Chapter 1

“You can’t really see that much. They wouldn’t allow it if it showed everything.”

“They do! Sally saw the monitor when a lady was being screened and she said it was absolutely horrible. The poor woman would have been traumatized if she knew what they could see. Sally said she was embarrassed for her.”

“Come on, you know how much Sally exaggerates.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so this time. She said she’d never go through one of those scanners, ever!”

The chatter was more excited than usual. It was Mom’s turn to host the weekly after-shopping party. A few of the girl’s were planning an excursion to Las Vegas but some were balking given the recent news about scans and pat-downs. Unable to avoid hearing the conversation as I came down the stairs, I considered retreating but it was too late. Mrs. Johnson had seen me. I softened my steps and quickly ducked into the kitchen hoping she wouldn’t put me on the spot: I was training to be a security contractor at the local airport and she knew it.

“Well, I won’t do it. I’ll just refuse.”

“Oh, Jennifer. Then you won’t be able to go.”

“We should all refuse. They won’t lose that much business just to get their jollies.”

“They’re professionals, Alice. They’re not getting their jollies looking through the clothes of a bunch of middle-aged women. Anyway, if you refuse, the plane will leave without you.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that ... it seems so ... gross.”

There was a mix of laughter and a general consensus that the situation was indeed distasteful. I slathered butter on the bread and added mayonnaise, hurrying in so I could make my escape before Mrs. J decided to act upon my presence downstairs and, just just as importantly, to finish before Mom came in and berated me about using butter AND mayonnaise.

“You don’t have to go through the scans if you don’t want to.”

That was Mrs. J. Quickly, I gathered up the slices of tomato and spread them over the bread, sprinkled a liberal dose of salt and pepper, and pressed a second piece of bread on top. I didn’t bother cutting the sandwiches in half. I filled a glass with orange juice, grabbed the plate, and hurried to the kitchen door, pausing to listen. I waited for the next burst of excitement to make my escape upstairs.

“I heard the pat-down is even worse than the scan,” Mrs. Edelby whined.

Perfect. They were onto the pat-downs. This should provide the turmoil I needed to sneak away. I waited for Mrs. J to get involved.

“Oh no, they’re not as bad as the scans,” Mrs. J jumped in. “Sally said...”

I made my break, bolting through the door. My left shoulder bumped against the jamb and spun me halfway around but I managed to hang onto the plate without losing the sandwiches and didn’t spill a drop of orange juice on Mom’s carpet. My eyes turned into the living room as I swiveled full circle and spun, in a semi-graceful crouch, to continue up the stairs.

“Mark!” Mrs. J cried. “Mark can tell you better than Sally could. Mark, come and tell us about these scans. Come on, get in here.”

I turned, straightening as I did, and looked at Mom sitting in the far corner, my eyes pleading my case, but she simply shrugged her shoulders to acknowledge the futility of resisting Mrs J. I looked forlornly at my sandwich.

“You can eat that in here. Come on, Mark. Tell these girls that the pat-downs aren’t that bad, at least not as horrible as the scans.”

Mrs. J was urgently waving me into the room. I looked harder at Mom but found no savior there. I was trapped. Visibly shrinking, I made my way into the room and stood before Mrs. J and Mrs. Edelby on the couch. All six women in the room, except for Mom, started talking at once. I dipped my head and took a huge bite and looked helplessly over my shoulder at the stairs.

“Let him eat, let him eat,” Mrs. J yelled.

The conversation spun away from me and I continued eating my sandwich. As it went on, I entertained the slim hope that I would be able to slip away. At one point, that hope flirted with reality. They were so animated, I actually believed I could get away. Leaving part of my sandwich uneaten, something I never did, I grabbed my glass of orange juice and slunk away. I was almost out of the room when Mrs. J bellowed.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

I turned part way back but stretched my hand with the glass of orange juice out and nodded toward the kitchen door.

“You can get that later,” Mrs J said. “First tell us how bad the scans really are.”

“They’re not that bad,” I said and turned to make a quick exit.

“Not so fast,” Mrs. J yelled. “Come back here and give us the goods, the real goods. Your poor mother is beside herself worrying about this.”

Mom did look uncomfortable, whether about the scans or all the talk about them, I couldn’t tell. I walked back into the room.

“They’re really not that bad,” I said, looking at Mom.

“Posh,” Mrs. Edelby said. “Sally said you can see everything.”

“Not everything,” I responded defensively.

“They can see enough,” Mrs. Yamato in her typically shy voice. She hardly ever spoke but when she did, in her typically quiet manner, everyone listened.

“See,” Mrs. J said, as if no further proof was necessary. “We’ll just opt for the pat-down and be on our way without anyone knowing if or how we shaved that morning.”

There was an outburst of raucous laughter.

“Margaret, really!”

“Well,” Mrs. J cried. “It’s true, isn’t it Mark? They can see that, can’t they?”

I nodded, blushing profusely amid another bout of horrified laughter. Into the din, I tried to promote efficiency at the gate.

“But the scans are over in seconds and nobody knows you anyway. It’s anonymous.”

“Anonymous?” Mrs. J cried indignantly. “We’re supposed to not care just because we don’t know the jerk ogling the screen?” She leapt to her feet and threw her arms wide, thrusting out her breasts and cranking her pelvis forward.

Another uproar ensued. I pictured Mrs. J like that on a screen but without her clothes. Not a bad sight. I had always had a crush on Mrs. J despite her constant teasing of me since the day she first babysat me as a little boy. She was the best looking of Mom’s friends. They went to the gym together, ran and cycled together, sometimes holidayed together, and of course, shopped together. They were best friends which is why Mom tolerated her good-natured abuse of me. Mom knew she actually loved me and didn’t mean me any harm, and so did I, but she could be darn right embarrassing at times.

Right now, in the glow of everyone’s attention, she looked pretty good. Other than Mom and Mrs. Yamato, she was the only attractive woman in the room. She had the largest breasts of the three but her hips were a little larger than Mom’s and her waist not quite as narrow. Like Mom, she looked at least five years younger than she really was. I couldn’t tell how old Mrs. Yamato was but she didn’t look much older than her two daughters. She had a very slender figure, almost unisex, except I knew from my observations on several occasions in summers past that she had surprisingly pert breasts. I had thought of them many times at night as a side treat while I dreamed of sucking Mrs. J’s Playboy-worthy set.

“Not a chance,” Mrs. J stated defiantly, sitting down on the couch. “Ok, Mark. Show us that the pat-downs are no big deal.”

“What?” I said, caught off guard.

“Show us, so these girls don’t get all scared and cancel our trip.”

I glanced at Mom, who shrugged again. Except for Mrs. Yamato, she was the quietest one in the room, as usual. It was Mrs. J’s show.

“Come on, Janet. Help your son show us that it’s no big deal. Let him pat you down so these scaredy cats don’t drop out on us.”

Mrs. J was waving Mom to get up up the way she had waved me into the room.

“I can’t,” Mom finally said. “I’m wearing a skirt and I won’t be when we travel.”

It was a weak excuse but I was relieved. I turned to make my exit.

“Not so fast, Junior,” Mrs. J said. “I’m not wearing a skirt.”

Mrs. J stepped over the coffee table and grabbed me before I could make my escape. It reminded me of the times she used to chase me around and pin me to the ground when I was little, holding me with the threat of tickling me to death more than actually tickling me. I was trapped and I knew it. It was best to do what she wanted as quickly and with as little objection as possible. It was the only way to get away. She pulled me around and positioned me so we were facing each other, grabbed my glass of orange juice, and set it down on the coffee table.

“Pat me down,” she commanded, holding her arms out and waving her hands down the sides of her body which was clad in a form-fitting, flowered blouse and tight, black stretch pants.

The room filled with giggles. Even Mrs. Yamato tittered and Mom smiled, pushing herself higher in the corner chair and tucking her feet under her legs to get comfortable for the show. I shrugged and extended my arms to put them on Mrs. J’s shoulders. I slid my hands over to her neck and back, then over and down her outer arms.

“Ohhhh, I didn’t know it was romantic,” one of the women said, triggering another round of titters.

I dipped under Mrs. J’s hands and slipped my inside, ran up the inside of her arms to her armpits, then closed onto her sides and traced the sides of her body, being careful not to exert too much pressure — far less, in fact, than the training specified — but still registered the bulging swell of her breasts before dipping into her waist and curving out to finish on her hips. I stepped back.

“There. Do the same for the legs and that’s about it,” I said.

“Bullshit, Mister,” Mrs. J said. “Do the rest so the girls can see the whole thing.”

I withered under Mrs. J’s glare and stepped forward to comply. I reached around to her back and slid my hands over her shoulders and up between her shoulder blades. I was relieved that Mom was sitting behind me to the right so she couldn’t see my chest pressing against Mrs. J’s boobs. The other women were watching my hands on her back but I was more aware of what was going on in front and, judging by the slight smirk on Mrs. J’s face, so was she. I traced her spine through her blouse to the small of her back. She arched away from the press of my fingers, pushing her breasts into my chest. The smirk widened, and I blushed as my hands parted to slide out to Mrs. J’s hips.

I dropped to a crouch and turned my head away, purportedly to pat down Mrs. J’s legs, but actually to hide my reddening face. I ran my hands down the outside of Mrs. J’s legs and around her ankles, slid them up the inside of her legs, then down the front and up the back. I refrained from exploring the area near her crotch as we were instructed to do in class. I stood up.

“There,” I said. “Nothing to it.”