Confection in the box

{{names have been ever-so slightly changed. but if you work with me, you'll know who they are.}}

muffled snickers.

i can tell that the sound i hear is of several people covering choked laughs behind cupped hands, faces turned slightly away.

a smile plays at the corner of my mouth in anticipation of being let in on the joke as i step through the gate. a brief moment of cold fear slices through me in hopes that i am not the joke. my hands automatically check zipper and buttons to make sure nothing is presenting itself that should not. uniform is intact. i casually walk through the checkpoint to the time clock and swipe my card through the slot, waiting for the green blink and small chirp letting me know that i am officially here. the time is 0342 on a saturday.

i turn around to face my workplace, to greet my friends and survey the passengers already crowding the first lane.

oh.

my.

god.

whatinhell is in the box with maxine?

my eyes, unbidden, follow the flesh in form from ultra-processed-drying-bad-dye-job crown to flat-footed-brown-running-socks-over-fishnet toes.

my jaw drops in disbelief. snickers turn to outright guffaws. from other passengers.

s/he presents him/herself as a she. which explains maxine in the box. but it does not explain whatinhell is in the box with her. by now i have control of my facial features. a few of the men nearby are gagging. i have officially dubbed her "Confection." all i hafta say is that s/he really needs to hang on to that day job. the get-up for her night job is not cutting it.

turning and walking from the right to the backside, which is all i care to see of this particular Confection, her hair falls limply to her shoulders, covering far more flesh than the actual stitches of clothing cinched about her ample form. the blood-red corset oozes breasts like a mottled, pus-filled wound, her skin sporting a jagged almost digitized pattern of freckles. or age spots. or, maybe body paint - attempting leopard spots?? down under, rolls of chub squirm from their holding pen as she twists and holds her arms up. the hand held metal detector screams around the metal support frame of the corset. the gauzy, filmy, filthy swatch of black lace dangles from the edges of the corset in a sad attempt to become some kind of skirt. it fails miserably. as the hand held metal detector follows the fishnets down to the grubby brown stained running socks, i overhear a snippet of conversation from over the top of the glass enclosure.

"...just got off work from my part time job and had to come right here to catch this plane..."

no. really? one of her thigh high go-go boots falls haphazardly from the x-ray belt and sighs in a heap on the floor. "...and what exactly is a private screening?" asks the Confection timidly, as maxine and a supervisor, donna, lead her out of the public eye to resolve a particularly difficult alarm.

as she crosses my path, i can clearly see nip as her girls struggle to free themselves from the iron grip of the corset. eyeliner painted on thick and exaggerated, lipliner accentuating a not-quite-feminine mouth, glistening under glitter and gloss. with every flat-footed step, her breasts jiggle dangerously close to spilling out completely. maxine's face is cold and solemn as stone. donna is a half-step behind the Confection, eyes rolling and head shaking. behind the trio wafts a smell. not a scent of perfume, or lotion, or body spray. not a trace of sweat or body heat. it is a smell. it fills the nose and leaves no doubt behind as to whatinhell that stank could be. it reeks of wet garbage, armpit, and putrefaction reminiscent of, well, someone who has just left their part time night job.

woof.

and my day hasn't even started yet.