How An Interaction With TSA and Sex Toys Reminded Me I'm Not Enlightened...Yet
If you’re family, work with me, or otherwise don’t want to know certain details, read on at your own risk. Part of my current journey is showing up with as much alignment and authenticity as I can in whatever space I am, so this is an effort in that direction. Yeah, it’s vulnerable and scary to put certain things out, and also those nerves are showing me I care. And showing up in this way is how I’m caring lately. Enough of that ado, enjoy.
Have you ever had an awkward interaction with a TSA agent going through airport security? I have.
It all started as a relatively routine trip through the quiet Wichita airport. I handed the screening agent my I.D. without fanfare, though I’m always a bit nervous that something will be wrong with my TSA profile or pre-check won’t be registered in the system, or something else my mind concocts when I walk toward the security checkpoint.
But, thankfully like so many of my day-to-day worries, these were unfounded and never saw the light of day, and retreated to the recesses of my mind until the next trip to the airport.
This wasn’t the end of my TSA interactions. Normally the next steps are more relaxed for me. Put cell phones, wallet, hair ties, car keys into plastic bowl, place backpack and then roller bag onto the scanner belt. Walk through metal detector, retrieve belongings from the other end of the scanner and head to my gate.
Unfortunately, on this particular morning, we took a detour.
It began with the emptying pockets step. My airpods case slipped form my hand, hit the floor and skidded under the under, and a foot behind, the metal TSA table. I crouched down but my incredibly average wingspan was no match for the distance.
I glanced toward the metal detector Agent, and asked a question to which I knew the answer, “Could I step around and grab those?”
“Noope,” he managed to sound curt as well as draw out the “o” sound. He slowly, as if for dramatic emphasis placed the a-frame sign reading “STOP” in front of the metal detector and even more slowly lumbered back (the long way) around the scanner to retrieve my airpods. At this point, the woman running the luggage scanner (and five minutes closer to my airpods based on the other agent’s walking speed), offered to grab them.
“I’ve been wanting a pair of headphones,” she chimed as she picked them up off the floor, returned them to the case and handed them to me.
“You don’t want those, his ears are really waxy,” my wife, Jill, offered in a good faith attempt to lighten the mood. They both enjoyed a moment of shared laughter.
Jill turned to me, “I was trying to help get your airpods back,” with a smile that I knew meant it was intended to be funny, not cutting.
I wish I could say I took it all in stride and laughed along, but that would be a lie.
Already fuming internally because I had been so stupid as to drop my airpods in the first place (hello inner critic), I did what I do best in these moments: shut down and marched on through the metal detector to wait for my airpods and bags.
Mind you, we had plenty of time before our flight and were in no rush, but still that critical voice doesn’t care about any of those things. He was happy to chime in and let me know how much of an idiot I was for the whole (albeit minor) scene.
I refilled my pockets, put on my backpack and waited for my roller bag, ready to leave the security checkpoint and head to the gate.
My roller bag was stuck in limbo: beyond the fork in the belt where they would’ve retrieved it for additional screening, but still under the metal canopy reminding me not to reach in to grab it. I was almost in the clear.
“Is that your purple bag?” the female TSA agent who had returned my airpods asked in our general direction.
As it slowly dawned on me that she was referring to my bag, my already tense internal coil wound close to the point of snapping, a turn or two more and it might have.
“The maroon bag?” I responded incredulously. She had asked indicating it might be Jill’s, but the bag in question bore my initials.
‘Yeah.”
“Yeah, it’s mine.”
“Oh, you can take it.”
I grabbed the bag and walked away from the area, and Jill who was still waiting for her bag. But, I was ready to be gone.
I overheard the agent tell Jill, “You know, I can see what you have in there..,” with a knowing glance. Jill didn’t know what she was referring to, it’s my bag after all.
The agent erupted with laughter, “You all made my day.”
Jill walked away, still unsure what the agent was talking about. I filled in the gaps: I had packed a couple toys for the trip, one of which I began affectionately referring to as the “night stick.” Yes, they’re those kind of toys….
I may have softened slightly, but mostly continued my internal fuming for a while after, even as Jill enjoyed the purple-maroon interchange of it all.
So, in case you were wondering, I haven’t yet reached enlightenment. This despite how far I’ve come on this journey as a result of no longer drinking booze and dramatically reducing my caffeine intake. Even this little airport interaction triggered me. On another day, maybe I could’ve laughed it off, but on this particular day I couldn’t.
And on this trip to Muncie, we went through the Ball State art museum and saw a number of statues of bhodisattvas. A bhodisattva, in Buddhism, is someone who has reached enlightenment, but instead of reaching nirvana, decides to stay behind in an effort to teach all sentient beings the path to enlightenment. Synchronicity? I think so. If not a synchronicity, at least a reminder that I’m still on the path, even if I haven’t arrived yet.
However, there is still a lot of growth here. For one, I’m writing about the fact that we use sex toys at all, and that I packed them on a trip. And not just writing about it in my journal, publishing it, something the me of a few years ago could never have imagined. You might be wishing I was still that version of me from a few years ago so you wouldn’t have to imagine it either, but here we are.
The fact that I could name my frustration and inner struggle to my wife was another big piece. In the past, I would’ve just buried it or tried to act like nothing was wrong, even as she and I both knew that wasn’t the case. This time, I just acknowledged it—to myself and aloud—and at some point, moved on.
And maybe the most significant of all: how much our sex life has improved as a couple the last few years. This isn’t all the result of me not drinking, but it’s a big piece. Having grown up in purity culture hay-day (you can read more here), our sexual relations were a bit rocky in the first years of marriage. Somewhere in the last six or seven we started working on it, and it has gotten better and better until we really hit our stride the last few.
Maybe it’s because we’ve both done so much internal work ourselves and we’ve brought that back to our relationship. As with so many other aspects of any relationship, sex comes back to communication. How openly can you talk about it with each other? How much can you share of your own desires or fantasies (you can read on, I won’t go there, at least in this post)? How well can you receive direction or feedback?
There’s a defensive narrative in certain male circles around sex toys designed to help women orgasm. The thinking seems to be, “she shouldn’t need more than me,” as if we should be able to get her to climax alone. Never mind the reality that many women need additional exterior stimulation to climb that mountain. Or, there’s a defensiveness that by bringing in another assistant (even a non-sentient one), she’ll eventually prefer it over us.
I shared some of both of these, but also at some point a while back wanted to find a way to make sex more enjoyable for both of us. So while I did have some pride issues about not being able to get across the finish line with only my own power, at some point, I accepted the outside help. And years later, that decision brought me to this awkward TSA interaction about it.
I don’t think you necessarily need to be “sober” or stop drinking alcohol to up-level your sex life, but it doesn’t hurt. Me not drinking means I’m fully present for those moments of intimacy. I used to think I needed a drink or two to soften and allow myself to enter into the headspace of sex, it didn’t hurt that this is often modeled in tv and movies. But all that meant that I wasn’t as present, and I was often defensive when Jill would give feedback about something in the moment or later on. As if my sex education that existed almost entirely of purity culture telling me never to look lustfully at a woman combined with privately exploring porn didn’t set me up for success in this area (shocker…).
And even with all this growth, I haven’t necessarily arrived. We’re still learning, still trying, still failing at times, and still communicating through it all. Still making repair whether it’s for a moment in the bedroom or at the security checkpoint.
And even better than that, the purple-maroon debate became a recurring joke theme the rest of the weekend. So much, that we even pulled Jill’s friend into the fray to get her opinion. Mind you, this isn’t a new bag, I’ve had it for a few years, and always considered it “burgundy” or “maroon.” The consensus between Jill and Gail was that it is very purple-y (Barney was referenced at least once.) Something that was a moment of pain became an opportunity for more connection and joy in the hilarity of it all.
For the record, I went back to the manufacturer’s website and to my surprise, the color is called “plum.” There’s a post here about beginner’s mind or realizing how you can take something for granted that you have seen so often or miss something that’s been so obvious in your life for so long, but that’s for another day.
So, while we have some consensus here, I’m inviting you to chime in, dear reader: what color is this bag?
The 80s? Maroon. Today? Plum.
This made me laugh and also hit a good nerve. You took a relatable moment (TSA awkwardness!) and used it to talk about stuff most people shy away from. I appreciate how honest and self-aware this is, without trying to tie it all up too neatly. The mix of cringe, humor, and real growth is what made it stick. Thanks for having the courage to talk about things we don't normally talk about.
TSA & airports are an immediate anxiety event for me and especially sober. When I drank, I’d go grab a soda or 2 before the flight (or during the flight) if I was alone or had the “going on vaca” excuse. Sadly I haven’t had any sex toy adventures w/TSA😎