The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear

The Tale of ‘By the Light, of the Silvery Boobs’

The road to Downton Abbey is fraught with danger and excitement.

It was a dark and stormy night. I was feeling a little anxious because I was impatiently waiting for the next episode of “Downton Abbey” to be broadcast in 45 minutes. I felt a little chill run down my back so I turned up the thermostat on the heating system. I felt reassured when I heard the furnace kick on and felt the warm comfy air beginning to gush from the vents.

So I decided to pass the time by putting away the Holliday Christmas Tree Forest Tableau that I had made by arranging all of my breasticles into a forest and running a toy locomotive around the “forest.” It was quite an ambitious display consisting of 34 lighted breasticles, with 34 interchangeable nipples. The Duracell Company loves me because it required 170 batteries to power the whole thing. Taking down Christmas is never anywhere near as much fun as putting it up.

After having accomplished the destruction of Christmas, I decided that I was definitely “in for the evening” so I commenced with the complicated, intricate, and dangerous procedures of slipping into something more comfortable before “Downton Abbey” began. First and foremost, I carefully centered my body beneath my homemade gantry crane, and cautiously removed the Beehive wig, (So, now you know my deepest darkest secret — it is NOT my natural hair.) and gently placed the mass of Aqua Net and nylon in the carefully labeled and color-coded six-gallon storage bucket. I have tried to use the more common five-gallon buckets, but they are not quite tall enough to accommodate the entire hive.

Next, I proceeded to the dangerous and chemically toxic procedure of de-glittering the mustache. It can only be removed by using rubbing alcohol, and since it is directly beneath my nose, much holding of breath is necessary to keep from passing out from inhaling the alcohol fumes. I’ve gotten woozy several times and nearly pulled the bathroom sink off the wall. I can’t even imagine the nightmarish scene of paramedics rushing into the bathroom to find my wigless body lying on the floor, face up, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling and the breasticles blinking skyward.

I had just successfully finished removing the glitter when the electrical power went off and all the lights in Chateau Pap Smear went suddenly dark. Luckily, I had not yet had time to remove my silver breasticles, so like a certain reindeer, I used my glowing breasticles to guide my way. They worked perfectly as headlights to illuminate my path, which I had discovered last month while I chased the trespassing teenagers out of First Baptist Church. I looked out the window and discovered to my disappointment that the entire neighborhood was dark. My momentary adrenalin rush, fantasizing that a mad rapist had turned off the electrical breakers to my house and was going to have his way with me in the dark, was wasted as I came to the realization that I was indeed alone.

What to do in the dark? Hmmmm? I began wandering about Chateau Pap Smear looking for something to occupy my time. I got a book and tried to read, but there was too much glare back into my eyes from the breasticle lights for that to work. Hmmm. I don’t have a battery-powered radio. Crap. I began to realize that I just might be a little teeny tiny bit addicted to television. I discovered that the gas stove still worked. I had not yet had supper so, I commenced to make a double batch of Hamburger Helper Stroking-Off. Oh I mean Stroganoff. (Freudian slip?) Happily, there was hamburger waiting to be used in the fridge.

So, by the light of my silvery boobs, I threw the meat into my favorite cast iron skillet and turned up the heat. As with all other activities, cooking while wearing breasticles is more difficult than one might imagine. As the meat began to sputter and spit, I had to step back at arm’s length to prevent the breasticles from collecting a layer of grease. Although the breasticles were providing sufficient light to accomplish the task, they were directly in the line of sight, so I was forced to work side-saddle to the stove. Anyone who has ever attempted to give me a hug, will of course recognize the fact that a size 75 Triple-Z bra size makes a head-on encounter impossible.

Finally, Hamburger Helper was ready. Any of you who have accompanied me on The Big Gay Fun Bus to Wendover and witnessed me try and eat at the buffet will attest to the fact that eating with breasticles is very very difficult. I removed the breasticles, and placed them as a centerpiece on the table, thus casting a romantic glow upon the solitary dinner. Sigh! The rapist and I could have had such a magical romantic Breasticle-lit dinner.

As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:

  1. Should I develop for market a Breasticle Christmas Forest Nativity Scene?
  2. Due to the amassed tonnage of flammable material, should I be required by the government to designate my wig storage area as a hazardous explosive area?
  3. Should I offer the area as a training ground for the bomb squad?
  4. Would a lighted wig, dropped from an airplane, be considered a weapon of mass destruction?
  5. How could I explain to the paramedics that I passed out from inhaling alcohol fumes while de-glittering?
  6. Would the electrical field produced by the breasticles interfere with any attempt by paramedics to use a defibrillator on me?
  7. Does it show that I’m too willing to be raped, that I have clearly labeled the electrical panel near the back door?

These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.

Petunia Pap Smear

Petunia Pap Smear was born a boy in a Mormon family in a small Idaho town in the year of the cock. No, really, look it up. As is LDS tradition, at a month old her father blessed the little Petunia in the ward house on the first Sunday in June. The very next day, they tore the church house down. Probably for good reason. Little did parents Jack and Orthea know that their little boy would grow up to be a full-fledged, rainbow flag-waving, high heel-wearing, sheep-tending “Ida-Homo.” The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear follows her life from the sheep-tending Boy Scout of her youth to the full-figured and brash queen she is today. Her adventures in the many Queer-Tanic trips, the Salt Lake Men's Choir, the Matrons of Mayhem, and Utah Prides and Lagoon Days have been canonized the past 15 years in a monthly column in QSaltLake Magazine, Utah's publication for the LGBTQ+ community. These tales and her words of wisdom were corralled into a 355-page book that will become the Quint to the Mormon Quad. See it at

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