I was helping Ruby Ridge host Third Friday Night Bingo last month, and as I was working the room, my feet hurt in those heels, my back hurt from supporting my 54 inch Quadruple D boobs, and to my horror, I realized that My God! I’ve reached old troll status. This was made readily apparent when I needed to use a cement trowel to apply my glitter makeup in order to fill in the canyons that polite society refers to as “crow’s feet.” No wonder the young twinks and gym bunnies have been shrieking and fleeing from my presence as if being pursued by Gayle Ruzicka herself. In despair, I wondered, when the hell did I become a troll? Then I realized that these things are actually recorded in the fossil record, and my decline most likely began in the late Cretaceous Period. I also wondered, is troll even the proper term for a has-been drag queen, or is the drag queen version of a troll a trollop?
I just love the word “trollop,” but was unsure of its correct meaning. So, I looked it up and found several fascinating descriptions:
1) According to Merriam Webster: A trollop is a vulgar or disreputable woman; especially: one who engages in sex promiscuously or for money.
2) According to the Urban Dictionary: A Trollop is a woman who plays innocent like she don’t have sex and she don’t like cock, but in reality, sleeps with every dude she lays eyes on. Says things before engaging in a one-night tryst like: “I don’t want you to think I am a whore.” Used in a sample sentence: Everyone thought she was the innocent, nice girl, until the night of the prom. She was found at one of the after parties, giving head in a circle jerk, thus signifying her as a trollop to the whole school.
After reading these descriptions, I felt most comforted to know that they accurately described my situation. And there are others like me out there. There might be a great deal of living left in me before I go to that Great Drag Show in the Sky; however, it may be subject to increasing aches and pains, and the makeup may slide off once in a while. So, rather than trying to fight a losing battle against Mother Nature, I decided it’s best just to go with the flow, embrace my trollop-itude and revel in being “An aging strumpet awash in oceans of slutwear.”
Therefore, encouraged by this information, and wanting some company in my advancing years, I, Petunia Pap-Smear, do hereby announce that I intend to form the “Great Society for the Preservation of Trollops,” or G-SPOT for short.
Perhaps I should open a piano bar for geriatric drag queens named “Trollops,” possibly in the marmalade district, where G-SPOT could be headquartered. We could specialize in serving lovely fruity drinks with umbrellas in them and re-runs of _The Golden Girls_ would play endlessly in the background. Of course in the restroom, there would be a vending machine full of Viagra, Cialis, and Geritol. People looking for the G-SPOT finally could have a common gathering place.
I envision how it will be referenced in future history books: Petunia Pap-Smear gathered the trollops of the world to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake, to help them find the G-SPOT, just like Brigham Young gathered the Mormon pioneers to Utah to help them find their beehive hairdos. I’m sure they could add some additional text and statuary to the “This Is The Place Monument” to record this momentous sociological movement. Oh, I’m a queen on a divine mission now!
Once we all find the G-SPOT, to make our trollop lifestyle complete, Trollops Bar could be located adjacent to a retirement living center for old trolls (and trollops) that we could name “Bridges.” I worry about living quarters for aging queens, because the bridge under which I currently live is scheduled for repaving, and I worry that my D.I. chic furnishings might get weather damaged during a forced relocation. It’s always important for a Queen to keep all her options open and to create fabulousness at every opportunity. The different floor plans of the Bridges Development could have names like; London Bridge, Brooklyn Bridge, and the penthouse suite could be called the Golden Gate Bridge. Of course, there would need to be an old fashioned drawbridge at the front entrance — accompanied by the requisite billy goat-shaped mail box for ambiance — leading to an interior garden maze of overgrown paths to help make the old time park cruisers feel at home. I just get giddy with excitement as the possibilities unfold!
Of course, Bridges would have to employ only buff young jocks, fully trained in massage therapy and who would not mind being blatantly ogled and on the receiving end of the occasional wayward groping hand. Their uniforms could be muscle shirts and spandex workout shorts. The activity room would be equipped with disco balls for the afternoon tea dances to keep the blood flowing. It will be a little bit of heaven on earth.
So, let the organizing begin and let the masses begin to gather. G-SPOT forever! Trollops rule!
Like always, these events leave us with many eternal questions:
1) After how many pounds of glitter does one need to begin using a trowel?
2) Will the city let me erect a neon sign for G-SPOT?
3) Should G-SPOT invest in a discount “slutwear” factory outlet?
4) Can G-SPOT qualify for tax exempt status?
5) Would nighttime uniforms of black jockstraps and bowties be appropriate for the Bridges staff?
6) Will G-SPOT need to send out missionaries?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of “The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.”