Knocking about with No Knickers

In the summer of 2012, I took a short trip to London, where I met up with my brother who was there on business. I had a great time, though our time together was inevitably cut short by his schedule filled with business meeting and liaising with customers. I didn’t mind, I love visiting London, and it is a city you can easily experience on your own.

The only tricky bit about the trip was the beginning of it. You see, the morning when I was to catch my flight, I overslept.

This is normally never a problem for me. Oh, I do occasionally oversleep, but not when I am traveling. My flight was leaving 8.10, and at 7.10 I woke up and glanced at the bedside clock.

I have never moved so quickly in my life! I was out of the bed like a shot! I almost said that there were skid marks on the sheet, but the mental image is somewhat disturbing. And gross.

I had packed the evening before, so all I did was put on essential clothes, grabbed my bag, and ran for it.

I should specify what I mean by “essential clothes“. Basically, I put on everything EXCEPT UNDERWEAR. It would have taken me at LEAST three seconds to find, and another three seconds to put on. That was six seconds I COULDN’T SPARE. Thanks to online check-in I already had my boarding card, and I was only bringing a carry on bag, so I knew I had a shot at making it, but there was absolutely NO time to spare.

Running to the taxi was uncomfortable, to say the least. Once I volunteered at a festival as a bouncer, and my nickname was “Bouncy Boobs of Wrath”, in other words, running without a bra puts the laws of gravity to the test, and threatens anything from bruised ribs to a black eye.

By some miracle, I found a taxi right away (I was living in a tiny place in the middle of nowhere, and taxis were NOT a common sight at 7.15 in the morning). As I got in, I became extremely aware of my lack of knickers. My lack of bra was probably more obvious to the taxi driver, but the lack of knickers made me feel as if I was sitting naked on the car seat. I wanted to squirm, cause according to every romance novel ever written, we women are supposed to do that when we’re uncomfortable, but the lack of knickers gave me an unpleasant mental image of a dog dragging his butt over the carpet, so I focused instead on sitting as still as possible.

However, it wasn’t until I came to the security  check at the airport that the full impact of the situation hit me. I knew that I wasn’t smuggling anything, I knew I wasn’t carrying anything illegal, I knew I had put all my liquids into a see-through plastic bag, and that nobody else had handled my luggage, yet as the line in front of me became shorter and shorter I became CONVINCED that they would discover some sort of gunpowder residue on my bag, and that I would be taken aside to be searched.

Now I realize that in that kind of situation, I should probably be more worried about where the residue came from, but as I was slowly getting closer and closer to the security gate, all I could think was “I AM NOT WEARING ANY UNDERWEAR!!!”

I started looking around me at the other passengers, trying to guess if anyone were in a similar situation. A huge woman with enormous boobs was definitely not wearing a bra, but on closer inspection she turned out to be a man, so that was probably only natural.

I was sweating bullets by the time it was my turn. I was terrified of looking the security people in the eye, afraid of drawing attention to myself. Then I though that would surely be considered suspicious, so I went to the other extreme, glaring as hard as I could at the guys, interrupted by frantic glances around the room, so as to not be too obvious.

The machine beeped the first time I went through. I felt sick. The security guy waved to me, and I had taken two resigned steps toward him before I realized that he was actually waving for me to go back through the gate, so that I could try again.

This time it didn’t beep, and I almost let out a victorious howl, before quickly smothering it and reverting to my “glare interrupted” routine.

Here is the really weird thing: They let me pass!

After the way I acted, they let me pass without a second glance. Airport security my knickerless arse!

I made it to London and made a beeline for the nearest shop selling underwear. That’s why I now own a pair of knickers with the Union Jack at the front, and text across the butt saying “Wish you were Here”…


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