The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

A Tale of the 18 Hour Blow Job

The road to a gay film festival is fraught with danger and excitement.

Many, facelifts and a gallon of Botox ago, I used to assist my friend Tim in organizing a Gay and Lesbian Film Festival at Utah State University in Logan, which we called Pride Fest.  We would bring in about 20 new GLBT themed movies from the festival circuit for a week of revelry with our community as we took over the University Student Center Theater and made it our homo away from home.  In the meantime, the clerks in the financial aid office opposite the theater were most assuredly attending extra sessions in the Temple so as to Pray the Gay Away!
 
As often as possible, Tim and I would pre-view the movies at my house on a regular television, so as to assure that we not offend the natives or frighten the horses.  We had this one delightful movie called Issues 101 which was a cute coming of age story about a frat boy coming out of the closet in his college fraternity.  We previewed this movie and thought that it was very cute, and would be perfect for the festival. 
 
As part of the story line, there was the obligatory hazing scene, where the pledge was forced to give the frat brother a blow job while being paddled.  But it was very short in duration, hardly even any screen time at all, you know how time flies when you’re having fun, and the important parts were all tastefully obscured from vision.  It was incredibly tame by our standards, even quaint.  Nothing that our GLBT audience would consider objectionable, so we booked the movie into the festival.  However, we had not taken into account that we had recently watched “Power Fist” which in retrospect probably shifted our sensibility ever so slightly to the left. 
 
Well, on the day of the showing of Issues 101, It just so happened that a mother and father brought their gay teenaged son to see this movie.  They looked as innocent as if they had just driven in from Walton’s Mountain.  After we sold them their tickets and popcorn, Tim and I quickly reviewed the movie in our minds and again found it suitable for “civilian” consumption.  We nervously sat in the back row of the theater and kept a close eye on the family.  As the movie progressed, it came to the hazing scene.  We were both a little bit panicky.  Then the scene began, and like my Playtex 18 hour girdle, it kept going and going and going for at least ten excruciating un-ending minutes.  It showed the guy’s penis.  FULL FRONTAL!  AT FULL ATTENTION!  And on the big movie screen, it was 6 FEET LONG!  My God it was 6 feet long!  And let’s not even mention the sound.  That sloppy, slurpy, slushy hungry sucking sound just oozing from the large speakers which made you feel like you needed an immediate shower.  And then came the moans intermixed with the occasional slap of the paddle.  Ohhhhh Craaaaaap!  They are moaning in pleasure!   Making matters worse, the audience was as silent as a stone, thus making the movie soundtrack all that more unnerving. 
 
In panic, Tim and I looked at each other.  What should we, could we do?  I desperately began to pray for a sudden massive outbreak of Diphtheria or that Project Runway would be canceled, or any other plausible reason to force the immediate evacuation of the theater.  I actually began to sweat glitter.  I could imagine that these parents might storm out of the theater demanding to the administration that they shut us down.  I might have to turn in my tiara, my ruby slippers and my pink feather boa.  Oh (please) God, not my pink feather boa.  The entire gay audience was aware of the presence of the family.  All eyes were fixed upon them.  But the family did not move. To their credit, they did not scream in horror.  Rather they sat stoically, with eyes glued to the screen. 
 
Finally, after what seemed like the entire lifetime of a fruit fly, the sex scene was over and the rest of the movie progressed without further distress.  But alas, it was too late, My stomach had already generated enough acid be able to dissolve the Hoover Dam, or at least that pesky lock on my husbands diary.  Just when we thought it was safe to look at the screen again, larger than life and bold as brass, was the forgotten scene of frat boys fucking on the pool table.  Oh God, here we go again.
 
After the movie let out, Tim and I were greeting people in the foyer and preparing to do some major damage control, when the family emerged meekly from the auditorium.  We quickly approached them and began to apologize for the scenes.  The mother was quick to cut us off with a “talk to the hand” type gesture. I thought, “OH MAN, WE ARE IN DEEP SHIT”!  And then she said the most unexpected thing.  “Well if you were going to show porn, at the very least it could have been good porn.”  And she giggled.  Of course her son looked mortified as they gaily departed looking every bit like the Walton’s.  Goodnight Mary Ellen, Goodnight John Boy.
 
Like always these events leave us with many eternal questions:
1. Do you think the gay son was forever emotionally damaged because he saw his first blowjob with his mom?
2. If we turned up the volume of the movie so that the financial aid clerks could hear the sucking and moaning, would they stop praying and become moist?
3. Which lasts longer, the lifespan of a fruit fly or the 18 hour girdle?
4. Would a Drag queen spitting stomach acid be considered a weapon of mass destruction?
 
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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