Listen to this articleThe road to my bedroom is fraught with danger and excitement.
Being a gravity-enhanced person, I’m drawn to air-conditioned spaces like a moth is to a flame, lest the inevitable flood of perspiration be unleashed that could rival the flow of the Great Teton Dam Flood of 1976. (Just in case you were wondering, I have an ironclad alibi to prove I was not even present at that catastrophe. If you check the records of the Language Training Mission in Provo, you will find that I was being held prisoner there and forced to learn Japanese.) So, in order to preserve lives and save a fortune on antiperspirants, I moved a while ago into the basement apartment of a house. I figured that since food stays fresher when kept in a refrigerator, the cool climate of a basement would be just perfect in order to slow the pace of my meteoric meltdown. I found the climate in the basement, though very much similar to Antarctica, was perfect for me.
One lazy afternoon, after I had been in this place for a couple of weeks, and had become comfortable with my surroundings, I found myself lying naked on the sofa watching “True Blood” and sipping a Mai Tai. I believe that this is how God intended us to enjoy the delights of television. Naked and tipsy, especially while watching an eye-candy-rich show like “True Blood.”
Suddenly, the door burst open and in rushed a strange man, whom I had never seen before. He was calling out for Jim. He passed on through the living room and proceeded to go back into the bedrooms calling “Jim, Jim where are you?”
I sat in stunned silence, looking frantically about the living room for any article of clothing, or a table cloth, doily, or anything else with which to cover up. The best I could come up with was two throw pillows from the couch.
I remembered the story about when an unknown naked intruder entered Queen Elizabeth’s bed chamber in the middle of the night, and how Mrs. Windsor diffused the situation by engaging the prowler in clever conversation and offering tea.
With that supreme example of queenly decorum in mind, clutching the pillows to hide the royal jewelry, and trying to retain some modicum of dignity in the process, I called out to the man and asked if I could help him. He returned to the living room, still asking for Jim. It took me about three minutes of earnest urging to convince him that Jim had moved out, and I was the new tenant.
It was like a scene straight from a porno movie, and in other circumstances, could well have been the subject of a different kind of column. But alas this guy looked a little unstable, if not dangerous. I could see the tabloid headline now, “Naked, Make-up-less Queen Found Murdered.” Oh the horror, to meet my maker without my face on! Thankfully the confused man finally left. To this day however, I still leave my door unlocked on the off chance the porno dream sequence should present itself. Hint, hint!
Just recently my landlord decided to move into the unit upstairs and approached me about sharing my computer connection and satellite TV service to help us all save a little money. Now my landlord is a really nice guy but sadly, my gay-dar does not detect even one scrap of a hint that he might be a “Friend of Dorothy.” To my delight, moving in with the landlord was a very hunky, muscularly magnificent piece of eye candy of a roommate. Tragically, the gay-dar again, read zero.
Luckily I had just finished a “very private workout” to a “Broke Straight Boys” DVD and was getting dressed when they knocked on the door and asked if they could come in and install a wireless router on my computer.
Well, my computer is located in the Inner Sanctum, the Holy of Holies, the Forbidden Palace of my bedroom. Admittedly, a high-traffic area, but strictly off limits to our non-curious hetero brethren. Hesitantly, I invited them both back into the bedroom, where, to my dismay, and extreme embarrassment, and with both of them looking over my shoulder, on the screen was a page of thumbnail photos of porn. With the speed and dexterity of a striking cobra, I rushed to the computer and closed that page. To my horror, the page behind was a full-screen shot of Bel-Ami’s best, Lucas Rigeston … uhh … playing a spirited game of leapfrog with Johan Paulik.
What is a queen to do except apologize and close the page? The landlord and the hunky roommate didn’t utter a sound. There hasn’t been this much tension in a room since the time I was forced into a public weigh-in at Weight Watchers, but I digress.
I had to restrain myself from breaking into the song “The Internet Is For Porn” from “Avenue Q.” As the hunky roommate worked on the computer, I tried to discreetly close the door of the closet, which displayed several sequined ball gowns, feather boas, and other assorted queenly necessities. Thank god the dildo drawer was closed!
The moral to this story is, always give a room a quick once-through before inviting in guests.
Like always these events leave us with many eternal questions:
- At what actual temperature can a queen be preserved?
- How many seconds does it take to recognize a porn picture?
- Could the straight boy’s eyes be burned out by visions of gay porn and sequined sparkles?
- If I left the door connecting the apartments unlocked, would a porno dream sequence result?
- Will my landlord now wish to borrow my wigs and jewels?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.
