TSA Agent has Fun with Me

TSA Agent Has Fun with Me

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A Friday in March 2010.

I'm in Cleveland Hopkins International airport. It's mid-March and 40 degrees outside, but because I'll be deboarding in Miami this afternoon, I'm dressed like it's mid-July and 80 degrees. To the hundreds of bustling travelers around me, all bundled up for what is still officially the winter season in a northern town, I look ridiculous. And I feel ridiculous too. I'm wearing tan khaki shorts with a Tommy Bahama short-sleeved button down that's covered in green palm trees and orange flowers. Who wants to deboard in Miami wearing a sweater and a coat? Especially when I'm heading straight from the airport to a beach wedding. So, yeah. While I'm still in Ohio, I'm the out-of-place weirdo drawing snickers and stares.

But I think my outfit is cute. It hasn't seen the light of day in six months, but in mere hours, it will be enjoying the Florida sunshine. What doesn't quite go with my beachy attire is my choice of footwear; I should be (and will later be) in my brown leather sandals. But for now, the sandals are safely stowed away in my luggage. These days, airport security requires passengers to remove their shoes for scanning. As such, I have opted for my clunky Nike high-tops. Refusing to allow my bare feet to touch the airport floor, my loosely laced high-tops are conveniently a couple sizes too big, making them easy to slip on and off, while my crew socks protect my feet from the gross floor. I am not willing to be seen in public wearing socks with sandals; that would be a bridge too far. Even with my cute Dri-Fits that have been strategically scrunched down my calves just so.

It's my best friend's wedding. Garret and I have been best friends since high school. Seven years ago, he went away to college in Miami while I remained in Ohio. He never came back and I never left. But we do get together a couple times every year and now at age 25, we're still close. Close enough that I'm his best man.

Garrett is marrying his high school girlfriend, Jess. She, in fact, is why he left. She decided to attend FIU and Garrett followed her, like the puppy dog he is. I guess they found true love. I'm happy for him. And really looking forward to a long weekend in summer weather with old friends.

A recent addition to airport security is the new full body scanner. I've seen news reports about them. Supposedly, they reveal in some specific graphic detail, body part shapes and sizes - private body parts included. The news reporter said it's essentially a virtual strip search. That may be true, but I'd imagine that with the thousands of travelers passing through these scanners in a nonstop flow of human traffic, they have no time to contemplate the images on the screens or match those chalky outlines to the people passing through. And the line moves quickly. Surely there's no time to judge or mock anyone in the procession. It's an eight hour a day dreary job that hardly compares to watching videos on Porn Hub.

But my imagination sometimes runs wild. I already look different from my fellow travelers. Maybe I'll be stopped mid-screening and told to hold the pose. I could be noticed by the surrounding audience. I could be commented on by the screeners behind the scenes. Screenshots could be taken and saved by people whom I'll never see. Then, months from now, they spot me in the grocery store and chuckle because they know what I'm packing inside of my khaki shorts. The thought gives me a little thrill. Enough of a thrill that I'm chubbing up at my own little fantasy.

To make the security checkpoint process go as smoothly as possible, I have taken some precautionary steps. As previously mentioned, my sneakers are oversized and loosely laced for ease in slipping on and off. I have decided to pack my keys and my watch in my suitcase, which I checked in. And I have forgone a carryon bag. All I have with me are my cell phone, my wallet and my boarding pass.

But I did overlook one detail. My belt. My shorts are too loose to not wear it. When I bought my Tommy Bahama shirt - my favorite shirt - the matching shorts were sold out in my size. I have a 30-inch waist, but I was forced, if I wanted this shirt, to buy shorts in size 34. That's fine when my belt is on and cinched tightly, but here at the checkpoint, the belt must come off. And when the belt comes off, my shorts sag down. Down to the point of barely clinging to my hips. Anyone looking my way when I pass through the scanner will gain firsthand knowledge that my underwear was made by Adidas.

As I make my way through the line, I watch the people ahead of me taking their turn. They place their socked feet in the marked spots and raise their arms above their heads, holding the position for a few seconds before moving on to be reunited with their tray of shoes and accessories. Those people wearing sweaters and hoodies, when they raise their arms, inadvertently flash a strip of skin across their lower abdomen to the onlooking spectators. I smile in amusement each time it happens.

That's when I remember that my own shirt - summery and beachy - is tailored to a short length. It's not crop top short, but it barely meets the top of my waistband. Except my waistband will drop several inches and my shirt will ride up several more when I release my shorts and raise my arms. While I've been amused by the show some of those ahead of me have been putting on, I realize that I am about to put on a show of my own. But like everyone else, the show will all be over in a matter of a couple seconds.

An empty industrial grey plastic tub rolls to me down the conveyor belt. I step out of my shoes, place them in the bottom of the tub, add my wallet and phone and tug off my belt, using one hand to hold my shorts in place. While my tub traverses its dark tunnel, I step into the body scanner machine thing. With my feet in the marked spots, I raise my arms when instructed to do so. As predicted, my shorts slide halfway down my hips and my shirt rides up almost to my ribcage. I can feel the cool air of the room (along with hundreds of peering and judging eyes) on my exposed body. Those in front of me are treated to a view of my belly and underwear while those behind me see my back and my thinly covered ass. I'm skinny, but I'm not a gym guy. I have no abs. Just smooth, hairless skin bulls-eyed by a half-inch deep dimple of a belly button.

Each person before me was dismissed in 2 to 3 seconds, but unbelievably, my earlier daydream seems to be coming true. Several seconds have gone by, and here I still stand, arms up and all eyes on me. The agent who has been directing traffic is distracted by his cell phone and paying no attention to his job, which at the moment is supposed to be me. I'm still standing here, on display and exposed. Many, many more seconds go by.

More and more spectators stop and watch my show. My shorts continue to slip down lower and lower. Several people smirk and grin while several more point and laugh right out loud. My face flushes and I chub up even more. These people will have a story to tell their friends and family and I will be the subject of that story. Why does that thrill me more than bother me? My partial erection is threatening the seams of my undies, but also inadvertently acting like a hook to keep my shorts from falling completely down. I wonder if the people I can't see on the other side of the monitors are noticing how my third leg is growing. I imagine more comments, pointing and laughter.

Logically and rationally, I have nothing to be embarrassed about. I'll be on an actual beach in mere hours. Tomorrow, I'll be swimming at that beach, shirtless and in a speedo that happens to be much more revealing than my Adidas boxer briefs. I'll be showing way more body and skin than I am right now - I'll be 95% naked - and no one will give me a second glance. At the beach, my belly button is just another face in the crowd; no one will care. Right here, right now, people care. And stare. The contours of my jutting hipbones, my concave belly button, the hollow of my lower back and the curves of my narrow waist are an unexpected sight to these Ohioans who have just endured a bitter cold, nasty winter. It's so surprising that they can't help themselves from gaping and gawking like I'm the centerfold in a forbidden Playgirl.

Finally, a second TSA agent appears; one I hadn't seen before. It takes him only a millisecond to assess the situation and nudge the first guy out of his phone and back to the here and now. I am finally allowed to exit the human scanner thing.

The new agent has an air of confidence and authority about him and his muscled physique is evident through his uniform. He's unsettlingly good looking. He inadvertently catches my eye and he seems to do a mini double take. He is a good twenty feet away from me, but even at that distance, there is something vaguely familiar about the newcomer. It's his eyes. They're ringing a bell, like he's someone I knew a long time ago. And I think he recognizes me. Seemingly the person in charge, he barks out some directions and disappears back to wherever he came from.

I step forward and tug up on my shorts. I am guided to the sidelines where I am reunited with my tub of stuff - my wallet, phone, belt and shoes. I feel dozens of pairs of eyes on me. Eyes that already had an eyeful. Securing my belt is my obvious priority, then I pocket my phone, my wallet and finally jump into my sneakers before scurrying away to my gate hoping for no further incident.

My gate is at the far end of the terminal and as I take a seat, I do not feel like people are staring at me anymore. I think I can put the incident behind me at this point. I pick up a magazine and begin mindlessly reading celebrity gossip. But I'm distracted. My mind keeps wandering to that TSA guy who looked so familiar. Where have I seen him before?

I'm pulled back to the present by a toddler who appears before me. He belongs to the couple sitting directly across from me. I would guess the little boy to be about three years old. He's smiling up at me.

I set my magazine aside and smile back, "Hi there!" I feign interest for the sake of the closely watching parents. "What's your name?"

He sticks out his pointing finger and pokes me, despite my shirt being correctly in place, right in the belly button. He shouts, "Tummy!"

My face turns beat red. My reputation has apparently followed me to this end of the airport.

Trying to play the good sport, I pat my belly and say, "We all have tummies."

He giggles, pokes my stomach again and cries out, "Tummy, tummy, tummy!" He's loud and drawing the attention of those around us. He says, "Show tummy again," and he lifts his shirt, flashing his own toddler belly.

Realizing it's the only way to make him stop, I lift my shirt too for a quick peek. He squeals and pokes me for a third time before turning and running back to his mother where both of his parents laugh with their precocious son. Others are laughing too.

Beads of sweat dot my forehead. How pathetic am I that a toddler has the power to embarrass me and make me blush? Feeling like the center of attention again, I rise and escape over to the Newsstand.

A trio of college girls corner me. The first says, "I'd like to poke your tummy too. It's kinda cute. You should be like a belly button model or something." The second says, "My boyfriend wears Adidas boxers like yours. He struggles to fill the front pouch. Do you have that problem?" The first girl goes again, "No way. Couldn't you tell when he was standing there? He totally had a boner and it wasn't small. This guy's pouch is full." The third shakes her head and says, "Creepy flasher. Gross." Then all three giggle and brush shoulders with me as they move on.

I'm left there, blushing again.

Then a trio of college guys - presumably the girls' boyfriends - appears at my side. They're a good five years younger than me, but they're sporty boys and they easily dwarf me in body mass. The first says, "This is for you. Up high!" He tosses an object two feet over my head and it's human instinct for me to reach up and catch it. Obviously, the guy achieved his goal; he made my shirt ride up again, giving another flash to anyone in the vicinity and I'm left holding a stupid Snickers bar, like I saved the world by not letting it hit the floor. I don't even like Snickers.

He chuckles and winks at me, "Alicia was right, it is kinda cute." The second guy bumps my fist with his and says conspiratorially, "I'm an innie too. We're innie bruhs!" The third guy looks me up and down and says, "Dude, join a gym. Seriously. It's not just about you. You represent guys as a species. You're an embarrassment." And then he adds sheepishly, "Gina was just joking about my underwear. I mean, they are Adidas, but I have no trouble filling the front pouch. You know?" The first guy hangs his arm around the third guy's shoulders. "We know, big guy. You're right. Of course, she was kidding." While he consoles his friend, he winks at me and silently mouths, "You're way bigger." My dick perks up at the mention of its size. As they're walking away, the first guy calls out, "Keep the Snickers. Eat it. You could stand to gain a few pounds, Belly Boy."

Belly Boy? I think I prefer Tummy, tummy, tummy.

Next up in my humiliation parade, a young man of about fifteen years old sidles up to me. He surprises me by saying, "I'll give you $200 for your shirt."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I'm dead serious," he says. "My name is Santiago," he takes my hand and shakes it. "You can call me Santi. I've got cash right now."

I think my shirt is cute, but to this kid?

"Sorry, Santi. My other clothes are in my suitcase and my suitcase has been checked in," I say, thinking our chat is coming to an end. "The airport has rules. I have to have a shirt."

He blocks my path, pulls off his Cavaliers sweatshirt (fortunately, he has a t-shirt under it) and says, "You can have this."

He wants to give me $200 and his expensive NBA licensed hoodie for my small Tommy Bahama shirt that is so not this kid's style? Or size. If he pulled it across his muscled chest, he'd hulk right out of it. I ask him, "What's going on?"

He blows out a breath, "Don't you realize what happened here today? People were recording your little scene from earlier. They're gonna post their videos online. They're gonna see you as a helplessly humiliated victim. They'll villainize the guy who fell down on the job and the whole thing is gonna go viral. I mean, you were powerless, pathetic, feeble and totally at that dude's mercy. With your vulnerable belly button staring out at hundreds of amused spectators, people will eat that shit up. By this time tomorrow, you're gonna be a YouTube star. The whole country will recognize this stupid shirt. Maybe I'll get more than a grand for it! You're gonna be big news. Tomorrow you'll be all over the internet and they'll name you something like Belly Boy. By the next day, the news media will catch up. They'll portray you as a victim of process and call the story 'Security Gone Too Far: The Young Man Humiliated While His Fellow Travelers Looked On.' Or something with an even better hook."

Now my shirt is stupid. And Belly Boy again. I'm not thrilled that's catching on and potentially about to sweep the country. Does this kid really know what he's talking about? Will I really go viral? It sounds like an illness. I'm not sure I even know what he means. Besides, I can't show up at Garrett's wedding in a Cleveland Cavaliers hoodie.

Was what happened that big of a deal? If my shirt was longer and my shorts weren't sagging, would anybody have noticed me at all? Stuck there for a long minute in a weird position in normal clothes isn't a story, but show a belly button and four inches of underwear and suddenly I'm headline news? Would I prefer to have been unnoticed? Did I like the attention? Being made a spectacle? Being embarrassed? Maybe.

Santi continues, "I'll be able to sell your shirt online for at least a grand. People go crazy for shit like this. Maybe even more than a grand! The $200 would be your cut."

My cut. I shake my head. I tell the kid, "Sorry. It's not for sale."

But he's not done, "How about a hundred bucks for your high-tops."

I fold my arms across my chest, "I wasn't wearing my shoes during the... 'incident.' My shoes won't be famous. Or viral, or whatever."

He grins a winning grin at me, "Not to resell. Those are some sic kicks. Your clothes are totally lame, but your kicks are lit. And, dude, they're clearly way too big for you. You almost walk out of them with each step you take. They look like my size. I'll fill them up for you."

I glance down at the kid's big feet. They probably can fill my too-big sneakers and he's surely not done growing yet. I can't help but like this kid. He has a smooth charm that I never had at age fifteen, and he's quite the budding entrepreneur. Ten years from now, when he's my age, he'll probably be a millionaire. Maybe I'll be working for him by then. But for now, I hand him the Snickers bar and tell him to get lost. He's significantly bigger and stronger than me, but I'm an adult and he's a kid. He mopes away, dejected. His transaction attempts failed this time, but he has more wins than losses ahead of him in life.

For a parting jab, he turns back to me and with another big grin, he shouts, "Tummy, tummy, tummy!"

~~

When it's time to line up to board the plane, there's yet another TSA agent at the head of the line randomly selecting people for wandings and pat downs. It seems to be about every tenth person or so to get selected, so there's a 90% chance that I'll be spared. And those who are subject to scrutiny are checked and set free in mere seconds. As I get a little closer, I can see that this agent is actually the same goodlooking one who came over and got things moving earlier. He's why I was finally released from that compromising and humiliating position and now, here he is at my gate, still looking familiar. Can his presence really be a coincidence? What are the odds?

And then he sees me. He doesn't just see me, his eyes lock on mine. Again. Those eyes that I somehow know. At this point, no one else matters. His focus is solely on me. He's letting everybody else go by without consideration. His sights are set; his decision is made. I will be his next "not-so-random" selection. I attempt to ignore him; I look everywhere but at him, but he continues to stare at me. As predicted, when I get to the head of the line, I get tapped out.

I do as I'm told and hold my arms out, allowing him to pat down my sides as had been done to others before me, but the patting down is more aggressive and invasive than I was expecting. I feel manhandled by manly hands. He waves his magic wand and it screeches in awful response, triggering a sound that no one else had triggered before. TSA guy's eyes widen and he informs me that we need to step out of the line and head to the offices.

"But I have a flight to catch," I say dumbly. I notice that the name on his shirt reads: Ben. It doesn't ring a bell, but he's still so familiar.

"Have you checked the weather report? Word is, rain is blanketing Florida. Your flight is going to be delayed."

"Then why are they boarding?"

"Because until the official decision is announced, they have to continue with business as usual. But believe me. I know. A delay is imminent."

He's guiding me away as his hand grips my elbow. I haven't been asked, I've been told.

"Worst case scenario," he continues, "there's another flight in a few hours."

"A few hours makes me late. I'm the best man at a wedding."

He's still leading me and not looking at me, "Rules are rules and safety comes first. Even before weddings."

We make it to the offices for the TSA employees. He says something to the older gentleman at the desk that I can't hear, but he takes me to Room Eleven. Room Eleven is at the end of the hall. He guides me into the room and he closes and locks the door behind us.

I'm getting frustrated, "I already cleared the security checkpoint. My stuff has been scanned, I have been scanned... What's going on here?"

"This device is more sensitive than the scanner. It's based on different technology. It signaled a potential problem and we have to follow through. Like I said, safety first."

I fold my arms across my chest, "Do I know you?"

He doesn't reply.

"I thought this screening was supposed to be random," I huff. "You picked me out from way down the line. Why?"

"It's only random if nothing suspicious is going on," he says. "You were displaying unusual behaviors."

"How?" I'm incredulous.

"Your clothing is inappropriate for the season. It's freezing outside and you're dressed for July."

"My flight is to Miami!" I let my arms drop. "The wedding is a beach wedding. I'm going straight there."

"It's not just that."

"What else?"

"Sit down."

He places a palm flat against my chest and pushes me backwards into the chair that sits against the wall behind me. He was leading me by the elbow earlier and now he's pushing me around. Clearly, I weigh nothing compared to him as he maneuvers me around like a toy. He sits too, opposite me. Taking my left foot, he rests it in his lap and looks down, contemplating my sneaker. I ultimately allow this to happen. What choice do I have?

The wall opposite me has two large windows and the blinds are open. People are walking by. Some of them are beginning to notice us. Some of them are stopping, gathering and watching in curiosity.

He explains, "Your choice in footwear is out of place with the rest of your clothing." He begins unlacing the shoe in his lap. "Let's assume you are telling me the truth and you are heading to a beach wedding. Who wears high-top sneakers to the beach?"

I consider explaining my rationale. I am tempted to tell him about the sandals in my suitcase and not wanting to be barefoot in the airport, but it would be pointless. He is going to do what he is going to do, and I am powerless to stop him. All I can do is wait it all out.

I say, "They're loose enough to just slide off," hoping to move things along.

He shakes his head. "I need to examine each shoe thoroughly. I need to search them. Remember the shoe bomber? With a bomb in the sole of his shoe?" He chuckles, "There was also an underwear bomber."

Was there really? Will he be inspecting my underwear? The thought causes a twitch between my legs.

He has the shoe unlaced and he pulls off the shoe, keeping my foot in his lap. He places the shoelace on the desk and sets to work. Bending back the tongue of the shoe, he cocks an eyebrow at me. Again... those eyes. They're so familiar. Where do I know this guy from? Where and when could I have met such a hot, burly guy?

He says, "No way." He holds my stripped Nike high-top up in one hand while he grips my ankle and holds up my socked foot in the other hand. He goes on, "The shoe is size 11." He jiggles my foot, making it waggle mere inches in front of his face. "This foot is no size 11. Wearing ill-fitting footwear is red flag behavior."

Of course it is. If I told him that these were the cutest shoes in the store and they were out of my size, would he believe me? I need my young entrepreneur friend to validate that my "kicks are sic," or whatever he said. And even if he believed me, would it change anything? Probably not. This is a man who will not be deterred from performing his job. But I feel like I should offer some type of explanation.

"I wore my biggest pair to make passing security quicker and easier."

I'm not sure he even heard me as he is elbow and nose deep into my shoe. Fortunately for him, I've never been one to have much foot odor. But my feet are sweaty from the high-tops and the task might still be unpleasant. His expression remains inscrutable. He just about turns my shoe inside out, almost unrecognizably, as he examines it for bombs, or whatever the fuck he's doing.

Without warning, he drops the shoe to the floor. Next up: the foot that had been in the shoe. He grips it by the ankle again and, again mere inches from his face, gives it a long visual inspection. He already proclaimed my foot to be a wannabe, posing as a size 11. Should I tell him that I wear a 9? Can he just tell? Is he some kind of expert? Does he work a carnival booth on weekends, guessing body weights and shoe sizes? Before I can say, he wraps both hands around my foot and rubs and massages everywhere from heel to toe. I can't stop myself from letting out three embarrassing groans of pleasure.

He explains, "It's a pat-down for your foot. Just searching for anything you may be concealing."

While I don't want to miss Garrett's wedding, I wouldn't mind if this part of the process went on for an hour. I don't think I'm meant to be enjoying the proceedings, but an exceptionally hot man has his big strong hands wrapped around my foot, giving it a massage. Yeah, I'm enjoying myself. A lot. And then he hooks a finger under my crew sock and peels it off like a snake shedding its skin. He sets my bare foot back down in his lap and he visually searches the inside out sock, probably searching for the missing scent of a man. I almost apologize. I glance down and notice that his work boots are big. At least size twelve big. My small, odorless size 9s are surely amusing to him.

And then those big hands are on my small bare foot. Skin to skin contact. More kneading, more handling, and more moaning - from me. He separates my toes and checks in between each. Seriously? My foot is stripped naked. What could I possibly be concealing besides sock fuzz and toe jam? As his "examination" works its way higher up my leg, over the knee and up my thigh, the whole thing feels way more intimate than procedural and I once again stiffen in my shorts.

When he's satisfied, he sets down my left foot and picks up my right. As he begins to unlace the high-top, I realize that all things considered, he's being gentle. Maybe he realizes that he's been too gentle. After searching the second sneaker for hidden bombing devices, he's a little rougher with this foot. His exploring massage of foot number two is stronger. His grip is tighter. As this foot is fresh out of the sneaker and extra sensitive, I find myself gripping the seat of my chair for dear life. When the sock comes off, his thumbnail drags up my arch. I squeal and instinctively pull away, but his grip keeps me in place. He flashes me a warning look and proceeds with bare foot examination number two. This time there are more fingernails involved. More strokes and swipes and less rubs and massages. Tears stream from my eyes as his fingers floss my toes. I giggle and wiggle uncontrollably as I sit there being tickled at his mercy. I bet that toddler would find my predicament amusing. He would shout, "Feet, feet, feet!" And the hundreds who saw me as the belly victim earlier would now see me as the foot victim.

Another jarring swipe up my arch and then it's over. At least the foot part is over. He rises from his chair and says, "Step forward, please. Stand on the footprints. Reach up and grab the bar with both hands."

The footprints painted on the floor are significantly bigger than my small bare feet and I feel like I failed somehow. Like I failed to measure up. I ask, "may I put my socks and shoes back on?"

He chuckles, "Those'll be the last things you're worried about putting back on soon enough."

I gulp. And stiffen some more. My little guy is anticipating making an appearance.

"The bar," he reminds me. "Grab it."

There's a bar about seven feet above ground that is anchored to the ceiling. At 5' 10" tall, I'll have no trouble reaching it, but my shirt will ride up again. I hesitate, but once again, I was told what to do, not asked. I'm not the one in a position of power. He's not going to ask me to do pull-ups, is he? That would truly be embarrassing. I don't think I could manage a single one.

I reach up. My shirt climbs up and my captor's eyes drop down and take in my exposed stomach.

Attempting a distraction, I ask, "Why else was my behavior suspicious?"

"This is why," he says as he drags a finger across my stretched lower abdomen.

This tickles more than my feet. Instead of a giggle, I bark out a laugh and almost release the bar, but his expression warns me not to.

"Is tickling part of the safety search?" I ask.

His lip curls in a smirk, "I gotta do what I gotta do. If you're hypersensitive, that's not my fault."

He grapples at my belt buckle until it unclasps and he pulls it free from the loops of my shorts.

He further explains, "Your clothing isn't just off-season, but it's also as ill-fitting as your sneakers." He brushes a knuckle across my navel and I quiver and giggle again. He says, "Your shirt is too short." He tugs on a belt loop and my shorts slide four inches below the waist of my underwear. "And your shorts are several sizes too big."

I sigh, "That's why I wore the belt." I feebly explain about liking the shirt but finding the store to be out of the matching shorts in my size.

He is unmoved by my boring but true story. He waves the wand across me again and it screeches the same as before. He says, "You can end this whole thing here and now by giving me whatever you're concealing. That would be the easy way."

"I'm not concealing anything," I protest with a whiny voice.

"The hard way will take a good long time." He clearly prefers the hard way.

And the hard way is making me hard. I feel an involuntary tightening in my crotch. The crowd outside the windows already saw the foot show. They seem curious to know what TSA Agent Ben has in store for his prisoner next. The crowd grows.

He adds, "Either way is fine with me. My workday doesn't end for two more hours regardless. I'm just as happy spending that time in here with you."

My little soldier bumps up again in pride and anticipation.

He unbuttons my top shirt button slowly and deliberately. As he moves down to the next one, he says, "I will need to conduct a full inspection, with both sight and touch. Eyes and hands." He finishes the third button and begins the fourth. "The device could be signaling a false positive, but at this point, only I can verify that you are not a safety threat."

"This is ridiculous," I say as the final button releases and my shirt falls open, vertically framing my torso in full view of the gathering audience outside of the window.

He orders me to lower my arms. I do as I'm told. He moves behind me and helps my shirt off my shoulders, allowing it to slip down my back. He checks the pocket and turns the sleeves inside out. I am instructed to again grab hold of the bar, and I do so. He slowly walks around me three times, visually inspecting every square inch of my exposed skin. I can tell through his uniform shirt that unlike me, this guy does spend time in the gym. A lot of time. His muscles move beneath the taut fabric. What is he thinking about my physique? There's not much to think; I'm just a regular guy. I don't often inspire consideration. Not usually. Not before today, anyway.

The visual examination is causing me to firm up further. I have a semi for sure. The feeling of being completely at this familiar man's mercy is exciting. Being the center of his attention, the focal point of his probing eyes, his reason for being right here, right now. Stopping behind me, his hands make contact. He massages my shoulders and neck and I moan again. His fingertips glide up my spine and I my nipples turn hard. As he glides those fingers across my ribs, into my armpits and around my barely-there pecs, I sprout goosebumps everywhere. My knees begin to buckle and I almost let go of the bar.

Speaking of bars, for the second time today, the bar in my shorts is the only reason my shorts are still hanging on and not pooling around my ankles. But he solves that problem by stepping around in front of me and undoing the button. That's all it takes. No zipper-work necessary. The 34-inch shorts fall right off my 30-inch waist, and I stand there in just my underwear.

Is this really happening? Some of the faces outside the window are as shocked as I am. There's an array of reactions. I see curiosity, amusement, joy, envy and even repulsion, but none of them walk away. In fact, a few of them have taken cameras from their carry-ons and are taking photos and videos. More videos. Was that guy from earlier right? Will these videos get posted too? Will they go viral? Will they all know me as Belly Boy?

My little dude stiffens in pride and excitement, wishing he wasn't anonymous behind my undies. I'm suddenly glad that Adidas boxer briefs are black. The dark color is better for concealing my burgeoning erection. It also conceals the wet spot that is quickly forming at the apex of the tent I'm building.

He maneuvers my legs so that I step out of my shorts and he turns out the pockets as he inspects them thoroughly. He scoffs, "34? Yeah, right!"

I already told him about the store and my size... whatever. I say nothing.

He hooks a finger under the waistband of my underwear. He slides the finger back and forth from left to right as he says, "More suspicious behavior is mixing your brand loyalties. Most people are either Nike or Adidas. You're wearing both. And you showed that to several hundred people out there earlier."

This whole thing started out strange and has only gotten stranger. My suspicious behavior was wearing out-of-season clothing when my flight is to Miami? My body search began with a damn near sensual foot massage on one foot and a mini tickle torture on the other. And now it's a red flag that I'm wearing two different athletic brands? I say, "No one would have ever seen my Adidas boxer briefs if it hadn't been for your incompetent team working security."

"That agent will be properly disciplined. But that's irrelevant to the situation at hand."

As his finger glides from left to right, his knuckle lightly grazes my lower abdomen and I quiver and giggle again. He pulls the waistband further from my body and I swear, he takes a peek inside. He surely couldn't see more than the bottom inch of the trunk of my shaft, but still... he snuck a peek. There's no way he doesn't know that I have a partial erection; the evidence is pointing right at him. It won't be much longer before it's not so partial.

He clears his throat, "Obviously, I have not yet concluded the mandatory search."

I consider challenging him; demanding to know what this is really all about, but at this point, I'm all in. I wouldn't want him to not finish the job.

For the first time, he notices the throng of spectators pressing close to the window.

A not so small part of me relishes the crowd and wants them to keep watching. I would even enjoy hearing comments, both complimentary and humiliating. Bring it on. My little guy bumps up a tick, casting its vote to perform to a live audience and expecting rave reviews. But rationally, some things are too private for public viewing. This maybe lives on the other side of that line.

He turns from me, and when he does, his elbow bumps into my protrusion. He looks back with a knowing grin.

He crosses over to the wall behind the desk where the windows are and pulls the blind cord down, disappointing several dozen spectators. What he might not realize is that the slats are not completely flush, and a lucky few could still catch snippets of this show if they crouch down. A happy compromise, in my mind.

As he heads back my way, my phone on his desk makes a sound that indicates an incoming text. He picks it up, checks the screen and smiles. He says, "Problem solved. As predicted, it's storming in Miami and Garrett says the ceremony is pushed to tomorrow, Ayden."

He shows me the screen as proof that he's telling me the truth. He is. But then my heart skips a beat. Garrett's name is on the display, but Garrett did NOT include my name in his text. And at no point did I see my captor look in my wallet or at my boarding pass. How did he know my name is Ayden? And why, from the first moment I saw him, has he seemed so familiar? He can sense the air in the room change. He takes my hands off the bar and lowers my arms before sitting me back down in the chair. He sits too. He looks me straight in the eyes and holds the contact for a full minute. He's waiting for me to recognize him.

And then it hits me. I remember. It's his eyes. He has these steel grey eyes and I remember someone else with those same eyes. Someone from a long time ago; seven years, maybe? The name on his shirt is Ben, but back in high school, everyone called him Benji. Benji the Bully. And he was almost my bully. I'd never had any altercations or interactions of any kind with him until right at the end of senior year. One day, I had to stay at school late for make-up lab work and I was one of the last students in the building. I was gathering my things from my locker and I noticed someone quickly approaching. I looked and it was Benji. Benji the Bully.

The nickname was well deserved. He was forever insulting guys, knocking them around, pushing and shoving, seemingly just because he was bigger and stronger and could get away with it. I had gym class with him that semester, but I had never had a problem myself. The thing was, Garrett was in that same gym class, and Garrett, a big strong guy in his own right, was my best friend. Benji the Bully never messed with Garrett and since I was with Garrett, he never messed with me either.

Benji had a girlfriend at the time - Jess. Seemingly tired of Benji's bullshit, Jess dumped him for Garrett. In fact, Jess is who Garrett is marrying tomorrow. So that afternoon, in the mostly abandoned school, Benji was quickly approaching me in that otherwise empty hallway. He called my name, Ayden. My blood ran cold. I was no match for the comparatively hulking Benji. He could have done anything to me and no one would have ever known. But then Garrett appeared at the far end of the hall. Garrett had no reason to be there. No reason at all, but he was. He had a weird feeling and he just wanted to show up and drive me home. All he had to do was shout my name and start a slow jog before Benji took off running. That was seven years ago and I haven't seen him since. His hair is shorter, his face is an adult's, his beard covers half his face, but those eyes are exactly the same. And they're staring right at me, right now.

My erection deflates in sudden fear. It's just me and Benji the Bully alone in a locked room. Despite being just about naked, my body begins to sweat all over. My Almost Bully is here, while Garrett is like a million miles away. Does Benji know Garrett is marrying Jess, his old girlfriend? What is this all about? Revenge?

I say just one word: "Benji."

He grimaces, "Don't you mean, Benji the Bully?"

I try, "You know, Garrett wasn't looking to take Jess from you. He never--"

Benji cuts me off, "Jess was never my girlfriend. I never gave a shit about that."

Who's he trying to convince? Me or himself?

He reaches out and I flinch, but he grasps my shoulder tenderly, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Ayden, did I ever hurt you? Either today or back in high school?"

I say nothing.

"I'm the first to admit that I was an idiot, immature asshole when I was eighteen. Teenagers often are. I did a few things I wasn't proud of, but I also got a bad rap for shit I never did. I once broke up a fight between two other guys and someone else walked in at the end. Without full context, it looked like I was the bad guy. Word spread, but it was never true."

"Why didn't you say anything?" I ask.

"Before I knew it, it was too late. Denial was futile. And at the time, I was still confused about who I was, so I allowed the incident to define me."

His eyes roll up and down the length of my almost naked body. My scrawny, helpless body. He squeezes my shoulder again.

"Jess wanted to be my girlfriend," he continues, "but I wasn't in the market. She was a nice girl, but I just wasn't interested. Eventually she gave up and told people that she dumped me. That was fine; I didn't care."

It's true that Jess never indicated that Benji treated her poorly in any way.

"It took me a long time to find myself."

He stops. Is he not going to tell me? I demand, "When you found yourself, who did you find?"

"Ayden," he resumes, ignoring my question, "that day after school in the hall? What did you think I was going to do before Garrett interrupted?"

"Interrupted?" He saved me. Didn't he? I shrug, "Punch me, kick me, lock me in my locker."

He shakes his head sadly, "I can't blame you for thinking so, but the truth? I never would have hurt you. Ayden, I know this sounds crazy, but... It took a long time to figure out... That's why I was so..." He takes in a deep breath and blows it out, "When I saw you in the hall that day... I wanted to talk to you. We didn't really know each other, but, as one of only three dudes 'out' in the whole school, you were my hero."

I cough, choking on my own saliva, "What?"

"I'm serious. Coming out at that place and time was the most courageous act I could imagine, and you did it. I was just beginning to accept my own sexuality and I wanted to have a real conversation with you. A conversation with someone who presumably went through a lot of what I was going through." Benji drops his eyes to our feet, "Plus, I'd been crushing on you for a couple years at that point."

My jaw drops.

"I hoped to end the conversation by asking you to prom."

A tingle rolls up my spine, "Get the fuck out!"

He looks back up, "I'm dead serious. But Garrett - he was a really good friend by the way - was always there. You were in a vulnerable position and he stuck to your side like glue. But never being alone meant I never had a chance to say what I finally worked up the courage to say. It was almost the end of the year and prom was the next weekend. I finally decided that what anyone else thought didn't matter. I was ready to take a chance. I wanted to ask the boy of my dreams to prom. I had no idea if you already had other plans or if you would have said no - I could have lived with that because at least I would have taken a shot."

Benji the Bully had a crush on me? Would I have said yes? Would I have been his prom date? I'd been out since I was fifteen, but could I have? Would I have? And with the most notorious guy in our school?

He continues, "Then Garrett chased me away that day and I missed my chance. Now seven years later... Here you were. I recognized you immediately. I mean, Ayden, you still look like you're 18. Unlike me."

I regard him. "Benji, you look better today than you did seven years ago." The beard, the fit body, and those eyes. My body begins to unclench.

"Actually, what I recognized as you stood in that scanner all stretched out was your belly button. I'd only known you from that gym class and every day, we would change before and after class. Your belly button was burned into my memory and today, seven years later, there it was again. I'd recognize it anywhere."

Belly Boy blushes again.

"Seven years ago, I didn't almost ask you to prom because you were the only gay guy I knew of. I almost asked you to prom because I was inexplicably drawn to you. There was a pull. I wanted to..." he trails off.

"But we're so different," I point out.

"Good. I might be into dudes, but I don't want that dude to be a mirror image of myself. I have no interest in another me. Different is good." he says. "And we're the same where I want us to be," he brushes an elbow against my bulging package, this time intentionally.

I cut him off, "But I'm so--"

He interrupts back, "You sure fucking are. You're a damn perfect man who invaded my dreams and fantasies seven years ago and never left."

"Why me?" I scoff, "My shirt is too short, my shoes are too big and my shorts fall off my scrawny frame."

He shakes his head, "You're flawless. If I were able to design the perfect man, I wouldn't design you any other way. I can't explain it. The heart wants what the heart wants."

I narrow my eyes, "Did I really set off that scanner wand thingy?"

Benji smiles, "You definitely set off my wand thingy."

I snort.

"No. I accidentally discovered months ago that pressing the green button on the side triggers that horrible sound."

I laugh. It worked. "So this whole thing?"

"Was all for me to live out a seven-year-old fantasy."

"And now that it's over?" I ask.

"Is it over? Did I finish my inspection?"

I smile, "Do I need to stand up and hold the bar again?"

"No."

He kneels on the floor between my legs and I begin to harden faster in anticipation. He kisses my chest, then he kisses my neck. I tingle all over. He kisses my nipples and then he kisses my stomach and I'm poking him in the throat through my Adidas. He plunges his tongue into my soon-to-be-famous belly button and I giggle at the sensation. He spends several minutes worshipping my navel and I'm happy to let it happen.

He picks up my left foot and kisses the arch. I laugh. He kisses my ankle and works his lips up my calf and up my inner thigh. As he runs out of thigh, he kisses my now raging erection through the fabric of my undies and I gasp. He nuzzles his nose into my scrotum and he licks the shape of my straining shaft. I am only 25, but I've never been more excited or more aroused in my whole life. Are there still some peekers at the window? I don't even care anymore.

He at long last pulls off my Adidas and my proud soldier stands tall at full attention. Benji takes a full minute to simply admire my fully naked body. I know I'm a scrawny specimen in general, but there's one place where I am genetically lucky to be above average.

He takes hold of my tall shaft and I gasp.

"You are a beautiful, impressive man," he says. Wow! Amazing."

The little guy surges in response.

Benji licks my balls and my eyes roll back into my head. He places my legs over his shoulders, grips my ass, one cheek in each hand and he takes me in his mouth. My whole body is humming. He squeezes my ass cheeks in his hands and pushes me up into him deeper than I thought possible. With my heels on his back, he devours me. His mouth is warm, wet and wonderous. He's all tongue and lips and saliva. He slides on and off of me repeatedly until he finds a rhythm that he can sense drives me crazy. He twists his head back and forth creating friction that has me at the brink. And then he officially concludes the body inspection by inserting a finger into my crack and probing until he reaches my prostate.

It's all too much in the best possible way. His mouth never stops its relentless attack, and all the sucks, kisses, licks and twists... My heels dig into his muscular back. My toes curl. My hands grab his hair. I throw my head back and let out a stifled scream as ropes of cum shoot down his throat.

And he doesn't stop. He lightens up, not wanting to torture me, but he keeps on sucking until I've run dry. And even then, he worships my soldier until he comes back to life for round two.

~~

An hour later, Benji is dressing me. I've decided that I like letting him maneuver me. He pulls on my Adidas and my shorts. He pulls my socks right side out and slides them over my feet. He cinches my belt and buttons my shirt. And then, for the first time, gives me my first real kiss.

I ask, "When is it my turn to give you your turn?"

"This was my turn," Benji says, meaning it. "It's been my life's dream to have you all to myself, at my mercy, in my hands, brought to absolute extasy. I was selfish tonight; it was all about me."

If that was "selfish," I can't imagine what "giving" would look like, but I can't wait to find out. I place a hand on his bulging bicep, "Well, don't hog all the fun. I have plans for you too."

He grins, "I can't wait. Call me as soon as you get back from Miami." He hands me a business card with his contact details.

He really has grown into his looks. The beard is hot, the body is fit and fine... He looks both hard and soft at the same time. I pocket his card and ask, "What time does your shift end?"

"Two hours ago."

I raise an eyebrow.

He sighs, "When I first saw you at the security checkpoint, that was when my shift ended. I entered the scene intending to pass instructions onto the next shift leader. That was when I recognized you. Not surprising. We might not have seen each other in seven years, but you lived in my mind every day since high school. Once I saw you, I used my position and influence to look you up. I found your flight and gate number and I staged that whole random wanding thing."

"What did you tell the guy at the desk when you brought me here to this room?"

"I just told Jimmy that my shift was over and I would be using Room Eleven for a while to catch up with an old friend whose flight was delayed. You're not logged in as having triggered an alarm or needing to be searched or anything. My little scheme was completely off the record."

He jumped through hoops to get me alone. I guess he meant it when he said he was drawn to me.

"My shift might be over, but your flight was only delayed, not canceled. It leaves soon. I never intended for you to miss it."

"I don't want to miss it either."

"So, what does my shift matter? What did you have in mind?"

I smile coyly, "How about a late flight to Miami and loud, wild hotel sex that keeps the neighbors up all night?"

Benji throws back his head and laughs. "I'm nowhere near done with you either. There are things I intend to do to you that I bet you never even thought possible."

I laugh too, intrigued. And I swell in my shorts. "Benji, will you go to prom with me?"

"Umm..." he trails off, confused but beginning to get excited.

"I'm attending a wedding tomorrow and I don't have a plus one. A wedding is the next best thing to prom. Will you go with me?"

"Yes!" He lifts me off the ground and spins me around. "And it would be nice to see Garrett and Jess again. I mean, I have plenty to explain to both of them." He sets me down, entangles his fingers in my hair and kisses me again. "I'm not the same idiot I used to be."

He was never an idiot. We just never knew the real him. Apparently, he didn't even know himself. I say, teasingly, "You weren't so bad, looking back with new perspective. We all have to find ourselves and for some of us, it takes a little longer." I take his hands in mine, "And now your job is keeping everybody safe."

"You'll always be safe with me."

"Good," I say. "I might need a bodyguard. A savvy teenager kid told me that by this time tomorrow, I might be famous. Or is it my shirt that might be famous? I'm not sure, but it's safe to say that you might not be the only person anymore who could recognize me by my belly button. My belly button will be going viral and online, I'll be known as Belly Boy."

"As the head of your security team, might I suggest we pick up a new shirt at a shop near the hotel?"

I smile, "Good idea. What about you? We have a flight to catch and there's no time for you to go home and pack a bag." I think of the young entrepreneur, "That same kid might still be out on the concourse if he was on my flight. If we can find him, he would be willing to sell you his Cavaliers hoodie for a modest profit. It would be better than your TSA uniform. And Garrett wouldn't mind, he happens to be a big Cav's fan. I'm sure it'll fit you, the kid's got quite the muscular build." I'm excitedly babbling at this point.

"That rant left me with so many questions," he says with a placating smile, "but we have a flight to catch. How about while you're buying a new shirt, I pick up a few things too. Maybe you'll find new shorts to match your new shirt, and I'll take these." He grabs a fistful of my shorts and ends up with a fistful of my erection. He chuckles, "Wow! There's no time right now for round three." His hand grapples with my shaft, "Are you ever not hard?"

"Hey, he's excited to have a playmate. He hasn't had a friend in a long time."

"You refer to your dick in the third person?"

"Why not?" I shrug, "He has a mind of his own, he has his own personality..."

"Fair. I figure that by the end of the weekend, I'll have named him."

I laugh, "Does yours have a name?"

"I'll leave the honors to you."

"I need to meet him first," I grope around his crotch and find that he's not so relaxed at the moment either. And his impressive size is quite compatible with my own. I can't wait to frot with him. I can't wait to do so many things with him, starting with my own thorough inspection.

He works his hands under my shirt and onto my trembling skin, "While we're on the beach, keep your arms down so your belly button remains incognito."

I raise my arms and allow him to run wiggling fingers all over me.

"But alone in the hotel room, you'll be under house arrest and subject to my every whim. You'll be ordered to raise your arms for sure."

I laugh again. This is going to be the best weekend.

"Ayden," Benji looks at me seriously. "My job is to protect the public, but I'm ready to protect you forever. No paycheck needed."

End - for now. Catch my follow-up TSA Agent Has the Tables Turned, publishing soon.

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