I’ll do almost anything to avoid checking a bag when I travel. It’s easier—and more importantly, an escort’s suitcase isn’t exactly something you want casually inspected at baggage claim.
Recently, a client flew me out for a weekend of sun and relaxation. After our we said our warm goodbyes, I realized I needed to pack quickly if I was going to make my flight. As usual, I managed to fit everything into my weekender duffle. The bottom compartment—the one technically meant for shoes—became home to my… more intimate inventory. I zipped it shut and rushed out the door.
Rushing is never a good idea for me. But everything was fine. Completely fine. Right?
When my boarding group was called, I slung the bag over my shoulder and made my way to the line, half-watching my pets on the camera back home, still riding the high of the weekend while mentally preparing to return to reality.
Then I heard it…a pop.
I felt it before I fully registered what had happened.
The bottom compartment brushed against my leg, hanging open, clinging by a single stubborn tooth of the zipper. I looked down just in time to see a bottle of massage oil rolling a good ten feet away. My bra landed perfectly—of course—on someone’s boot, while a toy bounced off in the opposite direction.
It all happened in seconds.
I just stood there, quietly betrayed by a zipper.
People stared. Someone even gasped.
But one person moved.
Before I could react, he turned around and dropped to his knees, already reaching for what had scattered. Without a word, he began gathering everything—actually crawling a bit to retrieve the items that had rolled farther out. A complete stranger, on his knees, calmly collecting my most personal belongings like this was an everyday occurrence.
And all I could think was: I do like a man on his knees.
Not the time. Not the place. Still noted.
He stood, handed me a handful of pink lace with a perfectly straight face, and said, “Let me guess your favorite color.”
He chuckled. I couldn’t help but laugh. What had been mortifying a moment ago shifted into something almost… absurd.
I stepped out of line to figure out a solution and ducked into the nearest shop in search of a bag. The only option? Clear plastic. Of course. With no better choice, I transferred everything inside.
Back in line, boarding pass in one hand, very transparent bag in the other, I accepted my fate.
It’s safe to say I won’t forget that day.
Moral of the story: if you’re not occasionally mortified, you’re probably not living all that interestingly. Don’t take yourself too seriously—you’ll survive.
That carry-on has since been retired.
And whoever you are, Gate 14B… thank you.we
