I hate carrying a purse. I mean, I have one, this square sack on a shoulder-strap, kinda like a messenger bag. But I almost never carry it around with me. Being a non-purse-carrier is one of the not-very-girly things about me that occasionally causes a problem. Like a few days ago…
You see, since I don't carry my purse, I carry stuff in my pockets – money, my keys, my phone, my debit card, lists of errands, other people's business cards, Altoid's tins, all kinds of things. It's easier to do this in the cold weather, when I'm wearing a jacket with capacious pockets. Come summer, I have to consciously pare down a bit, lest I look bulgy.
But it was chilly, late last week, when I was getting ready to leave my dungeon after a session. Just as I was about to walk out my door, I remembered I had a piece of equipment I need to take home to look at, because it wasn't working right. I stepped into the playroom, snatched up the offending toy, and – of course – put it in my jacket pocket. And promptly forgot about it.
So, several days go by, I don't wear the jacket, and I think nothing of it.
Flash to: me in line at QFC, buying those extremely expensive grapes that I'm addicted to – you know, the perfectly round, crisp, tart ones. Love those. Too bad for me they're usually three or even four dollars a pound.
But that QFC Big-Brother-is-monitoring-your-purchases loyalty card gives you some break on the price. So when the checker brightly inquires, "Do you have your QFC advantage card?" I say, "Yes," and thrust my hand into my pocket.
I feel something sort of round, with a little plastic-y thing on it. It must be my key ring with that QFC tag on it, right? So I whip it out and start to give it to the pretty little red-haired cashier, who can't be more than twenty years old.
Only – it's not my key ring. It's this.
Whoops. Now answer me honestly – that looks like something perverted, doesn't it? I mean, even if you didn't know what it was – a PES electro-sex cockhead stimulator – wouldn't you look at that and think, That looks like something dirty?
Yeah. That's what I thought. (It doesn't help that I'm wearing a T-shirt which says, "Good Kitty Gone Bad." )
So I hastily snatched my hand back, stuffed the malfunctioning BDSM toy back into my pocket and found my bona-fide key chain, blushing all the while. When I looked back up at the cashier, she was giving me a curious look. She opened her mouth and took in a small breath, and I thought, Oh, please god, don't ask me what that was. I suck at inventing lies like that on the spot.
And then she just handed me my change and said, "Have a nice day."
I fixed the toy, by the way. But Jesus, I gotta find a purse I can actually stand to carry around with me.