As we were nearing the head of the line, I could make out two burly guards frisking others ahead of us.

‘Aww…. not here too. They have begun to search for terrorists everywhere. That’s so frustrating.’

‘I’m more worried about other things.’

‘What other things?’

‘What if those guards are gay?’

‘What?’

‘…taking pleasure in running their hands over us, feeling with their bare fingers our covered bodies…’

‘Stop, stop!’

‘It could be true in more places than you’d like to believe. The stats prove it.’

‘Shit! Let’s get out of here.’

‘To where? They are present everywhere. No matter how many places you change, you got to stand in a line somewhere and they’ll get you… barbers, cloth store assistants, tailors, masseurs, swimming coaches. You can’t escape.’

‘Fuck!’

And I reached the guards, was felt all over and let go. I wore a terribly wronged look, my mind still outraged over the vilification of my person.

‘Relax! They were not gay.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I study their faces… all the time, at every single frisking point. The straight ones detest it as much as we do. There’s this look of pain and shame on their faces even if they are just doing their job. The un-straight ones have that sly smile, take a malicious pleasure in going about doing their duty. This guy looked like he’d burst to tears. He still can’t come to terms with his life… making a living out of feeling men for 10 hours a day. It’s a shame.’

‘Is there no way to escape?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘We are doomed.’

‘Not everyone. Their counterparts are in the line too, eagerly waiting to be … ‘