The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

The Tale of Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree

The road to stake conference is fraught with danger and excitement.


I had the most unsettling experience last weekend. There I was, dutifully updating my Facebook page, when from the living room I heard the unmistakable, slow and measured drone of what could only be a Mormon General Authority. My heart leapt into my throat, thinking they had come to take me away at last. I sneaked down the hallway, gripping a four inch stiletto in each hand as weapons, and sprang into the living room prepared to go all crouching tiger, hidden drag queen on his ass. Here I was relived to find that the incessant droning was only emanating from the television. Apparently Mr. Papsmear, having gone for a snack, had left the TV on after watching Meet The Press, and now it was playing the Mormon General Conference. Suddenly, I was overcome by a whirlwind of memories. The dichotomy of being gay and Mormon, and the secret double life I lived for several years came flooding back. Allow me to reminisce.

It all began on a “dark and stormy” night, in April 1985. I was returning home from my mission reunion. While driving north on State Street, I noticed the neon marquee for the XXX rated Studio Theater (which sadly is no longer there) shining like a beacon in the darkness to my 28-year-old starving virgin eyes.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, or more aptly, like a princess to the Estée Lauder counter, I entered the theater. I only stayed few minutes, and I don’t think I even sat down. But as I stood there in the doorway at the back I saw sex for the first time ever. Sure, it was straight sex, but even lima beans can taste good to the starving! Then guilt overcame me and I left, but the door to my tightly locked closet was beginning to crack under the pressure of 28 years of denial.

Upon a subsequent visit to the theater, I was invited by a very nice gentleman to go with him in his car, where he proceeded to give me my very first “laying on of lips.” I surprisingly learned that “blow” in reality means “suck.” Right in the middle of “holding to the rod”, so to speak, I was visibly wracked with guilt. I stopped and told him that I was a Mormon and couldn’t continue. He answered, “It’s going to be all right, I’m a Bishop, and you’re going to be just fine,” and he proceeded to finish teaching me the “First Discussion.” And so I began to live a double life of “Peter Priesthood” by day and “Homo Teacher” by night.

Over the course of the next four years, I began to vent all my pent-up frustrations of secret crushes on mission companions, and lusting over those studly pictures of Helaman’s Warriors in Sunday school. The candy store was opened. I secretly explored my sexuality, shall we say “line upon line, precept on precept,” sharing fleeting sexual encounters with a string of fellow, nameless closet cases. This left me with a strengthened testimony of “Holding the Priesthood” as close and often as you can catch them. I came to realize that in practice, my body was not a temple, but a visitor’s center.

One Saturday night, I picked up this unbelievably handsome stud, and took him home for some “Homo Teaching.” This guy was incredible and gave a whole new meaning to the word “Endowment.” After a lengthy, torrid and passionate “missionary lesson,” our “Popcorn did pop upon the Apricot Tree” and “Give, Said the Little Stream” gained a whole new meaning.

The next morning, I was leading the opening song, a rousing rendition of “Come, Come Ye Saints” in my single student ward. I noticed during the first verse “Sister Smith” had walked in with a date and sat on the back row. I marveled, between swishes of the baton, at how cute her date was. Ironically, it wasn’t until we broke into stanza of “All Is Well, All Is Well” that I realized her hot date was the same prospective investigator with whom I had shared Family Homo Evening the night before. That two-timing hussy!

I forgot the words to the song, lost the beat of the music and just started waving the baton in a wide circle, like and airplane propeller. My impulse to flee was overwhelming. When he looked up and saw me, the panic in his eyes was worse than when two queens end up wearing the same frock at a party. I could tell he wanted to bolt for the door as much as I did. For the rest of the meeting, we sat there trying not to make eye contact. After the final “Amen,” he disappeared faster than free porn at a party.

After this experience, I began to notice more and more of my “Homo Evening Sisters” at the church, since my ward shared the same building with nine other wards. We would pass in the foyer like ships in the night without acknowledging each other. One time, while I was singing in the choir for stake conference, I looked out into the congregation and counted at least six former conquests. I was such a good “Missionary!”

Like always, these events leave us with many eternal questions:

1.    Do the General Authorities have special classes to learn how to speak in monotones, or do they just use large amounts of valium?
2.    If I had run out of the chapel mid-song, would the Bishop have noticed?
3.    Is it just me or was Moroni hot?
4.    Will people look at me funny if I sing “Give, Said the Little Stream?”
5.    Am I too old to sing “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission?”

These and other important questions to 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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