The road home to Logan is fraught with danger and excitement.
Many people in the Salt Lake gay community believe that the northern frontier of civilization ends at Memory Grove and the southern boundary is located at Oxbow Park. For the rest of us, we realize that there is a whole other world out there populated with fascinating and hunky studs – but a little or even a lot of driving may be necessary to find them. So I put on a comfortable yet stylish frock and my opera-length driving gloves and off I went.
When I’m driving home to Logan late at night after attending an event in Salt Lake City I need a big mug of Diet Coke to keep me caffeinated enough to make the trip without doing my “Sleeping Beauty” impersonation and running off the road. In the unfortunate event that an accident should occur, have any of you noticed how cute the EMT guys are? And those uniforms …yum, yum! My mother always said, “You should never leave the house without clean underwear in case you’re in an accident.” That is, unless you have propensity for certain … shall we say unconventional fetishes. Then anything goes.
It was midnight as I made my way home from a Salt Lake Men's choir concert, and after drinking 32 ounces of Diet Coke I really did have to pee when I got to the Brigham City rest area. Although if a cruising opportunity had presented itself to me, I of course would have obliged. After all, I have not logged enough “community service” hours this spring and I have been feeling very “service oriented” lately. And thanks to Senator Larry Craig from my home state of Idaho (how proud am I?), the whole world now has expanded knowledge of proper rest room etiquette.
Long Story short: While “holding court” on the throne (and really, as a queen I must complain to UDOT that three feet by five feet is much to small for a proper throne room) and fishing for the toilet paper, I was feeling so inspired by reading the graf-filthy artistically scrawled across the stall wall, that I got carried away in transcendental (dirty) thought and lost hold of my car keys. To my horror, they went plop straight into the dark and wet abyss of the toilet. My queenly training and Miss Manners’ book on etiquette had not prepared me for such an event!
This was very serious as that is the one and only ignition key for my Buick Roadmaster. I wrinkled up my nose, removed the opera-length driving gloves, and stuck my hand down into the yellow water. Unfortunately, whoever designed the thrones for rest areas made them too small to accommodate an adult male hand – even though I hallucinate that I am petite. God forbid some poor sucker leave a really large turd. It would result in a stoppage that would resemble the breaking of the Teton Dam. This really could have been a literal “oh shit” moment, but luckily I had only peed. Sorry, those of you with a scat fetish will just have to be disappointed. However if you’re into water sports, let the yellow bandanna proudly fly!
In desperation I looked around for something, anything I could use to reach down into the toilet and fish the keys out. Nothing in sight. So I went outside and tried to find something. I searched through the trash can. How sad for a queen to be reduced to dumpster diving? I found nothing useful in the trash. Urgently, I looked around and saw some twigs in the bushes behind the building. Being no stranger to bushes at rest areas I started toward them with intense deliberation, acutely aware that I must suppress my regular “hunk hunting” habits and actually look at the flora to find a stick that might be useful.
Just then a very cute 20-something stud started to enter the rest room. Fearing that he might flush the throne which contained my keys, I abandoned the twig idea for a moment and followed him back into the rest room. Indeed, Mr. Eye Candy had starated to enter the “STALL OF GREAT PERIL.” I think I frightened him (realize that I pretty much look like a big old troll) when I rushed in behind him and asked him not to use that particular stall. This is really not the first impression that a stylish queen should put forth when greeting one of her better-looking subjects. He looked at me as if he thought I had escaped from the mental ward.
I went back outside and finally found a twig, and I headed back into the restroom just as the stud was exiting. He gave me quite a look. It took five minutes of trial and error and much swearing to finally fish the keys out.
This event leaves us with several questions:
1. How do you sanitize keys?
2. What kind of story is that stud going to be telling?
3. According to Larry Craig, how wide a stance is proper in the stall?
4. How fast should the toe tapping be?
5. Is this really the life of most trolls or just me?
6. Where's the bridge I'm supposed to be under?
7. Does the mental ward have bridges for trolls to live under?
8. What is the long term effect of urine and toilet water on nail polish?
9. Should I start to carry some Playtex Living Gloves in the car for such an event in the future?
Stay tuned! These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.
Happy driving, everyone.