The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

The Tale of the Hallowed Weenie Festival

The road to being the “Hostess with the Mostess” is fraught with danger and excitement. 

In the world of hostessing, I hold Hyacinth Bucket (from the British sitcom Keeping Up Appearances) and her special candle light suppers in the highest regard and try to emulate her in every way. With Halloween just passing, I’m reminded of the annual Gender Blender/Hallowed Weenie Festival, which I used to organize in Logan on behalf of the Metropolitan Community Church.

 

The concept of the Gender Blender Party is that the men come dressed as women and vice versa. So throw in the few hunks who will use any excuse to be nearly naked (thank you, God!) and voila, you have a raging—er, party on your hands. On this occasion, we rented the Whittier Community Center, an ancient yet grand elementary school which possesses a magnificent staircase perfect for any dramatic, queenly Scarlet O’Hara-style entrance. There were about 350 people in attendance, many of whom were quite well lubricated with alcohol. The costumes were varied and magnificent.

I myself wore my best pink floral muumuu, evocative of Endora from Bewitched. This happened to the perfect dress in which to perform hostess duties, since it allowed full range of movement and most significantly, easy access to my important water-producing private parts. The night started out to be the perfect costume party, but slowly things started to unravel into chaos.

We had a couple of drag performances, including one by the late, great “Auntie Fern.” Usually, Fern could walk into any Mormon Relief Society meeting and teach the lesson and not even raise an eyebrow. She was a loveable and also very gravity-enhanced girl approaching 400 pounds. In a vast departure from her normal self, this night Fern wore a skimpy black teddy, carried a bull whip, and used a dildo as her microphone while lip-synching to “I Don’t Care if the Sun Don’t Shine.” For some reason, this performance sent some of the more timid revelers fleeing into the night.

To unravel the evening further, my friend “Dianne,” an actual woman who was also very drunk and must have been experiencing penis envy, was loudly trying to attract an audience so she could prove that she was able to pee while standing up—thankfully into a urinal in the men’s room and not somewhere else. My knowledge of the female anatomy is scant enough that I was very curious as to how this feat could be accomplished. But if curiosity can kill the cat, in this instance it could lay waste to an entire “Throne Room” full of queens. Since the quantum mechanics necessary for such an undertaking defy imagination and all semblance of refinement, I decided that my best hostess option at that juncture was to impersonate Monty Python and RUN AWAY, thus abandoning my inquisitive sisters to ultimately perish in the Vortex of the Vaginal Golden Shower.
 
Later, I stepped outside of the building for a breath of fresh air and to check on the smokers. I was just showing them how I was able to balance my class of punch on my tit, when a police officer approached me, demanding to know who was in charge. He was kind of cute and I have always had a uniform fetish. I was just about to comment on how authentic his costume was (and that I would be more than happy to help him take off that tight gun belt), when I noticed several more of Cache County’s finest posted strategically around the building’s perimeter. Suddenly the cuteness factor diminished greatly and the specter of a 1960s-style bar raid appeared before my eyes.

My biggest worry was that I was wearing the wrong wig to best highlight my delicate features in any potential mug shot.

Nervously, I explained that I was in charge while I herded the smokers inside. The police captain drew me away from the door to an awaiting cruiser. At this time I noticed that they had arrived in force, with seven cop cars and a bus (as God is my witness, a bus!) prepared to haul us away. Thankfully, I was able to keep my wits about me. After about 15 minutes of intense questioning—probably to determine if I was drunk or high—I told them this was a church sponsored dance … which got a skeptical response. Trying to be as dignified as possible while dressed as Endora and while suppressing my prison rape fantasies, I told him that my husband was the pastor and I was more than happy to have him come out and talk to them. The officer then got on his radio and called for references for the church and my husband.

After what seemed like an eternity, he received confirmation that we were legitimate and even had a special event permit from the city. Clearly disappointed he let me go, cautioning us to be quiet. After my narrow escape from the long arm of the law I returned to the party and tried to keep the underage kids from drinking.

A hostess’ work is never done! And the lesson to be learned in all this is that a true queen should constantly be prepared to be arrested at any time.

As always, this story leaves us with many important questions:
 
1. Is it possible to live up to Hyacinth Bucket’s standards?
2. Should I have photographed Dianne peeing for posterity’s sake?
3. Could I have outrun the cops in my heels?
4. Would police handcuffs match my jewelry?
5. Are prison rape fantasies romantic?
6. If balanced on a tit, does a glass of punch taste better?

These and other important questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.

Petunia Pap Smear

Petunia Pap Smear is a Matron of Mayhem who was born and raised in Cache Valley, Utah. She hosts Third Friday Bingo and the Big Gay Fun Bus.

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