and his supervisor.
Fast forward to the following night. A similar scene at a different airport, but this time I’m wearing properly sized shorts that sit as designed upon my waist.
I enter the radioactive stick figure generator with confidence, hike up my shorts just slightly for good measure, and step out to await for my passage to be granted.
I glance behind me as my stick figure self materializes on screen. Again — an offending square appears slightly off to the right in my “sensitive area.”
My new TSA agent tells me he’ll need to do a check and explains what that entails. I’m familiar and I decline a second up-sell for the private session.
Apparently he was a professional and needed no supervision to preform the doubled handed graze and swipe.
It’s a familiar routine for me at this point and I try to remain still as the shaman completes the ceremony — the core components of which are the same with slight variations in pressure and fluidity of hands movements. Could it be a personalized touch on the part of the TSA agents or could a small regional divide have an influence on how groins and buttocksese are grazed?
This ceremony ends the same as the first. I’m free to proceed. Though I’d later come to learn my penis had recently taken some suspect trips in and around Syria and had been flagged for security reasons. What a dick.
