“I’m sorry ma’am, but in your handbag, uhhhh, are there a uhhhh, pair of…”
Apparently, one is not allowed to carry handcuffs onto a plane.
Unless of course you can smile ever so coyly. And somehow also innocently. While trying to look completely calm and self assured, even though bright red, as other O.R. Tambo passengers skeef you out as they pass.
Plus one needs to have an art of babbling your way out of it. Come ooooon. They’re like plastic. Wrapped in boxes and paper. Toy. Really. You can carry one key. Pink fur. Etc.
I got them through.
And I am just more grateful that the chuckling security man didn’t ask to unpack my whole overnight bag there and then at “hand luggage check". What with me also carrying a big red tube of PLAY lube... “Blow on it to enhance!”. KARMA SUTRA by STICKERS book. A pink starred wand stating “GOOD GIRL/ BAD GIRL”. And other porn items bought for that night’s hen party.
Really. Hen party.
I hope the bride-to-be appreciates it. I think her fiancé might appreciate it even more.
I also am now longer too certain of a hen party objectives. I now know details of my friend I don’t think I ever, ever needed or wanted to know. Following hours of questioning games, bottles of champagne, and hysterical laughter, until we were drinking beer at sunrise.
Meanwhile, while I can get bondage equipment through international airports, I seem ill-equipped to talk a badly-dressed bachelorette into a one-horse town’s skankiest club late on a Saturday night. Maybe the bouncer didn’t appreciate our handcuffed state.
At least the cucumber had a thoroughly good night.
P.S. I think my eternal single status may have just abruptly ended. Now THAT might be the most shocking part of this dirty weekend. And it has definitely left me grinning.