Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Health & Body

Urge
Private dancers
From North Beach bars to the Mitchell Brothers' high-priced flesh emporium, she went in search of women to dance in her lap.
By Annalee Newitz
[07/03/99]

Column
Why doesn't anyone have dropsy anymore?
The 1899 Merck Manual is being released along with the 1999 version.   
By Mary Roach
[07/02/99]

Don't worry, darling, I have giant fennel
The history and mystery of the plant that may have been one of the first contraceptives.
By Susan McCarthy
[07/01/99]

Going right through you
The diet pill Xenical reduces fat absorption, but may cause unpleasant side effects.
By Sharon Lerner
[06/30/99]

Column
The invisible woman
As age creeps into my body, my hands keep creeping into younger men's pants.
By Virginia Vitzthum
[06/29/99]

Complete archives for Health & Body

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

"You can't take this on the airplane," the security guard says definitively, looking me staunchly in the eye.

"Why not?" I ask in all innocence.

"It's a weapon," she informs me.

I roll my eyes for dramatic effect. "That's not a weapon," I object plaintively, "it's a toy."

She continues to look me in the eye, neither humored nor annoyed -- like I say, professional. "Whatever it is, you can't take it on the plane."

I'm tempted to go one step further, but I realize that it's starting to get a little close to departure time. The reality principle intercedes. I don't say, "What are you afraid of? That I'll rush into the cockpit and tell the pilot to take the plane to Havana or else I'll whip his naughty bare ass?" I don't say, "Are you afraid that I'll attack one of the flight attendants and whip her (or him) into such a state of excitement that s/he will beg to hijack the plane?"

I do say, "All right, what can I do with it then?"

I'm told that I can take the whip back to the ticket counter and ask them to check it through as a separate piece of baggage. "Sometimes they'll do that, sometimes they won't," she warns. I pick up the bag, then the whip. For the first time, her face softens. She really doesn't hold it against me that I'm traveling with a whip. "Tell them that security said you couldn't take it on the plane," she offers. "That should help." I thank her for the advice.

Holding the whip in my hand so familiarly among hundreds of people in the middle of the Seattle airport gives me a fair dose of cognitive dissonance. Some of the passengers' eyebrows are definitely up now; I'm turned on in a Pavlovian sort of way, I'm in public and I'm beginning to be worried about what to do if they won't check the whip. I remember when Betty Dodson, author of "Sex for One" and grand dame of masturbation, attempted to take her Robocop on a plane and set off an airport metal detector. The security guards called that a weapon, too, and confiscated it on the spot.

I'm also beginning to wonder if I'm going to miss the flight. I put aside all the conflicting feelings and force myself to get efficient. My friend says she'll go to the gate and save me a seat on the plane if I'm late for boarding. I fold the tails of the whip along the handle so I can carry it to the ticket counter without frightening too many people along the way.

There's a long line at the ticket counter but I go up to the front and interrupt, explaining that my plane is about to leave and that I need to check something that security won't let me take on the plane.

"What is it?" the ticket agent asks as she types someone else's flight information into her computer.

"It's a whip," I say matter-of-factly, holding it up to show her.

The ticket agent stops typing, looks at the whip, looks at me, looks back at the whip.

"I won't ask," she says, as if to herself.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," I say with exaggerated solicitude.

"That's all right," she declines.

A college-age woman is at the counter, filling out a form. She has a warm (perhaps knowing) grin on her face, though she's pretending not to be paying attention to what's going on. I catch her eye and we exchange a smile while the ticket agent goes to get a plastic baggage bag for my whip.

I lay the whip down affectionately on the counter. It becomes a lovely black and silver still-life against the white, lacquered background. Several people waiting in line are checking it out, more curious than disturbed. Theater of the absurd has evolved into sex education: A properly dressed, polite-voiced, rather quiet-looking man is checking his whip. Call it normalization. The young woman finishes filling out her form. She scans the whip alertly, neutrally. I get the feeling this is not the first whip she's ever seen, but who knows.

I look at all the people and feel like the whole airport -- passengers, ticket agents, security guards -- are giving me the benefit of the doubt on this one, at least in part because I'm refusing to have it any other way. My lack of embarrassment, my lack of apology, is defining the moment and telling everyone how to respond. I feel strangely powerful. It is the liberated feeling of coming out, of refusing to be made wrong.

When the agent comes back, she holds the plastic bag open for me, waiting for me to put the whip in. Maybe she doesn't want to touch the whip, maybe she doesn't want to risk damaging it. My sense is that she's letting me put the whip in myself because she gets it that this is something special, something personal. Education morphs into ritual. I tuck the whip into the bag with slightly exaggerated care, as if to say, yes, this is something I would indeed like to have treated with respect. Putting my name and address on the baggage tag becomes an affirmation: This whip does indeed belong to me; this is my name, this is my address. The agent attaches the tag to the bag, pulls the drawstring closed, ties the string with several knots as if to reassure me that it is secure and will not come open. She places the bag lightly on the moving conveyor belt behind her. I watch its weightlessness get carried away, out of sight.

"When you pick up your luggage, don't forget that this one is a plastic bag," she says as I start to leave.

I look at her and we both smile. "Don't worry," I say. "I won't forget."
salon.com | July 6, 1999

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

  Get a printer-friendly version

  E-mail a friend about this article

  Backflip this article to find it again

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Search Salon