The road to the Pride Parade is fraught with danger and excitement.
It’s Pride time again and as the Matrons of Mayhem and I prepare our float for the pride parade, I’m all aquiver with excitement. I’m reminded of a Pride Day long ago, during the Cretaceous period, when the diamonds in my tiara were still coal. A few of us Logan queens decided to make a weekend of it, travel to Salt Lake City to go bar hopping on Saturday evening and then spend the night in a motel room.
There were eight of us in our happy little band, including a new drop-dead gorgeous hunk Peter, fresh from a farm in Wyoming. Peter, excited for his very first Pride Day, was barely contained by a pair of short shorts, ala George Michael in Wham, exposing his perfectly muscled legs, and a tight-fitting tank top from which his sculpted, tanned and toned shoulders were protruding prodigiously. His swooning appearance quickly became the object of all of our lustful Prince Charming fantasies.
The eight of us piled into Queertanic, my 1975 Buick Electra luxury land yacht for the journey. Through much passive aggressive manipulation on my part, Peter ended up riding in the front seat, next to me. By necessity of the crowded car, his massive muscular body was pressed up against mine. Due to the heat, in an unseemly departure from my regular formal prom gown attire, I was also wearing shorts, sans panty hose, so it ended up that his naked thigh was pressed against my naked thigh. (Oh sweet mystery of life!) In order for his massive shoulders to fit, it became necessary for him to drape his exposed arm around my shoulders, thus he was slightly turned toward me, ending up breathing in my ear.
Despite the excellence of Queertanic’s air conditioning, I became moist with exhilaration. Giddy with desire, throwing caution to the wind, with the expectation of increasing the probability of “accidental” contact, I removed my opera-length driving gloves. As I reached out to adjust the climate controls, my arm “just naturally” brushed up against his massive chest. Consequently, I found it absolutely necessary to keep adjusting the controls every five minutes. I found the entire journey to be quite a “firm” experience (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).
After spending several lustful hours at the bar, drinking way too many drinks and watching Peter work up a glistening sweat on the dance floor, we dragged ourselves to a motel. Fortunately, three of my sisters had found “companionship” at the bar and went home with them. Since there were five of us left and only two queen beds, it became necessary for three people to share one bed. I was crestfallen when a quick appraisal of the prodigious size of us queens and fearing his life might be extinguished by being sandwiched between two of us, Peter volunteered to sleep on the floor. In my drunken state, and with hormones raging, I was sure that if the rest of these “hateful bitches” would just give us some privacy, Peter and I could make beautiful sweet “Pride” together. Without fanfare, the object of my desires stripped down to his “well-packed” skivvies and lay by my feet, as I drifted off into alcohol-induced dreams.
Some time later, I was awakened by Peter softly caressing my foot, which was hanging haplessly over the edge of the bed. I lay motionless, my “spidy” senses suddenly in gear. After a few more minutes, I felt another secretive loving stroke. Now horny and wide awake, I lay absolutely motionless. My mind raced with lustful anticipation. How dangerous, in a room full of other people, for Peter to make a silent, clandestine advance in the dreamy, hushed darkness. I was extremely relieved that I had applied fresh toenail polish the day before. I desired to communicate that I was amenable to this, so I moved my foot a few more inches over the edge, thus making myself even more available to be fondled. Over the next several hours, I lay there, sleepless, tense with licentious anticipation, inching farther and farther off the bed with each stroke. My mind was filled with visions of Peter wrapping his arms around me, kissing me from head to toe, and then engaging in full-on sex while the others remained asleep and unaware. My heart was pounding more fiercely than if my electrical boobies had short-circuited and given me an accidental defibrillation. The danger of being discovered is so hot!
I had moved so far to the edge that I was perilously close to toppling onto the floor. My leg muscles were beginning to cramp. I would not be able to maintain this position very long. Surely Peter could see I wanted to oblige his advances and would draw me to him. Finally, the cold light of morning peeked in between the curtains. I was demoralized to realize that Peter was fast asleep and it was air blowing from the vent that had been moving the bedsheet against my foot. As the others awoke well rested, I arose with muscle cramps in my legs, sleep deprived and with unrequited hormones pent up to the bursting level. Peter was none the wiser.
As always, these events leave us with several eternal questions:
1. Is a hunk like Peter the origin of the term Farm Fresh?
2. Do you think Peter believed me when I said I was adjusting the air conditioning so often because of menopausal hot flashes?
3. Should a queenly hot flash be called a Royal Flush?
4. Should I engineer a defibrillator into my electrical chesticles?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.