The short Israeli security guard at the airport in Tel Aviv looked at the monitor, at my open suitcase, and back to the monitor again.
“Are you sure you don’t have any electrical items in there?”
I looked down at the chaos in front of me; dirty clothes, souvenirs and toiletries were sprawled out everywhere. He had already swabbed everything for what I’m guessing was explosives, and then gone back again to look for these mysterious wires he insisted he could see on the x-ray image on his screen.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“What about this?” He pulled out the object in question and turned it around in his gloved hands. “Wires? Batteries?”
“This doesn’t take batteries? No adapter?”
“No…” Why won’t he believe me?
“What plugs in here?” He accusingly pointed to the flat edge residing at the widest part.
Annoyed, I dug around the front pocket of my suitcase until I pulled out the Intuition razor cartridge. He looked at it, turned both items over in his hand, nodded, and put them back.
Days later, as I sit here now trying to write an article, I realize that my Intuition razor handle looks more like a vibrator than some vibrators, and I am so fucking glad I didn’t realize that during my verbal exchange with the security guard. I must’ve looked like a really cool and confident woman for those 20 seconds when this guy thought he was talking to a chick who didn’t care that her vibrator was being held by a stranger.