Good Vibrations Magazine

by S.L. Rice

“Beep! Beep!”

The sound of Patrice’s horn has me clattering down the stairs with my ten year-old niece, Kenya, quick on my heels. My brother’s sweet child had flown to D.C. by herself to be with me for the holiday break, and now my very butch and very impatient girlfriend is waiting outside to give us a lift to the airport. But as I slide into the front seat, I almost immediately notice an inviting bulge in Patrice’s pants. Patrice follows my eyes, and grins with a naughty glint in her eye.

“I just came from Yolande’s,” she confesses. Patrice and I have an open relationship, and Patrice often visits Yolande for a spicy change of pace. Usually after Patrice has had sex with Yolande, she comes to my apartment to get finished off, still frustrated as hell because Yolande is a pillow princess. Even so, Yolande is a psychotically magnetic woman; I should know, as I sample her wares from time to time myself. But that’s another story, another trip.

Right now I am just enjoying riding along on a dark highway with Patrice, driving her crazy with my roaming fingers as she struggles to concentrate on the road. I rub the head of her cock, maddening her through the fabric of her pants. Right now I am proud of and turned on by my masterful lover, handling traffic the same way she handles my pussy-with authority and skill. Her sexual prowess is evident in everything she does. After we see Kenya off at the airport, it’s going to be on.

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Once we get to the sprawling international airport, I find a wheelchair for Patrice. Her knees are acting up, and she wants to be able to see Kenya off all the way to the gate. Kenya and I get through security pretty quickly, and I turn around to watch Patrice stand up and get scanned. Patrice has her arms extended from her body, looking er, like she is about to be crucified with a hard-on.

The young female screener also notices the happy-to-see-you bulge in Patrice’s slacks and asks, “What’s that?”

Patrice replies, “Do you really want to know?”

“I have to know.”

Oh goddess.

“It’s my dildo.”

“Well, ma’am, I’m going to ask you to submit to a private screening,” the screener insists.

As Patrice refuses to agree to a private screening, each time more adamantly, a group of white men in uniforms gather around her in a semi-circle. I’m getting scared now, even as I am distracted, trying to keep Kenya from seeing what’s going on and worrying that she’ll miss her flight.

But amid the hubbub, Patrice notices me still standing there and yells for me to “take Kenya to the plane; just take Kenya to the plane!”

Reluctantly, I turn to take my niece to gate C-29. On our way there we find out the plane is a bit delayed, so I march right back around to find out what has happened to Patrice. If the Patriot Act has kidnapped my partner, I want to be right there. I come back in just enough time to hear Patrice declare, “I’m not embarrassed,” and one of the uniformed men shoots back, unconvincingly, “We’re not embarrassed either-we just to take you somewhere so we can screen you privately.”

Well, instead of being screened in some creepy, post-9/11, who-knows-”somewhere”, Patrice pulls out her lovely, chocolate brown, double headed, 18-inch dick and holds up its wiggling length for all to see. I think the security guys discover a new shade of red, as their deeply blushing faces tell the real story. They weren’t embarrassed, after all-they were mortified. Not Patrice. She tenderly wraps her penis in her mudcloth scarf and thrusts it toward one of the uniforms.

He takes it from her, carrying it gingerly over to the screening tray as if the much maligned black dick would come to stereotyped life at any moment. After our dear dick emerges, apparently unthreatening, on the other side of the screening machine, it is returned to Patrice without a word. Somehow Kenya totally misses out on the action and for that I am eternally thankful. How would I have ever explained to our vehemently homophobic family back in Tennessee? So here we are-an oblivious Kenya, a high-spirited and nonchalant Patrice, and me, shaken and more than a little turned on.

After we see Kenya off, I wheel Patrice back toward the entrance. As soon as the young screener who started it all sees Patrice, she begins to apologize profusely, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you…”

I don’t let her finish.

“Honey, you can’t embarrass her!”

Which is true-one thing I admire about Patrice is the fact that she is constitutionally unable to be ashamed about anything. Patrice just sucks her teeth and drawls, “Girl, they were just embarrassed that my dick was longer than theirs!” With that, we all dissolved in laughter.

But the uniforms were right after all. My lover’s dick is a threat to homeland security. But it’s not their problem, but my pleasure. That night she fucks me until there is no inside or outside, until I am borderless and breathless. Charged by a particularly hot session with Yolande and the exhibitionist thrill of the airport, her dick terrorizes my G-spot with exquisite accuracy.

“Security clearance granted,” concedes my hopelessly oozing cunt after we’re both sweaty with relief and desire for each other in these Uptight States of America.

It’s been a little over a year since that incident. Since then, Patrice’s dick has been christened “Terrorist Dick Perkins,” or less formally, “Terry D. Perkins.” Affectionately known as simply “Terry.”

Maybe Terry is still recovering from his adventures, because he has been staying close to home, straying no further than the nightstand drawer in Patrice’s bedroom or the safe harbor of my pussy. Every once in a while, he will be tucked into Patrice’s pants, teasing me as she walks around the house. But I only have to put a knowing hand on her package and watch her eyes to see desire detonate….

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S.L. Rice is a freaky femme freelance writer who has unfortunately never worked as an airport screener. However, she has had a lot of fun as a package handler at UPS.