It’s All T and (TS)A

I’m starting to wonder if I’m hotter than I think I am.

This is based on nothing scientific, just some repeated, increasingly intimate interactions with TSA agents.

I don’t fly often, but when I do, I feel like I’m starring in a low-budget porno.

The searches started off innocently enough. In the beginning, it was just a little ol’ hand inspection. I got pulled out of line for a swab. The agent called it the “mommy hands” test, which made it sound like she was searching for booger residue or maybe, heaven forbid, fecal contamination.

Weird but fine. Then, the patdowns started. Doesn’t matter what I’m wearing — one time it was baggier boyfriend jeans so a thorough check made some sense — but even slimmer-cut clothing and this time, a little t-shirt and shorts got me pulled off to the side.

“There’s barely anything to inspect,” the older man sitting next to me said when I relayed my story.

Not sure if that was a compliment or a diss on my outfit.

Still, I am always a good sport because I am over 40 and appreciate any kind of attention I can get.

“Ma’am, the scanner is indicating a problem. I need you to step aside for a more thorough inspection,” the pony-tailed TSA agent said in a soft voice.

I glanced back at the screen and saw a bright yellow square of suspicion on the inside of my right thigh.

“Well, that’s a weird spot,” I said.

The woman had no response and instead detailed her impending search.

“I’m going to use the back of my hand and run it across your buttocks…”

I stifled a giggle because it sounded straight from the TSA training manual — and also very much like someone’s very clumsy initial foray into dirty talk.

“and then I am going to cup your inner thigh…”

Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh.

“Um, what do you want me to do with my hands?” I asked before the Super Search.

“Hold your shirt up so I can see the waistband. I’m going to need to check that,” she said, never breaking eye contact. “Would you like to do this in a private room?”

Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh.

“No, this is fine,” I said because I had nothing to hide and then I glanced around to see who was around to witness this.

Wham, bam, thank-you-ma’am, the whole show was over in less than 5 minutes and the first thing I did afterward — as any good wife off on a trip on her own would do — was text my husband.

“I think I just cheated on you.”