The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

A Tale of a Blow Job

The road to choir practice is fraught with danger and excitement.

It is very easy as a drag queen to imagine that, when dressed to the nines in my finest polyester, I assume the identity of a drag queen super hero. Petunia Pap-Smear! Protector of Prissy Princesses, and defender of all things sparkly.

I see myself just like Captains James T. Kirk commanding the Starship Enterprise, commanding my own personal starship — my large land yacht Queer-Tanic — maneuvering about the Intermountain West in an ongoing mission to “Go where no man has gone before,” while dispensing etiquette lessons, beauty tips and makeovers to biker gangs and Relief Socity sisters.

Sadly, in reality, I’m much less like Captain Kirk and more like Barbarella, the intergalactic slut. But a super hero must go with her strengths.

Nevertheless, I do, on occasion, remove the fake boobs, take off the tiara and use an industrial paint stripper to remove my make up. Then, my jewelry safely under lock and key and my hair consigned to the shelf, I slide into some Fruit of the Looms. A pair of Dockers and a polo shirt later, I begin my once weekly pilgrimage to sing with the Salt Lake Men’s Choir. This rather plain and unadulterated appearance is my civilian disguise which I don in order to be able to move about the community with anonymity.

One typical Thursday during evening rush hour, I was at the helm of Queer-Tanic proceeding at maximum warp speed to choir practice. Having safely negotiated the treacherous Spaghetti Bowl Nebula, I was going east through the Interstate 80 worm hole, nearing the Foothill System. Suddenly, Queer-Tanic’s engine coughed and died, ceasing all forward propulsion.

Luckily, I was able to coast in to the very, very narrow emergency lane and turn on my emergency beacons. No problem, the drag queen motto (which has been plagiarized by a para-military youth organization which shall remain nameless.) is “Be prepared.” As a ten year Car Talk listener, I prepared to exit the craft to diagnose and perhaps even fix the problem. But as I cracked open the hatch, a huge triple trailer truck more ominous than a Klingon Bird of Prey, zoomed by at Warp 9, within about 18 inches of the side of Queer-Tanic’s port side.

Because Commander Scott has gone to that great engine room in the sky and is not available to make it go, and there was not a single lesbian with a tool box within sight, I flipped open my communicator (styled cell phone) and issued a distress call to Starfleet (Triple A) command. The operator asked if I was in a safe location. I looked out the window at the continuing maelstrom of speeding traffic and replied, “No.” She immediately contacted the Highway Patrol to send protective escort.

Very shortly, a most handsome Utah Highway Patrolman looking ever-so-stunning in his tight fitting uniform (economic stimulus money well spent, if you ask me) arrived and began flashing his lights. I thought to myself: please don’t let this be like an episode of Star Trek where the gorgeous un-named crewman accompanying the landing party is the first one killed. Before long, a Federation tow vessel arrived and captured Queer-Tanic in its tractor beam and brought me safely to choir practice a little flustered, but no worse for the wear.

Excepting that is, for a nasty case of cotton mouth (usually when faced with a handsome man in uniform, I tend to drool, but the extreme heat of the day left me parched instead). Once again, I followed our motto and popped a Ricola throat lozenge to help keep things lubricated. (Cue the alpenhorn and yodeler.)

Well, as it just so happened, that was the night a brand new, hot looking guy joined the choir and came and sat right beside me. Since hospitality is a queen’s greatest virtue, I engaged the new stud in friendly conversation between songs to make him feel welcome. He asked if I could smell licorice and I told him that it was probably the Ricola and pursed my lips in order to produce a gentle blowjob of air to confirm my theory.

During my high school and college years, I spent about 10 years playing trombone in the marching band. Did you know that tromboners “do it” in seven positions? Anyway, all that boner blowing must have left me with a very strong diaphragm, because the resulting flow of air created a vortex into which the Ricola was sucked, and subsequently launched from between my lips like a slippery wet Photon Torpedo.

To my great dismay, I could not close my lips around it quickly enough and it took flight. I watched in horror as it arched into the air, as if in slow motion, and landed right on the new hottie’s arm. I learned as a little princess that it’s not nice manners to spit on new acquaintances. It just isn’t a good way to win friends and influence people.

Not knowing exactly the best course of action at this juncture, after staring at the offending lozenge for a moment, I quickly retrieved it from his arm and returned it from whence it flew. He graciously excused my blowjob faux pas. Being highly embarrassed, I turned and paid extra attention to the director so as to pretend that the unfortunate blowjob never occurred. To my amazement, the stud returned the next week, undaunted and ready to sing. What a guy!

Like always these events leave us with many eternal questions:

1. According to the hanky code, what color kerchief is spit?
2. Must I wear Lederhosen to suck on Ricola?
3. Must I learn to yodel and play the alpenhorn?
4. Would a Certs breath mint be as aerodynamic as Ricola?
5. Is there a blow job mishap support group?

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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