Listen to this articleThe road to Garden Grove is fraught with danger and excitement.
February in Utah sucks! Sundance is over, spring is but a distant fantasy, and Chris Buttars and Righteouslature begin their annual assault on all things not old, white and flaccid. Not to mention the cold. Why, it’s all a queen can do to stop downloading porn long enough to step outside for a much-needed breather. One can only look at so much “educational material” before the cacophony of grunts, groans and ‘Oh Gods’ begin to make sense.
So it happened a few Februarys ago that upon stepping outside to check for my shadow I was immediately dismayed. The temperature inversion was so thick that the chemical makeup of the atmosphere began to dissolve my finest polyester on contact. In the words of, Queen Victoria, “We are not amused!”
Owing the need to escape the atmospheric toxicity both political and environmental, I did therefore by royal decree declare February to be perfect time for a road trip. And so proceeded in the regal company of the late great Auntie Fern to Garden Grove, Calif., for a three day conference at the world famous Crystal Cathedral.
One fortuitous evening, we went to a local gay bar, where it just so happened that they were having a strip show. The bar was not very crowded, so Auntie Fern and I were able to park our gravity-enhanced behinds on stools in close proximity to the dance floor.
Some sultry music began and disco ball lights illuminated the dance floor. Fern and I were all-a-twitter with excitement. Three strapping young “Frat Boy” types emerged onto the dance floor and proceeded to demonstrate how limber they were in removing their excess clothing.
They were left wearing only my absolute favorite style of swim wear, square-cut Speedos. Now I must confess that I have a great affinity/pathological fetish for spandex in any of it’s presentations, but a square-cut Speedo worn by a stunningly hot frat boy is enough to send me over the edge.
The boys were all very cute, but one of them was a tall, drop-dead gorgeous Nordic type that I will call Sven the Viking. Having determined that Fern and I were out-of-town royalty, Sven did pay his respects. Focusing most of his gyrating, hip-thrusting attention on us.
First Sven zeroed in on me, and proceeded to give me the lap dance of my life, right there in front of God and everybody. Now my princess etiquette training has taught me that I should refrain from grabbing my hands onto scantily clad, strapping young men lest I break them with my enthusiasm, or get arrested for assault. Still, it was all I could do to maintain decorum, as he climbed up over my lap and onto my stool, his well muscled and tanned thighs pressing in against my arms. The straining fabric of his very well packed Speedo was barely an inch from my mouth.
The viking grabbed the back of my hair pushing my face into his musky crotch as he writhed to and fro, riding me like a bucking bronco. Then, ever so gently, slid down my body until he was sitting on my lap, his nose touching mine, giving me an extensive “Eskimo kiss.” He leaned in closer and proceeded to drill my ear with his tongue, and he whispered, “Are you having fun?” Oh, my, god!!! I could have died right there, been fully fulfilled as a queen. But one must maintain one’s decorum, and having temporarily lost the ability to speak, I managed a single, regal nod.
Sven shyly smiled, plucked my eyeglasses from my nose and placed them on his. Wearing my spectacles, he looked oh so studious as he ground his posterior into my crotch. Until, and just in the nick of time, he stepped back onto the floor — where he took my spectacles off his face and slowly stuffed them down into the front of his Speedo. It was a testament to the miracle of spandex that the glasses even fit.
Sven then gently took both my hands in his and drew them to his heaving chest. I could feel his heart beating. He then slowly guided my hands down his smooth, rippling sweaty six pack, to the waist band of his Speedo. Pulling out the waistband, he invited me to retrieve my glasses from their precarious perch.I timidly reached into the “forbidden zone” and carefully moved his apparatus to the side and extracted my glasses from his spandex cocoon. He took them out of my hands and placed them back on my nose giving me a sweet peck on the cheek.
I could barely see anything, because the lenses were clouded with his sweaty testicle prints. As I gasped a feeble “thank you” to him, Sven moved off to give Auntie Fern a similar treatment. Mid lap dance Fern leaned over to me and exclaimed “I’ve never been to a ‘Tupperware Party’ before!” I waited two days before I cleaned the testicle prints of my glasses. I don’t think Auntie Fern ever cleaned her glasses again. After the careful treatment that Sven gave our glasses, I’m sure that he went on to become an optician in later life.
Like always these events leave us with many important questions:
1. Should the Red Air Quality alerts include a warning to keep your polyester gowns safely inside?
2. If this was any indication of how the Vikings raped and pillaged, why were the conquered so upset?
3. What is the tensile strength limit of Spandex?
4. Should this experience become the standard for optical appointments?
5. What is the best glass cleaner to remove sweaty testicle prints?
6. If you “burp” the spandex waistband just like you “burp” Tupperware, will it seal in freshness?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.
