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“Good idea! This always works in movies,” I say, trying to be optimistic.
Lyndsey’s brow furrows in concentration as she jams the bobby pin into the lock. Nothing happens. She tries to insert it from a different angle, and the bobby pin snaps in two.
“Fuck!” she screams.
“Should we call a locksmith?” I suggest.
Lyndsey’s face reddens. “Vince, I don’t think they make locksmiths for sex handcuffs!” She snaps. She starts digging around in the drawer beneath the bedside table.
“What are you doing? Looking for the hotel bible?” I joke.
“No! I’m looking for a receipt. If we can find out where these handcuffs come from, we can call the place and ask if they have replacement keys.”
Lyndsey unearths two crumpled-up mint wrappers, a golf pencil, a bible, a hair tie, and zero receipts or hints about the sex handcuffs’ origins.
At this point, I’m starting to panic.
The skin on my wrist is starting to feel clammy beneath the metal. My elbow hurts from my arm being wrenched upward for the better part of an hour. I started to feel trapped. Then, I started to panic. What if I’m trapped here forever? I have a show to play tomorrow!
“I’m gonna check the drawers in the bathroom, too,” Lyndsey says. She’s in problem-solving mode. She sprints across the room, and it occurs to me that for most emergencies, I would contact Lyndsey. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Lyndsey emerges from the bathroom moments later. Her eyes look wild and panicked. She’s picking the skin of her cuticles into bloody nubs, her nervous tell.
Fuck, if she’s nervous, I’ll crack, too!
She’s supposed to be the resourceful one! If I am going to be trapped here forever, how the fuck am I supposed to pee?
My mind runs wild with eventual headlines: IMPOSTERS’ VINCE EXTER HANDCUFF HELL, HOW ONE NIGHT IN HEAVEN WENT WRONG. Or maybe: VINCE EXTER SUCCUMBS TO STARVATION BY SEX HANDCUFF. IT BEATS ELVIS FOR THE MOST BIZARRE ROCKSTAR DEATH.
“Maybe, instead of a locksmith, we can ask someone who might have been in a similar situation?” I suggest.
“Oh, so I’m just supposed to knock on Priya’s door and ask her how kinky she is?” Lyndsey snaps.
“I don’t know what else to try!” I wail. I try to wave my arms for emphasis, momentarily forgetting my precarious position, and I nearly wrench my shoulder out of my socket.
“Fine,” Lyndsey mumbles. She throws something at me first: my boxers.
“Please, at least put some underwear on,” she begs. She walks over to my bedside and helps me into them. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is: in sickness and in sexcapades.
Lyndsey’s either gone for ages or five minutes. Time has started to blur during my captivity. When Priya walks in, her jaw hits the floor; then, her shoulders start to shake. She’s laughing so hard tears stream down her face. She’s wheezing.
“Y-y-you!” She starts, “Y-y-you kinky bastard! How did you get handcuffs through airport security?” She guffaws.
“He didn’t. We found them,” Lyndsey says.
“Did you just happen upon them?”
“Yes!” Lyndsey and I cry in unison.
“Vince, I expected this from you, but Lyndsey?”
“It seemed fun! The key was right there!” Lyndsey pointed to the bedside table.
“Good God,” Priya muttered, whipping out her phone.
“I don’t think they have locksmiths for this,” I start.
“I know, dumbass. I’m googling sex shops within a ten-mile radius of the hotel. Maybe we can call them and see if they have.” She glances at my cuffed wrist. “Those.”
