The road to a trick’s bathroom is fraught with danger and excitement.
Sex: The final frontier. This is a voyage of the land yacht, Queertanic. Its ongoing mission: to explore strange new theaters, to seek out new bathhouses and fresh porn shops, to boldly go where this queen has not gone before.
Every Wednesday night during January and February, the Matrons of Mayhem and I are hosting the Thigh High Sci-Fi Theater at Club Try-Angles. Few things get my motor running more than the delightfully geeky Dr. Who. Last week we watched Flash Gordon and shirtless Sam J. Jones really got my juices flowing, or it could have been all those “Sonic Screwdrivers” the bartender kept sending my way. Sitting in my lawn chair in front of the big screen TV I felt just like Captain Kirk – but with a much better wardrobe – in the captain’s chair on the bridge of the Enterprise. This communal movie experience caused me to remember back to my pre-troll days, during the Paleozoic era when I was a freshly out-of-the-closet newbie. I was attending a showing of “Star Trek III, The Search For Cock” at the old XXX Studio Theater on State Street.
I tried to resist the urge to explore the porno palace, but ultimately, the gravitational force was greater than that of a black hole. After “My neural pathways had become accustomed to the sensory input patterns of the porn on the big screen,” I cruised into the auditorium at one quarter impulse power, fully intending to obey my “Prime Directive,” to score with some North American Homosexual Males in their natural habitat. The “phaser” in my shorts set itself on stun and began straining against the fabric for release. I sat near the center of the seats and my sensors were all set on maximum. Soon, a Ferengi type began to invade my neutral zone, so I raised shields and engaged in evasive maneuvers.
Relocating to the rear quadrant of the auditorium I spotted a scantily clad Adonis Class stud, just the type that you would invent for yourself in the Halo-Deck. I immediately lowered my shields and opened all body language hailing frequencies. He entered into a standard orbit of my position and landed in the seat next to me. I held my breath. The space-time continuum seemed to freeze.
After what seemed like hours, his naked knee ever so slightly brushed against my naked knee. My “phaser” reached setting five and began to peek out of my shorts. When I did not withdraw my knee, he then proceeded to press his knee against mine with purposeful force. Again, with my heart beating wildly in my chest, I returned the knee play as if being held by a tractor beam. His arm came to share the narrow armrest with mine. Ever so slowly, as if it belonged to a shapeshifter, his hand oozed into my lap and began probing for my “phaser.” He found his target which had reached the self-destruct level and I nearly passed out. He had a firm grasp of things and whispered into my ear, “Resistance is futile, you will be ass-mounted, do you want to go with me to my house which is nearby, and continue this exploration?”
I squeaked out a “make it so” that was so high-pitched it could only be heard in sub-space, so I nodded yes. As we were leaving the theater, I walked bent slightly over, trying desperately to hide the very prominent bulge in my shorts.
This hunk must have been an interior designer or something, because his apartment was a showcase of ultra-modern architecture and art, with copious amounts of gleaming chrome and glass actually resembling a starship. He led me to the bedroom where he set course and engaged, reaching my “Undiscovered Country” by the light of a single vanilla-scented candle on a clear glass table.
His shuttle found my shuttle bay and began docking maneuvers. After a prolonged period of thrusters powerfully thrusting, he fired his “phaser” which spewed an immense “plasma” stream all over me, causing my dilithium crystal balls to melt, causing me to eject my core. Following the usual amount of “afterglow,” he excused himself to go and clean up in the bathroom.
For a few minutes, I remained lying on the faux fur bedspread, feeling ever so much like Barbarella. Finally, in the dim candlelight, I set course for the bathroom. Unbeknownst to me, there was a room partition of clear glass directly in my path. I slammed into the glass at full impulse speed. With a loud and thundering thunk, it stopped my forward inertia like a force field. It felt like the “Wrath of Kahn” as I bounced off the glass partition falling back spread eagle on the floor. I looked up and I had left a body outline of “plasma” on the glass as if it marked the location of a murder victim. My host stepped out of the bathroom to investigate. Embarrassed at having walked into a wall, I lied and pretended that it was thunder from outside, hoping that he would not notice the dirty glass, or my crossed eyes until after I had made the “Voyage Home.”
And now I bid you farewell with my traditional Vulcan salute: “Love long ones and prosper!”
Like always these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Is this incident the reason my last name is Pap Smear?
2. Are Gene Roddenberry’s ashes leaving Earth’s Orbit and entering a collision course with the sun because of this?
3. Will Star Trek uniforms ever include Crinoline?
4. Does this story give new meaning to the term, smear the queer?
5. Does Windex work on “Plasma?”
6. If left on the glass, would the “plasma” eventually form a hologram?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.