I always vote.
When duty calls, I never decline.
But how naughty it felt to cross the threshold of the polling station, smuggling such a sordid item into this most sacred space. This church hall. This temporary temple of democracy.
And then to stand in the short queue I as waited to confirm my name. The clerk said it out loud, as if he knew exactly who I was. Even though he couldn’t have known what I was hiding, he made me feel notorious.
I flirtatiously fiddle with the hem of my skirt, and coyly accept the ballot paper he hands to me. I let it flap in my hand like a suitor’s handkerchief.
He points towards the row of booths against the wall, their cheap curtains limp like an ersatz peep show. I saunter towards them, sashaying conspicuously, a walking blasphemy along the line of pews.
I choose the empty booth in the corner, and pull the curtain fully closed behind me. Just me and my sacred ballot, hidden from any eyes that might pry.
The booth has a little low table to write on, conveniently about waist height, I set my phone down, aiming its camera towards me, and press its screen to start recording. There had been a sign on the wall as I entered: No Photography. But what goes on in the sanctity of the voting booth is none of their business. And I don’t keep secrets from Sir.
I lift my skirt.
Oh Sir. I’m so sorry.
In my haste to do my democratic duty, I must have completely forgotten to put on any underwear…
I spin around and lift my skirt again.
Spreading my legs so there can be no doubt.
In this dim alcove I wonder if there’s enough light to allow it to sparkle.
Oh Sir. How naughty of me!
To go out to vote wearing my princess plug…
With Britain convulsed by political tremors, an opportune moment to repost this short story methinks. A reminder that sometimes, for some people, the lure of mischief is just too strong…