Listen to this articleThe road to eating a Tootsie Roll is fraught with danger and excitement.
It was 2 a.m. and I was driving through the desert of Nevada, trying hard to stay awake. I had the window down, letting my hair blow in the wind, and was singing along with ABBA at the top of my voice. Just after a rousing refrain of “Dancing Queen,” I popped a Tootsie Roll in my mouth and proceeded to chew. (Point of interest – chewing Tootsie Rolls is an excellent work out to help develop the strong jaw muscles needed for other more personal oral entertainments.) To my horror, suddenly I became aware that my Tootsie Roll had something crunchy in it. I felt around with my tongue and realized that one of the crowns from my front teeth had been torn out by the suction of the candy. Thus, most of you may have noticed that I have been missing a very prominent tooth in front, which gave me a very embarrassing poor trash-esc smile. Therefore, when posing for photographs, instead of saying cheese and showing the missing tooth, I have been saying, “Oh” and looking surprised. Luckily, at this point in an aging queen’s life, holding my mouth in an open “Oh” position (if you know what I mean) is a matter of reflex, thus not a problem.
My dentist had quoted a cost of $4,000 to get an implant. Being a queen with no dental insurance, and needing to conserve most of my funds to purchase hairspray, glitter and batteries by the gross, I went in search of a cheaper alternative. I bought a case of Chiclets and kept placing one in the position of the missing tooth, but every time I would trip and fall off my heels, the resulting jarring action would cause the gum to fall out of place, once again leaving a gaping hole in my smile. Obviously a more permanent solution was in order.
I chose a new dentist after seeing a roadside billboard stating that he could give me and implant for less than half the cost of my previous dentist. I am always apprehensive when I go to a new dentist. Will he be nice? Will he be gentle? Will he tell stupid jokes? Will he give me nitrous oxide? Will he be cute?
I was nervous when I made my initial visit, because I hate going to the dentist. The assistant brought me back into the chair, and took some X-rays of my teeth. I was left alone for five long minutes, staring at the tray of torturous-looking dental instruments that I’m sure were leftovers from the Spanish Inquisition, wondering if having a complete smile was really going to be worth it.
My heart did an excited flip flop when around the corner, strode an Adonis of a man, with spiky strawberry blond hair and 5-day scruffy beard, wearing teal hospital scrubs. As God is my witness, he was wearing teal!
While he examined the X-rays of my teeth I was mesmerized as I watched his perfectly proportioned ass cheeks flex and ripple inside his surprisingly tight, form fitting scrub pants. From that moment on, I’ve been in serious lust with my dentist. He explained that I needed a whole lot of work and asked me if I wanted to watch the TV mounted in the ceiling. I quickly said no, preferring to stare into his piercing blue eyes while imagining what beautiful babies he and I could make together.
I began to quiver with anticipation as he gently massaged my cheeks while he shot my mouth full of Novocain. It didn’t hurt at all. He sat on a stool near my head. He then proceeded to drill me. For three hours he drilled me. Electric shocks of excitement shot through my body as his thigh occasionally brushed up against my shoulder. Trying to be discrete, I slowly but surely moved my arm to the outer most edge of the arm rest, so as to help increase the frequency, quality and duration of the thigh encounters. Over the course of about thirty minutes, I was able to establish almost constant contact, and it seemed as if I was able to nestle my shoulder into his crotch. The secret exhilarating thrill of forbidden sexual tension left me feeling absolutely no pain, but sweating profusely.
As with any prolonged encounter, he frequently needed to change positions, standing above me and moving about. Often his shirt would drape over my face, wafting over me his sensual man scent. At one point, he needed to apply some force to a particularly stubborn tooth, and while doing so, he stood above me and my right cheek was pressed against his abs. Oh! My! God! His abs were as rock hard as my lips are after a Botox injection. It was all I could do to refrain from nestling into them, grabbing onto those magnificent buns, and licking like I was trying to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop. Eventually, over the course of many fantasy-filled sessions with my shoulder nestled snuggly in his magnificent nether regions, I once again have a complete smile.
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:
1. Were they really shocks of excitement, or were my electric breasticles shorting out and electrocuting me?2. Would there be a market for it if I published a Kama Sutra of the many different Dental positions?
3. Do you think he would have stopped drilling me if I had licked his abs?
4. Should I develop a line of Ab-Popsicles?
5. What should the belly button secret surprise in the center the Ab-sicle be made of?
6. Should I stop brushing and flossing my teeth to help insure many more dental visits?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
