They Say It Broadens the Mind

A trip. Two trips, one inside the other, the everyday (to me) shell of another business-related trip, the hidden yolk a side trip to Be-My-Real-Friend’s city for our first meeting. I want to sightsee (with him) in his city, I want to see my girlfriend Computer Whiz who also lives there, I want to see if being my real self works, I want to see if we like each other in person, I want the cash.

Husband’s red suitcase on the bed. Easier to pack a larger bag than make choices. Outside big zippy pocket: files I don’t need handy on the trip. Outside little zippy pocket: extra pens, razor, tampons - Oh dear God, I’ve timed my period wrong.

(I take my pills continuously instead of taking the week off, I can go three months in a row, no mess, no expensive tampons, and it lowers the risk for ovarian cancer. Having had part of my cervix chopped already, I’m in no mood to go another round. No, wait – count the days. Stop bleeding Friday, new pills on Sunday, fly on Tuesday to see Be-My-Real-Friend, it’s all right. Back to cancer – Lover found the lump in a place Husband’s fingers hadn’t been for months and didn’t know well enough to compare.)

Main compartment. Underwear, socks, tights, remember there will be laundry, I only need four days’ worth.

Plus some extras.

Plus tights I might be in the mood to wear. Plus one more pair of socks for sleeping in. Plus pretty underwear, in case I meet someone. Whore underwear doesn’t count against the I-should-pack-less-total. I don’t know if I’ll wear mine or the whore’s with Be-My-Friend.

T-shirts (three exactly alike, I know what I wear), a long-sleeve shirt. Call out to Husband, “Can you look up the weather in Big City and DC for me?” I’m going to travelogue later so I might as well reveal – it’s a big enough place. Husband reports back – two more long-sleeve shirts.

Bag of sex toys, I love masturbating alone in hotel rooms. They probably won’t come out with Be-My-Real-Friend, I’d rather just be with a person the first time. The tiny glass dish from Epcot Japan, there’s a real branch of Mitsukoshi there. Lucky Cat (white for patience). Two plastic pigs from Husband that touch noses on hotel bedside tables in Prague, in Dayton, in Seattle. Two pictures in tough plastic frames, one of the cats, one of Husband, cooking something for his fellow workers three summers ago. He looks up over the pot, white collared shirt open at the neck, his hair in two tiny pigtails, I forget why.

A carefully timed dash to my office, while Husband changes the laundry, nets my whore bag, the phone off for more than a month now. I discard the candles that have been at other appointments, substitute some ginseng tealights, a new smell for a new plan. The bag with condoms, lube, toothbrush, mouthwash, not sure how much I’ll need but it’s faster than sorting and I don’t want to get caught. I add four outfits, I don’t know how dressy dinner will be. Kenneth Cole heels with a Mary Jane strap, my favorite, bought in Vegas years ago and still in style, still the most expensive shoes I own. Patent boots with spike heels. Stockings. Garter belt. Whore underwear, the bits of lace only suitable for being seen in and rubbing on.

Guidebook. Metro stops. Restaurants. Hotels (I still haven’t booked, trusting in Hotwire and faith). Markets. Helpful articles about the history of the city, about which I know very little. Shopping. Sights. Museums. Useful Addresses. Emergency Information. Sadly, no section marked “Tricky New Relationship, Navigation Of.”